Chapter 25
Harlow
What does it really mean, to take your power back?
It sounds clean. Final. Like something refined and meticulous, a blade cutting through the past to carve out freedom.
But it isn’t.
At first, it feels like breaking through ice. My limbs ache. My vision blurs. I open my eyes slowly, the ceiling above me shifting into focus through the haze of waking.
Soft sheets. Warm light. And my husband.
I’m in his arms as he places me gently on the bed. His movements are careful, but his face… his face is anything but calm.
He sits beside me, jaw tight, eyes scanning my features like he’s waiting for me to shudder or scream. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to fill the silence with comfort I didn’t ask for.
He just watches me.
My chest feels lighter. There’s no denying that. Like a weight has been lifted from inside my ribs—one I carried for so long, I’d forgotten it was even there.
But he’s not wrong to look concerned. Because even as that invisible weight lifts, something else crashes in its place. A thousand other feelings, violent and loud, all pressing down at once.
Shock. Grief. Fury. Guilt. Triumph. Loss. Relief.
I flinch, and he sees it. Without a word, he gathers me into his arms, lifting me as if I weigh nothing, and carries me to the bathroom.
My cheeks are already wet. I hadn’t even noticed. The tears come silently, slipping down my skin with a weight heavier than gravity itself.
Dante mutters a curse low under his breath, and turns on the water. He doesn’t pause to undress me. Doesn’t remove a single item of his own clothing. We step under the spray together, fully clothed, as if shedding layers would make this moment any less raw.
The warm water crashes over us, soaking through fabric, plastering my hair to my face. My limbs coil around him when he sinks to the tiled floor, taking me with him. I settle onto his lap, and he holds me, tight, fierce, unrelenting. As if letting go is not, and never will be, an option.
His arms are wrapped around me like steel. His heartbeat thunders beneath my cheek, fast and ragged.
And I break in his arms, quietly, completely, the storm inside me finally uncontained.
He brushes my hair away from my face, tucking wet strands behind my ears.
“Let it all out, leonessa.”
And I do.
I cry. Ugly, broken, soul deep sobs that tear from a place I didn’t know existed. As if the girl I used to be is mourning herself. As if everything I buried, everything I tried to carry alone, finally claws its way out of me.
I cry because I lived.
Because, for a moment, I didn’t want to.
Because I thought the only way out was to leave this world behind.
I cry because they didn’t get that choice.
Because they died screaming, afraid, alone.
Because I’m still here and they’re not.
I cry because the guilt is suffocating.
Because a part of me feels lighter now, and that feels wrong.
Because I’m carrying too much and still, somehow, not enough.
I cry because I don’t even know what I feel.
Only that it’s too much.
Too tangled.
Too loud.
Dante doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask me to explain. He just holds me and lets the water hide the sounds I don’t want to make. His fingers keep threading through my soaked hair, over and over again, grounding me.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Minutes. Hours. It doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t exist in this place. Not for us.
Eventually, the sobs taper off. My shoulders stop shaking. I lean back just enough to look at him, and his eyes are already waiting, tender.
That undoes me in a different way.
“I feel better,”
I breathe. My voice is hoarse, but not broken.
“A little.”
His gaze never wavers. I take a deep, slow breath.
“They have justice now. Those girls. I did that, for them. And for me. Just like I promised while I was in that fucking basement.”
His arms tighten around me, his hold firm.
“The last thing he saw,”
he replies.
“was the woman he thought he’d broken, holding the power he believed he’d taken. You didn’t just end him, Harlow. You unmade him.”
A slow smile tugs at my lips. Not out of joy, but something deeper. Gratitude. He’s been beside me through every sleepless night, every nightmare I couldn’t outrun. He never asked for anything in return. He just stayed. Constant. Present.
Without even realizing it, he became my steadying force.
Even with my instinct to push everyone away, my lifelong belief that closeness invites betrayal, he broke through. Somehow, along the way, my feelings for him changed. Grew. Settled deep. And for the first time, they don’t feel like a threat.
He makes it feel safe. Less terrifying.
That thought alone sends a heat through my chest, warmth so foreign, it almost startles me.
I lean forward and press my lips to his. He goes still for a moment, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. I’ve never initiated before, not like this. Not gently. Not with meaning instead of need.
