Chapter Fourteen – Lunetta
The moment the door shuts behind him, my knees give way.
I sink to the floor, my palms bracing against the polished wood. The cuffs have left a faint ring around my wrist, pink and aching, but I barely feel it through the pounding in my head. My heart is a trapped thing in my chest, clawing and clawing. The room smells faintly of his cologne—leather, spice, and something sharper underneath. My breath shakes, and my throat burns with the scream I didn't let out.
I fold into myself, knees to chest, arms wrapped around my legs. The rosary on my wrist is cold against my skin.
"Signore, ascoltami…" My whisper is thin, breaking. “Lord, please. I am afraid. I am so, so afraid.”
I tilt my face up, toward the ceiling, toward anything that might hear me.
“Madre di Dio… if you’re watching, send someone. Send anyone. Let Nonna find me. Let Bea know I’m alive. Please… don’t leave me with this man.” A sob claws up my throat, and I bite it down. “Per favore, salvali. Keep them safe if you can’t save me.”
I hear the door creak open behind me, and I flinch hard, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand.
A woman steps in. She is older. Her hair is wrapped in a loose scarf, and she moves with a quiet grace. She says nothing at first, just gestures toward the bathroom.
I force myself to stand.
Steam curls from the deep bathtub as she tests the water. The scent of lavender fills the air. She places a bar of pale soap on the rim, folds a dark towel over the edge, and then steps aside, nodding gently for me to enter.
I undress slowly. My blouse peels away from dried blood. The sight of my own skin—bruised and marked—makes me shudder. I avoid the mirror.
I ease into the warm water with a hiss. It wraps around me, soothing and stinging all at once. My arms float at my sides. I stare at the ceiling, blinking back fresh tears.
Nonna’s face rises in my mind—she would be sobbing, shaking, shouting at Sheriff Caladori to do something. Bea would be beside her, stone-faced, holding her up like she always did. My chest aches imagining it.
“I’m sorry…” I whisper into the water. “I’m so sorry, Nonna.”
I sink a little deeper, letting the warmth cradle me.
The older maid returns after some time. She still doesn’t speak. She helps me up with gentle hands. I’m trembling as she wraps the towel around me, then leads me back into the room.
I expect to be alone again, but she stays.
She sits me down on a small cushioned bench and begins to rub a soft cream into my skin. Her hands are cool and sure. She avoids the bruises, working in smooth, circular motions. My body is too tired to be embarrassed.
She helps me into the clothes—black T-shirt, soft cotton pajama trousers. I blink at the pants, a little stunned. I’ve never worn trousers, not even to sleep, never even imagined I would. But I don’t protest. There’s no fight left in me.
She leaves, and when she returns, she’s carrying a tray.
The smell hits me first—soup, bread, a cup of chamomile tea.
I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’m already eating. I swallow too fast, too greedily, and cough, then slow down, forcing myself to chew. I finish everything.
I tell myself I’ll just sit on the bed. Just for a second. The mattress is firm and soft at once, the blanket smooth beneath my fingers. Maybe I’ll just lie down, I think. Just for a moment.
The pillow smells like him. Like danger. Like safety. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I close my eyes, then I drift away.
I’m standing in a room I don’t recognize. It’s empty, cold. Then he’s there.
Those grey eyes with flecks of fire. He walks toward me without speaking. When he reaches me, he cups my cheek, tilts my face up. I gasp—but I don’t pull away. He lowers his mouth to mine.
His lips brush softly, then press deeper. It burns. It tingles. And it doesn’t stop.
He pulls me into him, his hands on my waist. My knees buckle, and I fall into his chest. The kiss deepens, hot and searching. My heart pounds wildly as his mouth claims mine again and again.
I jolt awake in the pitch darkness with a cry. My body trembles, and I curl up under the blanket, pulling it to my chin.
Then I feel it. A damp warmth between my thighs. I look down to see that the middle of my trousers are soaked.
I stare at the ceiling, tears sliding down the sides of my face. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. My body feels strange, wrong, like it’s working against me.
“Please, God…” I whisper. “Save me.”
I drift away again and the light streaming through the window wakes me up. I blink up at the ceiling in confusion, disoriented for a moment. I sit up too quickly and groan as my head spins.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I whisper a soft prayer into the stillness.
“Madonna mia… guardali per me.”
I press my hand to my chest, the place where fear curls tight.
“Please watch over Nonna, she must be worried sick. And Bea… she’s probably trying not to cry because she knows Nonna needs her strong. Keep them safe, Mother. Let them sleep tonight. Let them eat. Let them laugh, even if just once. Let them know I’m still breathing, that I haven’t forgotten them. Guard their hearts, protect their days. I’ll come home to them. I will. Ti prego…”
There’s a soft knock on the door, and the older maid from yesterday steps in without a word. Her scarf is tied neater today. She leads me to the bath again.
