Chapter 9
GIULIANA
I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and my body screaming in protest.
My thighs, my back, places I didn’t know could be sore—everything aches.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, and for one disoriented moment, I don’t remember why I hurt so bad.
Then it all comes rushing back.
Luca storming into my room.
The fight.
His hands on me, my hands on him, the wall pressing against my back, the fury and heat and desperate need that overrode every rational thought in my head.
Oh god.
I press my palms against my eyes, willing the memories to disappear, but they’re burned into my brain.
The way I kissed him back, the way I challenged him, goaded him, wanted him despite everything he’s done to me.
The way my body responded to his touch like I’d been starving for it.
I’m going to be sick.
I bolt from the bed and barely make it to the bathroom before I’m dry heaving over the toilet, my stomach churning with self-disgust.
Nothing comes up, but my body convulses anyway, trying to purge the horror of what I’ve done.
I had sex. With my captor. With the man who destroyed my life, who’s holding my father hostage.
And the worst part, the part that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin, is that some traitorous part of me enjoyed it.
The tears come hot and fast, and I press my forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom floor, sobbing until my throat is raw.
What’s wrong with me?
How could I respond to him like that?
How could my body betray me so completely?
I think about Dad, wherever he is.
Does he even know what’s happening to me?
Is he alive?
Luca and Danny say he’s fine, but I have no proof, no way to verify anything.
For all I know, my father died after they dragged him out of the warehouse and I’m being held here for nothing. And last night, while he might be suffering or dead, I was in Luca’s arms, kissing him back, challenging him to take more.
The guilt is suffocating.
I force myself up from the floor and into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it.
I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw, trying to wash away the memory of Luca’s hands on me, his mouth on mine, the way his hips felt as they slammed into me.
But no amount of soap can erase what happened and no amount of scalding water can burn away the shame.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel with my skin pink and stinging, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like a fucking disaster.
My eyes are swollen from crying, my hair tangled and dripping, and bruises bloom on my hips where Luca’s fingers gripped too hard.
Even my throat has marks on it.
Evidence of my complete moral failure written across my body.
I can’t look at myself any longer.
Dropping my towel, I head into the closet to pick out something to wear.
I dress in the plainest clothes I can find—jeans and a black turtleneck—and pull my wet hair back into a severe ponytail.
I don’t want anyone to notice me today.
I just want to be invisible.
My stomach twists uncomfortably as my eyes scan my bedroom before landing on my bed.
Memories of last night flood me.
Me falling onto the bed with Luca’s large body covering mine.
The way his mouth felt against my mouth—the warmth of his tongue, the smell of his cologne.
I can’t breathe.
Rushing over to the bed, I seize the sheets and rip them off the bed, letting them fall to the floor.
If I could burn this stupid fucking bed and the wall next to it, I would.
Knock knock.
Whirling around, I hear the lock click and a young maid I don’t recognize enters.
She’s in her early twenties with blonde hair pulled back in a low bun.
She looks at my stripped bed and me, breathing heavily, and her eyes widen nervously.
“Excuse me, Ms. Conti,” she says quietly, not quite meeting my gaze. “I-I’m here to collect the laundry.”
I nod mutely and watch as she gathers the towels from the bathroom, the sheets I stripped off the bed, and my dirty clothes.
She works quickly, clearly uncomfortable being in the room with me.
I don’t blame her. I must look positively feral.
When she leaves, I hear her footsteps fade down the hallway.
But I don’t hear the distinctive click of the lock re-engaging.
I wait a full minute, my heart pounding, then try the door handle. It turns freely.
She forgot to lock it.
Whether from nervousness or distraction or simple human error, the young maid forgot to secure my prison.
I need to get out of this room.
The walls feel like they’re closing in, suffocating me with memories of last night that I desperately need to escape.
I can’t be in here anymore and if the maid has forgotten to lock me in, I’m going to use that to my advantage.
The hallway is quiet, most of the staff probably downstairs preparing breakfast or attending to their duties.
I wander aimlessly, not really paying attention to where I’m going, just needing to move, to put distance between myself and that bedroom.