But in the space of a heartbeat, he gathers himself. His mouth claims mine with force, one hand threading into my wet hair, the other cradling my cheek. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s deep, grounding. His tongue sweeps into mine, like he’s telling me everything he can’t say with words. Every inch of his soul, poured into me.
When we finally break apart, I meet his eyes. And what I see there knocks the air from my lungs.
Softness. Fierce, aching devotion. And something that looks, if I dare name it… like love.
He touches my face once more, brushing a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
“Let’s get you cleaned up. Then you need rest.”
He rises, still holding me in his arms, then lowers me gently onto my feet beneath the steady stream of water.
“May I?”
he asks, fingers brushing the hem of my shirt. I nod in silent permission.
He eases the wet fabric over my head and lets it fall to the tiles without a word. Then he kneels, peeling the drenched leggings from my legs. His touch never lingers, never strays. Only adoration lives in his hands. He helps me step out of my underwear with the same unhurried attention.
Rising, his voice deepens.
“Turn around.”
I do. His fingers find the clasp of my bra with ease. One breath, and it comes undone.
I turn to face him once more.
In silence, I slide his suit jacket off his shoulders, then unfasten his shirt. We undress one another in silence. No rush. No words.
He picks up the shampoo and gently works it through my hair. I close my eyes and let him.
When he finishes, I take the bottle from his hand and wash his hair in return.
There’s nothing sexual, there’s no tension between us, only quiet, and the comfort of being close.
Once we’re done, he steps out of the shower first, wrapping a towel around his waist, water gliding over the defined lines of his torso. My gaze follows the droplets before I can stop it.
He catches me looking, and smirks.
Without a word, he reaches for another towel and crouches beside me, drying my skin. Then, without warning, he lifts me into his arms once more.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking,”
I murmur, a glimmer of amusement beneath the exhaustion.
“I’m well aware,”
he replies, in a rough voice.
“But that won’t stop me from carrying you every chance I get.”
I don’t argue. I let him cradle me, walking back into our bedroom. He sets me down at the edge of the bed, then disappears into the closet without a word.
When he returns, he’s fully dressed, dark trousers, a white shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled once at the forearm. In his hands, he carries my lingerie and a soft pair of leggings.
I reach for them, but he ignores the gesture and sinks to his knees before me.
Wordlessly, he slides the panties up my legs, his touch assured. I rise with a sigh, arching a brow as he adjusts the waistband with a snap that borders on insolent.
He meets my glare with infuriating calm, entirely unaffected.
I finish dressing, bra, leggings—pulling them on in silence.
As I smooth the fabric into place, something clicks into focus. My gaze sweeps the room, searching for a clock.
“Oh God, what time is it? We’re going to be late for Mattia’s game.”
“We’re not late, leonessa,”
he says, stepping closer.
“We still have over an hour.”
He lifts a hand, his fingers brushing along my cheek, lingering for a moment.
“Would you prefer to rest a while first?”
I shake my head.
“We’ll be late.”
A shadow passes over his face, familiar and unmistakable.
“Harlow,”
he says, his voice deepening, edged with threat.
“if you need rest, just say the word. I don’t give a damn about the game. I’ll make a call and have it delayed, or moved to another day entirely.”
He’s already reaching for his phone when I catch his wrist, fingers wrapping around his with enough pressure to halt him.
“There’s no need,”
I say, forcing a note of levity into my voice.
“I feel significantly better after breaking down in the shower like a lunatic.”
He doesn’t so much as blink.
He watches me in silence, his gaze obscured, intense, studying me as if trying to determine whether to believe me… or call the stadium.
At last, he exhales through his nose.
“If you’re certain,”
he murmurs.
I move to the vanity and sweep on just enough makeup to feel like myself again, though the puffiness around my eyes betrays the storm I’ve only just survived.
In the closet, I reach for a soft T-shirt and pull it on, then gather a few essentials into my bag. A cap goes on last.
Dante is waiting by the door, his arms crossed, posture patient but his gaze sharp.
When his eyes land on my shirt, something in his expression shifts. It’s Mattia’s jersey number.
“You need one too,”
I say, lifting a brow in challenge.
“I won’t be caught dead in that,”
he replies, not missing a beat.
