Chapter 14 Giuliana
GIULIANA
Three thirty in the morning.
I know because I’ve been staring at the digital clock on my nightstand for the past two hours, watching the minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness while my mind refuses to shut down.
Sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rico Romano’s face too close to mine, smell his cologne mixed with whiskey, and feel his hands gripping my arms. Then the scene shifts and it’s Luca slamming him against the wall, Luca’s voice dropping to that deadly register that made even me want to back away despite being relieved by his presence.
Then it shifts again to the car. To his hands on me, his body claiming mine. To the way I clung to him not out of desire exactly, but out of desperate need for the safety only he can provide in this nightmare world.
You’re mine. In this world, that’s the only thing keeping you safe.
The words echo in my head on repeat, along with my own pathetic response. Yes, please—
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory, but it’s seared into my brain.
The way he looked at me in the dim light of the car, possessive and fierce.
The way my body responded despite everything my rational mind knew to be true.
The way being claimed by him felt like the only solid thing in a reality that’s become increasingly unmoored.
I hate him. I should hate him. He destroyed my clinic, imprisoned my father, forced me into this engagement, stripped away every piece of my old life until nothing remained but compliance.
But I also, god help me, I also felt safer in his arms tonight than I’ve felt since this nightmare began.
When he appeared in that hallway, when he put himself between me and Rico with such absolute authority, some twisted part of me felt protected in a way that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with primal survival instinct.
I bark out a laugh, still pressing the bottoms of my palms against my eyes. God, what is wrong with me?
Stockholm Syndrome. That’s what this is. It’s not a real diagnosis, but that’s the only thing this can be. Why else would hostages develop emotional bonds with their captors, confusing control with care, mistaking possession for protection? That’s what this is.
Knowing what it is doesn’t make it any less easy.
I throw off the sheets and grab the cashmere robe draped over the chair. The mansion is quiet at this hour, just the ambient hum of climate control and security systems keeping watch.
I should try to sleep. Force myself to lie still and count ceiling tiles or sheep or whatever the hell people do when insomnia has its claws in them.
Instead, I find myself padding barefoot across the plush carpet to my door.
It’s unlocked—one of the small mercies granted after I proved I wasn’t going to immediately attempt escape.
Or maybe it’s just that Luca knows there’s nowhere for me to run, that the walls and gates and guards make physical locks redundant.
The hallway outside my suite is dimly lit by wall sconces set to their lowest setting. My feet make no sound on the thick runner as I move through the mansion’s second floor, not really sure where I’m going, just needing to move.
Then there’s the other weight pressing on my chest. The one that’s been suffocating me since we left the Romano estate.
Salvatore’s voice. The voice that’s haunted my nightmares for three years. Hearing it again tonight, watching him play the gracious host while Luca negotiated business with Marco’s real killer—it made the secret feel like acid eating through my insides.
“The wrong one died. I told you Marchetti would be there—”
The words are burned into my memory, along with my father’s terrified response and his broken sobs.
I have proof. A recording that could redirect Luca’s revenge toward the right target and could maybe clear my father’s name. It could change everything.
But revealing it could also destroy me.
If Luca believes me, I become valuable. If he doesn’t believe me, if he thinks I’m lying to manipulate him or save my father, I don’t want to imagine what his fury would look like then.
Biting my lip, I wrap my arms around myself to ward off a sudden chill. But what if he’s angry I’ve kept this from him all this time? His anger would make his fury toward Rico look like child’s play.
And if Salvatore Romano discovers I have evidence against him? He’d eliminate me without hesitation.
So I stay silent, and the silence is killing me almost as effectively as speaking might.
But there’s something else too, tangled up with the fear and the guilt. Something I can’t ignore at three in the morning when my defenses are worn down to nothing.
My father. Somewhere in this city—maybe in a safe house, maybe in a cell, maybe already dead for all I know—my father is suffering because of choices he made three years ago. Choices made under coercion, yes, but choices nonetheless.