My feet brush against the cold tiles, and I ease myself into the tub. Warm water soothes the soreness in my muscles, the lavender scent again curling in the air like memory. I close my eyes and let my fingers trace soft patterns over the water's surface.
When I finish, I step out quietly, wrapping the towel around my body. The maid brings out the cream again, but I offer her a gentle smile and take it from her hands.
“Thank you. I can do it.”
She gives the smallest nod before stepping aside. She waits, watching. When I’m done, she hands me a clean shirt and a pair of jeans.
Jeans.
I hold them for a moment, blinking. The fabric is thicker than anything I’ve worn.
“Could I… have a dress next time?” I ask quietly, folding the jeans against me.
She doesn’t respond. A moment later, she returns with a tray.
Breakfast. Warm cornetti, a small bowl of fresh fruit, and a steaming cup of something that smells sweet. I sit down cross-legged on the bed and begin to eat. My hands tremble slightly, but the food tastes like comfort and I cling to it.
As I chew, I glance at the door to the inner chamber.
Did he come back last night?
I didn’t hear him. Maybe he stayed away. Maybe he slept somewhere else. I don’t know what to think. My fingers twitch against the bedsheets, and I glance toward the crack under the door—but I don’t move. I don’t want to know.
A sudden creak of the door jerks me upright.
Two men walk in. I freeze, half-chewed piece of bread still in my mouth.
One of them I recognize instantly—the man I bumped into during my escape, the one who didn’t yell. He has a kind smile, soft eyes. The other… I know his face from last night, too. His glare is sharp, his lip curled with irritation. I feel it like ice sliding down my spine.
They both look at me like I don’t belong.
“Hi,” the kind one says, voice casual but warm. “You’re Lunetta, right?”
I swallow quickly and wipe the corner of my mouth. “Y-yes.”
He gives me a small smile. “I’m Enzo. Vieri’s younger brother. That’s Riccardo.” He gestures to the other man.
The sharp-eyed brother doesn’t move. He just keeps glaring at me like I’ve done something wrong by existing.
“Vieri’s busy today,” Enzo continues, tone lighter. “I’m going to drive you to get fitted for your dress. For the dinner.”
The word dinner makes my stomach twist.
I nod slowly, unsure how else to respond.
“You can finish eating,” Enzo adds kindly. “We’re in no hurry—”
“Are you fucking Vieri?” Riccardo’s voice slices through the room.
I choke. The tea goes down the wrong way, and I scramble to grab the glass of water, coughing violently.
Enzo turns sharply to him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps at his brother.
Riccardo shrugs, folding his arms. “Don’t give me that face. You want to play along with this little charade? Fine. But I’m not buying it.”
I stare at them both, trembling.
My voice shakes as I speak. “I… I love him.” I don’t know why I say it. It tumbles out of me like a lifeline I’m clinging to. “He doesn’t always know how to show it, but he… he loves me, too.”
Riccardo chuckles darkly. “Really? So you fuck him, then?”
The glass in my hand rattles.
My throat tightens and no words come out. I look down, jaw trembling, shame burning like fire up my neck.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” he sneers. “Or are you just a little liar?”
“Enough!” Enzo snaps, stepping between us, shoulders tense. “That’s enough, Riccardo.”
Riccardo scoffs. “I’m not doing this shit,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at both of us. “I have actual work to do. You drive Vieri’s toy around.”
His boots hit the floor as he storms out, the door swinging shut behind him.
Enzo sighs, offering me a crooked smile as if to say sorry about him. “He’s... not really a people person.”
I try to return the smile, but mine feels weak, wobbly at the edges. My throat is dry. I drink the last of my water before setting it down quietly.
“I’m ready,” I whisper.
Enzo stands, patting down his pockets. “Right. Just one thing.”
He pulls out a small black device—sleek, curved, with a blinking red light at the center.
My stomach drops.
“He wants you to wear this,” he says gently.
I watch as he lowers himself in front of me and gently fastens the monitor around my ankle. The strap is snug, not tight, and it locks with a quiet click. I glance down at the blinking red light.
“I’m sorry,” Enzo says, not looking at me. “My brother can be—”
“Protective,” I murmur.
His eyes lift to mine, surprised, but I force a small smile again, even though my heart is aching.
You know why you're doing this, I tell myself.
For Bea. For Nonna.
God would understand. He’d forgive a lie told for love. But there were so many lately. Lying to the sheriff. To Nonna. To Bea. Now this.
