Chapter Nine - Lira #2
I pull him into me, and his arms come around my waist so tightly it almost hurts.
****
Silk Root, Dantès Estate
The lights in the ceiling have dimmed to a soft glow. They mimic the way dusk settles outside, even though I haven’t seen the sky since the night I was taken. I don’t know what time it is. The room has no clocks, just a soft rhythm of light and silence that moves like tides in a place without sun.
I’ve spent most of the day in bed. Mico hasn’t left my side.
A maid came in hours ago—quiet, unsmiling—and wheeled in a tray of food.
Soup. Fruit. Flatbread. Water. Mico made me eat even when I didn’t want to.
He held the spoon to my mouth, coaxing me with gentle words and long looks until the pressure in my chest gave way to hunger.
He poured me water, then wiped my chin when I was weak to stop it from spilling.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep. The memory of it is scattered, warm around the edges. But when I open my eyes again, the lights are lower and Mico is still sitting at the side of the bed, arms folded across his chest.
He’s watching me.
His expression is unreadable—worried, yes, but something else . Something that makes the air feel thicker.
I blink slowly and whisper, “This isn’t a dream, is it.”
His shoulders drop as he exhales. He leans forward and brushes a knuckle down the side of my cheek.
“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s real.”
I shift upward and he helps me, slipping an arm behind my back as I push myself into a sitting position. His touch is careful, like I might break again at any moment.
“I’ll get you out of here,” he says softly, adjusting the pillow behind me. “I promise. Whatever it takes.”
I rest my head against the wall and glance at him. “How?”
He hesitates for half a second, then shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting your strength back. I’ll handle the rest.”
His voice is calm. I know that tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s already decided to keep something from me.
My brow furrows. “How did you even know where I was?”
That does something to his face. His gaze flickers, then sharpens.
I straighten slightly, though the effort costs me. “Do you know him?” I ask. “The man who brought me here?”
His jaw works before he answers.
“I don’t know him personally. But I know who he is.”
He shifts closer and sets his elbows on his knees. His eyes settle on mine.
“You and Marco... you were born into something deeper than you realized. I don’t know everything, but I know this much—Chiara made a deal. A long time ago. And when she did, she secured an empire for you and Marco.”
I stare at him, confused. “What kind of deal?”
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “A bloodline deal. One that placed you both as inheritors to part of the Dantès family's holdings—one of the most powerful families in the underworld. Old money. Deep roots. Dangerous as hell.”
My skin turns cold.
“The papers—there’s a set of them in a vault,” he continues. “Your name is on them. As the heir. And under your name, there’s a clause... a bond. That names a secondary protector.”
He pauses.
And then he says it, slow and heavy.
“It names me.”
I blink .
“You?”
He nods. “I saw the copy. I didn’t understand all of it at first. But I recognized the seal. And your mother’s signature. The role is legal. If something happens to you—or if you’re deemed vulnerable—the protector can act in your name.”
I tilt my face slightly, a strange weight building behind my eyes.
“But that role...” I whisper. “That’s meant for a spouse.”
The words fall out of my mouth before I fully process them. My heart skips. Then thuds.
In all the old traditions, in every mafia story I half-listened to as a child, there was always that clause.
A protection clause. The spouse—usually the husband—was listed as an override to ensure the family’s power stayed intact, even if the heir couldn’t act.
It was about lineage. About blood. And marriage.
Which means—
My mouth goes dry.
My mother married me off.
I stare at him, breath caught in my throat, vision wavering. My body still feels weak, but the heat rising in my chest now isn’t from sickness or strain. It’s anger—quiet and deep and shaking.
I turn toward him fully, my voice trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He flinches, just slightly. Like he expected it, but it still stings.
After a breath, he speaks, slow and careful, as though explaining to someone smaller than the pain they’re carrying.
“After Marco died,” he says, “I stayed close. I circled the edges, I checked in with your case worker, your doctor. I kept thinking the mafia— his family—would make a move while you were in rehab. I thought the bond would activate and someone would come for you.”