“You’re supposed to act like a supportive parent. Maybe try showing a little enthusiasm while you’re at it.”
“I am supportive,”
he replies, stepping in close, his voice quiet.
“But I don’t need to drape myself in synthetic fabric to prove it.”
His gaze trails over me, possessive.
“But you…”
His mouth curves.
“You look charming. It suits you, leonessa.”
“I wasn’t aiming for charming.”
That gets a dry smirk from me, the kind of smile that used to come easy. The kind of smile I thought I’d lost.
We step out together, heading toward Mattia’s room. Dante knocks once before opening the door.
Mattia is on the floor, one sock on, half dressed in his uniform, demonstrating some overly dramatic kick to Luka, who’s lounging on the bed watching with mild amusement.
“Are you two not ready yet?”
I ask, arching a brow as I step inside.
Mattia spins toward me, wide eyed. “Almost!”
“I can see that,”
I say, crouching beside him.
“Let’s go, champ.”
He offers me his foot automatically, and I reach for his laces, only to find the knot he made would barely last a few steps.
As I tug the laces tight, I feel Dante’s gaze on me. I glance up.
He’s watching me like I’m something rare.
Too rare to touch.
Too rare to lose.
A small, frustrated huff pulls my attention back to Mattia.
“I can tie them myself, you know,”
he grumbles.
“I’m well aware of that. But even champions need backup sometimes.”
I say with a smile.
He puffs his chest like the title suits him.
I turn to Luka.
“Are you ready?”
He nods. “Sure.”
His voice is quiet, easy.
He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled like he didn’t bother brushing it.
“You really need that haircut,”
I say, eyeing the way it falls into his eyes.
He lifts a brow, smirking.
“I like my hair long.”
“Makes you look like a street musician.”
“I’ll take it,”
he murmurs, clearly unfazed.
Mattia pipes up.
“He said he looks like a movie villain. The broody kind. With secrets.”
Luka’s grin widens slightly.
“Only because it’s true.”
I raise a brow.
“You do realize villains never win.”
He glances at me, that shadowed glint in his eyes unmistakable.
“Depends on who’s telling the story.”
Mattia, unaffected, zips up his bag.
“Well, in my story, I win. And I score at least three goals.”
“That’s the spirit,”
I say, rising.
“We’ll see,”
Luka adds, giving Mattia a mock serious look.
“If you’re lucky.”
Mattia sticks his tongue out at him.
We leave the house minutes later. Dante drives, I sit beside him, and the boys are in the back, talking, laughing softly. A second SUV follows close behind.
The field isn’t far. We arrive within minutes.
Mattia launches out of the car before it fully stops, bouncing with energy. I step out more slowly, holding up his water bottle.
“You forgot this!”
He turns back, his grin wide enough to eclipse the sun.
“Thanks, Harlow!”
He grabs it, hesitates for a beat, then throws his arms around my waist in a quick, tight hug.
I hug him back.
“Go show them what you’ve got.”
He beams, then runs.
As we walk toward the bleachers to find our seats, I watch him jog across the field to join his teammates. His little frame fits into the lineup.
A man approaches us from the sidelines, familiar face, clean shaven, athletic build. I recognize him instantly. Mattia’s coach. We’ve met before.
His expression brightens the moment he sees me, and he steps forward in greeting.
“Signora Salvatore,”
he says with a warm smile.
“a pleasure, as always. It’s wonderful to see Mattia has such devoted support in the stands today.”
My husband’s already moving. Fast.
I feel him before I see him, Dante’s hand curling around my waist, firm and possessive, anchoring me to his side. Luka flanks me on the other, stepping closer without a word, his posture sharpening and protective.
It makes me smirk—if only inwardly.
They’re more alike than either of them would ever willingly admit.
The coach slows, his brows tugging together as his gaze flickers between the two of them.
“Signor Salvatore,”
he says carefully, nodding at Dante and extending a hand.
Dante shakes it.
The coach turns to Luka, who also accepts the handshake, though his expression is guarded, his eyes still narrowed at the man.
Then he reaches for mine.
Dante flicks his hand aside with a swift, unbothered motion.
“No touching.”
The coach’s mouth opens. Closes.
“I… of course. Sorry.”