And I had sex with his captor. In the back of a car, desperate and rough and so viscerally satisfying it makes me sick to remember how much I needed it.
What kind of daughter does that make me? What kind of person betrays her own father by having sex with the man who’s destroying them both?
The shame is almost physical, sitting in my stomach like a stone. I should be planning his rescue and fighting Luca at every turn, maintaining my hatred and my distance instead of—
Instead of whatever the hell happened in that car.
I’m a traitor. To my father, to myself, to any sense of moral consistency I thought I had. I’ve slept with my captor and I liked it, and that makes me as pathetic as my father was when he sold Marco’s life for gambling money.
The thought makes tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. Crying won’t fix anything. It certainly won’t make me less of a traitor or less dependent on Luca for survival.
My wandering feet have carried me to the wing of the mansion that I’ve been expressly forbidden to go to. Luca’s private domain. The hallway where I got caught a few weeks ago.
I shiver at the memory of that confrontation. The way his face had gone cold when he realized I was looking at his photos of Marco. He’d stripped away my privileges as punishment, leaving me counting ceiling fixtures until Danny convinced him I was losing my mind.
I shouldn’t be here. I need to get the hell out of here before I get caught and lose more privileges. I should turn around right now and—
Light spills from under the door at the end of the hall. Not bright, but enough to indicate someone’s awake.
Luca.
He’s in there. In his study. The private office where he keeps Marco’s case files and photographs and all the evidence that points to the wrong enemy.
At three in the morning, he’s probably in there torturing himself over details that I could clarify with a few words and a recording I’ve been too terrified to share.
Fuck. I really need to leave. I need to go back to my bedroom and my guilt and let him suffer alone like he deserves.
But for some stupid, god-awful reason, I want to see him.
I’m an idiot. A traitor and an idiot and possibly the most psychologically damaged person in this entire fucked-up situation. I want to see the man who’s been destroying my life. I want to be near him after what happened tonight. That’s not normal. That’s not healthy.
That’s Stockholm Syndrome in its purest form.
But my feet are moving forward anyway, drawn toward that light. My hand reaches for the door, and I push it open before I can talk myself out of this monumentally stupid decision.
The room beyond is exactly as I remember it. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the massive mahogany desk. And sitting behind that desk, still wearing his dress shirt from the Romano gathering but with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone, is Luca.
He looks exhausted. The aloofness he usually wears is replaced by something raw and human. His dark hair is disheveled and there are shadows under his eyes that suggest he’s been awake as long as I have.
Even rumpled and tired, he’s so unbelievably good looking.
The sleeves rolled up reveal forearms corded with muscle, and the open collar shows the column of his throat, the hollow at the base that I remember pressing my lips against in the car.
His jaw is darkened with stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave, making him look less like the polished crime lord and more dangerous and untamed.
If this wasn’t such a serious situation, I would stamp my foot like a child and whine that it isn’t fair that someone could be so handsome.
It’s also not fair that someone who’s destroyed my life should be so beautiful.
The desk is covered with files. My stomach flip flops as I realize they’re crime scene photos, but thank god they’re face-down. There are witness statements and maps marked with red circles and arrows.
It’s Marco’s murder investigation, laid out in excruciating detail.
I watch as he picks up a photograph. It’s not a crime scene photo, but one of him and Marco, younger and smiling.
From this far away, I can tell it’s not the one of them at the barbecue but another photo.
I want so badly to look at it. His thumb traces the edge of the frame with such careful reverence it makes me want to cry.
Then he sets it down and pulls over a yellow legal pad covered in his precise handwriting. I can’t make out the words, but I can definitely see my father’s name on it.
It’s wrong. All of it is pointing at the wrong enemy while the real killer walks free.
The weight in my chest becomes unbearable.
I must make a sound—a sharp inhale or a shift of weight—because suddenly Luca’s head snaps up, his dark eyes finding me in the doorway like a predator locating prey.
“Giuliana.” My name comes out rough, surprised, and fuck me I love the way it sounds. “What are you doing here?”