I’ll confess it all someday, I promise silently, blinking back heat from my eyes. Pour everything out to the Lord, do my penance. Accept whatever punishment He gives me.
Enzo clears his throat, standing. “Let’s go, then.”
I follow him outside into the blinding afternoon sun. The mansion looms behind me and for the first time in what feels like months, I am outside. A sleek black Audi waits by the driveway. The engine purrs as Enzo opens the door for me.
Inside, the leather is cool.
He pulls out onto the road, and soon we’re weaving into town. But traffic thickens almost immediately. Red lights. Honking. Impatient drivers yelling out their windows.
Enzo glances over. “So…” he starts, then hesitates. “How did you meet my brother?”
I press my lips together and lower my eyes to my lap. I trace the hem of my shirt with nervous fingers and whisper inside my head, God, forgive me again.
“He came into my Nonna’s café,” I say softly. “A few times. He was… nice. Always quiet. I started to… care about him.”
Enzo lifts a brow. “Vieri? Nice?”
I manage a small nod, avoiding his eyes.
He chuckles, then leans back. “That’s rich.”
But then his voice changes—drops lower, more serious. “Why were you bleeding when I saw you? Why were you running?”
My throat tightens and I look at him again—at the kind eyes, the gentle tone. Maybe he’d help. Maybe if I told him the truth, he’d take pity. Maybe I could go home. See Nonna again. Hold Bea’s hand one more time.
Maybe—
A sudden jolt shakes the car. My shoulder jerks forward and the seatbelt catches me. A loud thunk echoes as another car bumps into us from behind.
“What the—” Enzo mutters, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.
The glove compartment snaps open from the impact. A black handgun spills out and lands right at my feet.
My breath stops.
Enzo reacts fast, shoving it back inside and slamming the compartment shut. Then he leans out of his window and shouts in Italian, furious, “Ma sei cieco, stronzo?! Guarda dove vai!” Are you blind, asshole?! Watch where you're going!
He slams back into his seat, adjusting the rear view mirror with an irritated grunt. Then he looks at me like nothing happened.
“We were saying?” he says sweetly. “Why were you in such a bad state that day?”
My heart thumps against my ribs. The weight of the ankle monitor. The memory of the gun. The way Vieri’s hands felt around my neck. And the quiet warning in his eyes.
They're all monsters.
All of them. If I tried to run, they would kill me whether I succeeded or not.
I take a shaky breath and look down at my hands. “We had a little fight, that’s all.”
The words taste like ash.
The traffic clears eventually, and we glide into a quieter part of the city, the car humming beneath us like it knows where we’re going. Then Enzo pulls up outside a modest boutique. There’s a sleek mannequin in the window, draped in silk—slim waist, sharp jawline, perfect everything. Nothing like me.
Enzo opens the door for me, offering a kind smile as I step down from the car. “Shouldn’t take too long,” he says. “Just a quick fitting.”
My fingers twist around the hem of my shirt. Quick sounds better than long. I nod and follow him inside.
The scent of fabric softener, perfume, and stale coffee hits me as we enter. A thin woman with short-cropped grey hair and thick glasses perched on the edge of her nose greets us. She doesn’t bother hiding the once-over she gives me. Her lips press into a line.
“We have limited sizes,” she says tightly. “For girls like her, we may need to custom cut something. A bit of weight loss might help.”
Her words hit like a slap. Not unexpected—just one of those slaps you never quite learn to dodge.
I stare at the floor, lips pressed together. My weight has always been the first thing people saw, the first thing they decided they didn’t like. I'm used to it. But it doesn't make it easier.
Before I can mumble something polite, Enzo steps forward, his smile sharp and cold. “You have bald patches,” he says. “I haven’t complained about it. Get her a dress, and it better look damn good on her.”
The woman blinks, caught off guard, and then stammers something about checking the back before disappearing through the beaded curtain.
I blink up at him.
He shrugs, folding his arms. “People don’t look at themselves in the mirror, do they?” he mutters, more to himself than me.
I manage a small laugh—dry and soft. “I’m not offended. I’ve heard worse,” I say quietly. “I know my body isn’t perfect.”
He turns to look at me fully, his eyes warm, serious. “Who told you that?”
I shrug again, unsure what to say. Who hadn’t?
“The world would be boring if everything looked the same,” Enzo says. “Then nothing would be magical. That’s why our faces are all different. It’s what brings the magic.”
His words are gentle, like warm honey poured over a bruise.
The woman returns, holding up two dresses like they’re prizes at a fair. One is a deep emerald green, made of satin with thin straps and a plunging neckline. The other is red—bright, almost scarlet—with lace detailing that creeps up from the waist and trails along the collarbone. It’s strapless.