Luka’s gaze sharpens in a silent warning. However, Dante doesn’t bother with subtlety.
“I’ll, uh… go check on the boys,”
the coach mutters, backing away with a tight smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.
I sigh.
“Let’s find our seats before you two kill someone.”
Dante doesn’t budge.
“He was flirting with you.”
“He absolutely was not.”
“He looked at you.”
“You’re impossible.”
I turn and walk toward the stands, his hand resting firmly at the small of my back, a silent claim no one dares challenge.
I feel the eyes on us, mothers murmuring behind manicured fingers, fathers adjusting in their seats with discomfort. I ignore them all.
Luka trails just behind us, silently.
We settle into our seats, him on one side of me, Dante on the other.
The game starts with a chaos only little boys in jerseys three sizes too big could create. It’s messy and wild and absolutely perfect.
Mattia is electric. He darts across the field like he’s being chased by destiny, legs pumping, expression fierce. The ball almost slips past him, but he recovers, slicing between two defenders and charging toward the goal.
Luka and I cheer the loudest.
I don’t even try to be subtle. I cup my hands around my mouth and call his name. A few mothers whip around, scandalized. And I roll my eyes, because heaven forbid I dare to encourage my boy.
I catch the shift out of the corner of my eye, Dante turning his head, just once, slowly. That’s all it takes. Every pair of eyes glaring at me instantly looks elsewhere.
I see it again and again, Dante’s silent death stares, directed at anyone who dares to look too long. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me want to smile.
He’s a possessive psycho.
And he’s mine.
Half time comes, and I glance at Luka. He’s watching the field quietly, his expression undecipherable.
“Do you like football?” I ask.
He shrugs one shoulder, gaze fixed on the field.
“It’s fine, I guess.”
“You could play, if you wanted. Or something else. Martial arts. Robotics. Painting. Whatever you’re drawn to.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning the players.
“Nothing interests me.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
He merely shrugs, offering no reply.
“In September, you’ll need to go back to school,”
I say, my tone gentle as I nudge his arm.
“You’ll need that diploma.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah. That, I’ll do. Can’t stay stupid forever.”
There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No bitterness. Just certainty. As if he truly believes his words.
“You’re not stupid, Luka,”
I say, my tone firm but soft.
“A diploma doesn’t define your worth. But it is important. The world expects a certain kind of knowledge. You should have it, not for them, but for you.”
Dante’s voice cuts in from my other side.
“We’ll arrange a private tutor. If attending in person proves a risk, they’ll come to you. Security will clear everything.”
Luka glances over at him.
“Thank you.”
The second half blurs by, fast, clumsy, aggressive. Mattia scores three times, and when the final whistle blows, his team erupts in cheers.
He’s glowing as we cross the field. But as we approach, I see his expression shift. His flushed face is squared off with another boy on his team. They’re not fighting. Yet.
I narrow my eyes.
“That’s the kid he fought with last time,” I mutter.
Dante’s already moving with me.
“Everything okay here?”
I ask, stepping between them.
Mattia’s chin jerks up.
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
I turn my gaze on the other kid.
“Good. Because I’d hate to explain to your mother why our boy had to humble you twice in one day.”
He falters, stepping back instinctively. His eyes flick to Dante, stone faced, and then to Luka, who meets him with a cold stare.
Mattia beams, practically glowing with pride.
“You ready to go?”
Dante asks him, and he bobs his head in eager agreement.
As we make our way back to the cars, Luka holds out a fist.
“Well done, Mattia.”
“I told you I’d score,”
he says, his grin wide and confident.
Dante rests a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
His face lights up at his father’s words.
Leonardo had arrived just before the game and left as soon as it ended, something about work.
The drive home is quick. Mattia chatters nonstop from the back seat, retelling every moment like we hadn’t just watched it ourselves. Luka listens amused, but never stops paying attention.
That evening, we sit down for dinner. The whole family. Including Leonardo, Mario. All of us.
Now, hours later, after a long, hot shower, I find myself curled in bed beside my husband.
Dante lies on his stomach, his head resting on my abdomen, one arm wrapped around my waist, anchoring me to him.
For the first time in what feels like forever, my world feels quiet.
Not haunted.
Not broken.
Just… quiet.
And sleep takes me, just like that.