I find myself in a wing of the mansion I haven’t explored before. The décor here is different.
It’s less ostentatious and more personal.
Family photographs line the walls, expensive but not showy.
A closed door at the end of the hallway calls to me for reasons I don’t understand.
I should turn around. I should go back to my room and wait for Maria to bring breakfast and pretend last night never happened.
Instead, I reach for the doorknob.
My self-preservation screams at me to turn around.
This wing is clearly private and not meant for anyone like me.
But there’s no sign saying I can’t enter.
There’s no explicit warning.
And some reckless part of me—the same part that destroyed that expensive dress—wants to push boundaries.
My hand trembles on the doorknob.
This is stupid.
This is asking for trouble I can’t afford.
I turn it anyway.
It’s unlocked, which surprises me. I push it open slowly, half expecting alarms or guards to appear, but there’s only silence.
The room beyond is an office, and it’s smaller than I expected.
It’s more intimate than the formal spaces I’ve seen in this mansion.
Dark wood paneling, leather furniture worn soft with age, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes that look actually read rather than decorative.
This isn’t a showpiece meant to impress visitors.
This is personal.
I take one step inside, then another, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I really shouldn’t be here.
But I can’t seem to make myself leave.
My eyes are drawn to a massive corkboard covering one entire wall, layered with photographs and documents and maps connected by red string like something from a detective show.
My breathing hitches.
Marco’s murder investigation.
This must be Luca’s private room, the place where he’s planned his revenge.
I should leave.
This is the most private space imaginable, and if Luca finds me here, his fury will make last night’s rage look tame.
But I can’t look away from the photographs.
There, in the center of the board, is a picture of Marco Marchetti’s body at the crime scene.
I turn away quickly, my stomach lurching at the evidence of torture and violence.
I don’t want to see that.
I don’t want to understand what was done to him.
I don’t want to see what my father’s cowardice did.
Instead, my eyes find the other photographs scattered around the office, the personal ones that show Marco alive and whole and happy.
Two gap-toothed boys in swim trunks, maybe seven or eight years old, building an elaborate sandcastle on a Lake Michigan beach.
The smaller one—Luca, I realize with a jolt—is laughing at something, his dark hair wild with wind and water, his expression open and joyful in a way I’ve never seen on the man who holds me captive.
Teenage boys with matching tattoos, probably done illegally in some dingy shop, grinning like they’ve gotten away with murder.
Marco has his arm slung around Luca’s shoulders, and they look invincible, untouchable, like nothing bad could ever happen to them.
They look like the boys I went to school with—happy and carefree.
My eyes wander to another photo of young men in suits at what looks like a business meeting, serious and focused.
Marco’s hand on Luca’s shoulder, steadying, supportive.
I turn around and spy another photo on a desk.
Lifting it up, I study it. It’s a casual backyard barbecue, Marco and Luca laughing at something off-camera.
Luca’s handsome face is completely open, genuinely happy, transformed by joy into someone I don’t recognize.
This is what he looked like before grief turned him into a monster.
Marco wasn’t just his cousin.
He was his best friend. Probably the only person in the world who knew him completely and loved him anyway.
And my father’s mistake—coerced or not—took that away from him.
The weight of my secret knowledge presses down on my chest like a physical thing. I know who really orchestrated Marco’s death. Or at least I know his voice.
The recording on my phone, buried in cloud storage, proves that someone else was the mastermind and that my father was just a desperate pawn in a larger game.
I could tell Luca right now.
I could redirect his rage toward the actual culprit.
But what would happen then?
Would Luca see me as useful because I have information he needs?
Or would knowing too much seal my fate?
And if I tell him about the voice, am I complicit in whatever bloody revenge follows?
The voice on that recording was ruthless.
That person wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who could expose him. Which includes me and anyone I care about.
The secret burns in my throat, begging to be spoken, but terror keeps my mouth shut.
Besides, Lucas already knows my father was a pawn. Maybe he’s already handled who was pulling the strings.
“What are you doing in here?”
I spin around so fast I knock into the desk, my heart leaping into my throat as I clutch the photo frame.
Luca stands in the doorway, the expression on his face making my blood run cold.