32. Amara
AMARA
I WON’T BE SILENT
M y day is the same as all the others. It’s life in a gilded cage—safe, yes, but suffocating. I’ve memorized the sound of the wind through the windows and the way Pietro’s footsteps sound when he leaves the house without a word.
The house has felt cold, and the days are endless since Pietro stopped touching me.
He’s a master of deception because his veiled looks give me hope, but he quickly dashes them with one-word responses.
His chilled responses are growing old, and the tiled floors have made this house a luxurious mausoleum with Wi-Fi.
I can only do so much pacing before my body becomes stiff. The library is stately, but there are only so many books I can skim without reading a word. I even found books in Italian. Maybe I should learn a romance language since I have nothing but time.
Whether or not I’m with Pietro, I want to work, be productive, and move forward with my life.
I exit the office, and Arman is watching me. He’s now wearing an earpiece. I’m not sure if that’s necessary, so it might be best that I don’t know the details behind it.
I flick on the TV just for noise, but the moment the screen lights up, I freeze .
“Another shooting today in what authorities are calling a coordinated assault in Manhattan, possibly linked to organized crime.”
My throat tightens.
There’s footage of a street cordoned off with yellow tape. Flashing lights. A reporter was shouting over the chaos.
The war has made the news.
They’re calling it a turf war.
If only they knew. I hope the men are okay, and I can’t forget that Luca is on the front lines.
I shut the TV off and toss the remote aside as confusion bubbles in my chest. What am I to do in this situation? I know one thing for sure.
I’m done playing the fragile doll locked in her glass tower.
So, when Pietro walks through the front door, broody and distant, I can’t take it anymore.
“You’re home,” I say, biting off angry words before they manifest. I’m pissed he leaves me to my own devices and at that, it’s limited. Even in a house as magnificent as this, it does nothing to ease my loneliness.
He turns toward me, his expression is unreadable. “I’m doing what I can.”
“You always say that,” I argue. “You say you’ll take care of me, and then you leave—every night. Like, I don’t matter. Like we didn’t matter. That we didn’t exist, you’re erasing us and erasing me.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand?—”
“No, you don’t understand!” I take a step closer and ignore the twinge of pain in my side.
“I don’t need a bodyguard. I need you. The man who used to laugh with me, who made me feel like the world disappeared when he touched me.
He lowers me into the tub, checking the temperature before cupping water in his hands and pouring it over my shoulders.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says, his voice low. His delivery was so convincing that I almost believed him.
“You always say that,” I whisper, watching him. “But you never stay. ”
He doesn’t answer, he rinses the soap from my skin, wraps me in a towel, and carries me back to bed.
And like always, he pulls away again after tucking the blanket around me.
And my heart goes with him.
This isn’t what I want.
This isn’t what we were.
With every day that passes, I fear he’s slipping away and that I’ll never get him back. I’m running low on hope.
Today, I wake slowly, tossing and turning, my father is yelling at me, and I’m doubling over from his punch.
I bolt upright, breathless. My chest heaves, my head feels heavy, and my limbs are stiff. The dim lighting in the room tells me it’s early—too early to be awake.
And yet I am. Nightmares wake me up most nights. I’m unable to forget what my father did to me.
Images of him yelling and kicking me make me shudder just thinking about it even now.
I blink, trying to piece together where I am. The walls are dark, and I’m alone again. Then it hits me. Pietro isn’t here.
Instinctively, I know he’s not home.
I close my eyes and press my palm into the dip of where he used to lie, as if I can hold on to the memory of us, as if my touch alone can bring him back.
He’s all I can think about. The empty bed is a harsh reminder of what I’ve lost.
The fact that we’re not together constantly reminds me of how ruthless my father can be. Physically, I’m back to normal, but bruised ribs are not a joke .
I listen for movement in the house. I hoped I wouldn’t be alone in this humongous house all day. But the silence mocks me.
Pietro is not one to hide from the enemy. He won’t cower in safety while his enemies lurk in the dark and his men are on the street fighting a war I started. Maybe that’s why he’s mad at me.