“Try them both,” she says, voice clipped.
I step into the fitting room, and Enzo waits outside. The green one goes on first. The fabric slides cool against my skin, but it clings too much, pulling tight across my chest and hips. The neckline dips lower than I’d like. I tug it up, but it slips again.
The red one’s worse. It feels like wearing nothing. My arms cross tightly over my chest as I stare at my reflection. My thighs look huge. My arms are too soft. The lace itches.
I walk out slowly, and Enzo looks up. His smile is careful.
“You don’t like them,” he says.
I shake my head, embarrassed. “They’re just… a lot.”
He’s already pulling out his phone. “We’ll find another place.”
The seamstress opens her mouth to object, but he lifts a hand and shuts her up with a look. I change back quickly and follow him out into the street.
This time, as I climb into the car beside him, I glance at his profile—the patience in the way he scrolls through his contacts, the calm in his jaw. I wonder again if he’s some kind of saint among wolves. Or maybe he’s just another wolf who’s learned how to hide his teeth better.
The door chimes faintly behind us as we step out of the next boutique we went to. I still didn’t find anything I was comfortable in. I’m clutching the fabric swatch Enzo asked them to give me—a sample of the dress they’ll now custom-make, thanks to his insistence.
But Enzo suddenly slows to a halt, and I nearly bump into him.
His whole body goes still.
Ahead of us, a couple is walking hand-in-hand. The woman is beautiful—tall, elegant, skin like honeyed cream, long curls framing her cheekbones. She laughs softly at something the man says. But when her eyes lift and land on Enzo, the color drains from her face.
“Tiana?” he says, voice cracked open.
Her fingers twitch around her partner’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice clipped, already retreating. “Do I know you?”
Enzo stares at her, stunned. “What?”
The man shifts protectively in front of her. “Please. Excuse us.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, guiding her away.
Enzo doesn’t move. His jaw is set, knuckles white at his sides. I look up at him, and even with the sunlight painting gold over everything, I can see the pain etched across his face like a bruise that never healed.
They get into a car, the man shielding her, and Enzo watches them disappear like he’s been left behind in the middle of a storm.
Back in the car, he grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary. I don’t say anything for a long time.
Then softly, I say, “Can we get ice cream?”
His head jerks slightly, eyes narrowing like he doesn’t understand me. Irritation flashes behind his expression—then fades. He nods, turning the wheel.
The car eases into a quiet street lined with awnings and quaint shops. We stop at a small gelateria, the scent of cream and sugar thick in the air. He orders for both of us without asking, and I take the cone silently, following him to sit beneath the ivy-draped terrace.
He doesn’t touch his.
I take a few licks, then say, “You can cry when you’re with me. I won’t tell anyone.”
His mouth quirks at the edge. “Grown men don’t cry.”
I tilt my head, watching his lashes flutter. “I know. But you want to.”
His eyes are red now, not just from grief—but shame, maybe. His nose runs, and he wipes it roughly with the back of his hand.
“I used to love her,” he says eventually. “The woman at the store. Tiana.”
My ice cream melts a little too quickly down my fingers. I whisper, “Why did she leave?”
He exhales through his teeth, shaking his head. “Same reason my brother has an ankle strap on you. We aren’t good men.”
I don’t think before saying it. “I think you’re good.”
It’s not a lie… not exactly. But it doesn’t feel like the whole truth either.
Enzo laughs—quiet, bitter. “Then why do you look so scared of me?”
Because I don’t know how to tell when the devil is smiling.
“My friend Bea says love finds everyone eventually,” I say instead. “She’s always right.”
He glances at me, softer now. “Well, let’s hope she is... or I’m fucked.”
I try not to react to the curse, but I feel my mouth tighten slightly. My eyes flick away like they’ve been stung.
We sit, the last of the cones disappearing. The ache in his shoulders doesn’t lift, but it softens somehow. When he stands, I follow, brushing crumbs from my lap.
We return to the car. I slide into the passenger seat, the door clicking shut beside me.
That’s when I see it. In the rearview mirror, there is a man.
He’s standing across the narrow street, too still to be casual. Dressed in dark clothes, half-hidden behind a car. His face is partly shadowed, but he’s staring straight at us—at me. I’ve seen him before, at my home, many times.
I don’t speak. My hand trembles on my thigh. I lower my eyes, tuck my hair behind my ear, and try not to move too much.
Enzo starts the engine. I keep my eyes forward.
But inside, my chest has gone cold.
And somehow, I know—
He was watching me. Just me.