I started this war, and it sits heavy on my heart.
I assume he’s with his brothers and probably hunting Milo?, or closing in on Elio, grasping at proof my father put a hit on him so he can end him.
I doubt he can justify taking out my father unless there is irrefutable evidence that he ordered the hit.
He is my biological father, and yet, he did nothing to protect me.
I assume my father has feelings for me, but it’s not love because he’s a psychopath.
I know they aren’t capable of emotions, so he’s always been a menace to me.
I couldn’t imagine raising a child without loving it.
I’ve always been on my own despite having family around me. Why should now be any different?
But it is. I know what it’s like to be with a loving family. I know what it’s like to have laughter and love fill a house. Pietro showed me what that’s like, even though I knew I’d never be a part of it. I want it.
I exhale as I stand. I press a hand to my stomach. It’s too soon to feel the baby bump, but it calms me. “I’m going to protect you.” My whisper is weak, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my baby safe. My baby will know love.
I’ve learned that going through the motions of the day, having routines, is good for me and my state of mind. It keeps my mind, and at times, my hands busy, which is a blessing in disguise.
My mental health is more of a concern than my physical health. I am trying to stay strong, but being in captivity is not easy. Living with Pietro, if it can be called that, is the most challenging feat of all.
To see him walk around the house with a scowl on his face, knowing he won’t share what is troubling him, is torture. I want to comfort him, I want to help him, but he won’t let me.
If men are following Elio, it’s only a matter of time before he gives them something, or so I hope—my mind races with what happens next.
Will the Borrellis hand me over to my father ?
I vaguely heard the family talking about someone named Julia who is tech-savvy, and it sounds like she’s working on tracking the enemies through their cell phones and cameras. She’s looking for information to give the family intel on where to find Milo?.
And I’m here. Useless.
I long for Pietro to say something to me.
To tell me he doesn’t hate me.
To tell me he still wants me.
But he doesn’t.
I have been drifting in and out of sleep every night since I arrived. Pietro was in and out of my room for the first few days and never said much.
However, his actions spoke louder than words.
He surprised me with my favorite burger from the hotel this week, sat and watched me eat it, made sure I took my vitamins, and then disappeared again.
His answers are short and to the point. He’s a man of few words. There is no banter. It’s as if he’s turned off all his emotions. His eyes are icy blue. I can’t stay here and have him looking at me with pity. I can’t tolerate him looking at me as if I’m pathetic.
I don’t feel safe without his arms around me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stop feeling so much.
I’m alive. That should be enough.
But it’s not.
Not when the man I love treats me like I’m a ghost.
He’s using another bedroom, and that hurts more than anything. But last night, he came to my room. Is it possible that he’ll forgive me for not being honest with him?
Is there any chance we can return to where we started?
The wind off the water rattles the glass doors like it’s trying to remind me the world still exists out there.
I haven’t seen anything beyond these walls in days. There have been no visitors, no outings, just the quiet hum of the fridge and the sound of my thoughts, which are turning toxic .
And the TV. Ugg. I can’t possibly binge-watch another series. I’m not accustomed to sitting for so long.
Besides, TV is always the same, but today I see buildings on fire, and I turn the volume up. There are reports of shootings in the city. A journalist speculates about a brewing mafia war in the underground circles of New York City.
“Unconfirmed sources suggest this is a turf battle between organized crime families,” the anchor says with practiced calm.
I shut it off.
Unconfirmed sources.
They have no idea.
The war is real. I’ve seen it up close—felt it in the bruises and the anger. I’ve seen it in the cold stares Pietro gives me.
I pace the hallway, restlessness gnawing at my ribs. I want to scream, to run, to do something that isn’t just waiting for the next wave of danger to crash over us.
I’m in the kitchen, spinning the same glass of water between my fingers, watching the light catch in the ice, when I hear the knock at the door.
Not heavy. Not aggressive. Just a quick, familiar rhythm that doesn’t sound like one of Pietro’s guards.
I move cautiously, but when I reach the front door, Arman has his hand on the door.
My chest tightens.
Who’s here?