He draws a hand down his jaw. His voice is quiet but clear.
“But no one did. Nothing happened. You recovered, and it was like the world moved on without the contract ever meaning anything. So, I thought maybe it had dissolved. Maybe your mother had exaggerated its weight.”
His hand reaches into the side pocket of his bag, and he pulls out a small, worn journal with a leather cover.
He holds it out to me.
“I didn’t want to bring this here,” he says softly. “But I needed you to see it yourself.”
I take it with slow fingers, unsure of what I’m even touching. The leather smells faintly like lavender and paper. I flip it open to the marked page.
The handwriting is unmistakable. Elegant. Decisive. It loops like her voice, clear and always a little too composed.
If you’re reading this now, I am dead.
And your brother and Mico finally told you the truth.
I’m sorry, my child.
My eyes blur instantly, but I keep reading.
I never meant to hurt you. But I couldn’t leave this world without knowing someone would carry what I’ve hidden for so long. You are not just my daughter—you are heir to a legacy that stretches beyond this country, beyond what you know.
I asked Mico to protect you because I trust him with your life. Because he loves you. Even if he hasn’t said it aloud. I have seen it.
This bond was not only meant to shield your name. It was meant to preserve your heart. And if one day, you understand what I’ve done—if you can look him in the eyes and still see the boy who was willing to die for you—I ask you to marry him.
Not because of the contract. But because he will love you even when you forget how to love yourself.
My hands tremble so violently I nearly drop the journal. I press it to my chest, curling around it as if I can force it to disappear.
Everything in me goes still. Numb.
She knew. All along. And she never told me.
The silence between us thickens, and I hear my own voice echo in it, hollow.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I say. “It feels like everyone in my life has lied to me.”
Mico reaches forward but doesn’t touch me yet. He waits.
I lift my eyes slowly and ask, even though I already know the answer.
“The man who captured me. Is he...?”
He nods . “Yes. He’s the son of the family you’re an inheritor to.”
My blood runs cold.
I shake my head. “What is he going to do to me?”
This time, he reaches for my hands and holds them tightly between his.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice steady and firm. “I told him you want nothing to do with their wealth. That you reject the legacy. I made it clear.”
He lifts one hand to cup the back of mine. His skin is rough but warm.
“Daybreak tomorrow, I’ll take you with me. I promise. We can’t go tonight. You’re too weak and it’s too late to move safely. But I’ll get you out.”
I don’t respond. I can barely breathe.
“We can go back to Italy,” he adds. “Start a new life. I have friends at the academy. I’ve already reached out. You can finish your program. Pick up your violin again. We can disappear together.”
My eyes scan his face. The lines. The stubble. The exhaustion. But also the anchor I used to know—the one I trusted long before I had words for what trust meant.
He watches me.
And I whisper, “How do I know you won’t run from me again?”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. It lingers.
When he pulls back, his eyes are wet again.
“I love you, Lira,” he says. “I was so afraid to admit it before. But I have always loved you.”
The words hang between us, unflinching. They don’t tremble the way I do. They land squarely in my chest and sit there, heavy, warm, and terrifying.
He looks so steady when he says it. Not desperate. Not rehearsed. Just honest. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and always has been.
And maybe it has.
Because the truth is—I’ve always loved him too.
I loved him when I was eleven, hiding behind the stair rail with a nosebleed just so he’d see me and walk over and tilt my chin to check the damage.
I loved him when I left little candy bars on the windowsill of the guest room, hoping he’d think they were from Marco or the housekeeper and take them without knowing. He always did.
I loved him in those stupid, shy little-girl ways that feel ridiculous in hindsight but meant everything to me then. Sliding folded notes into his gym bag. Asking him if he liked my hair when I changed the ribbon. Pretending to limp down the hallway so he’d ask if I needed help.
And he always did.
When I was in rehab, I stared at the door like it owed me something.
I waited for footsteps. Any footsteps. I stared at my phone screen every night until the light burned my eyes, hoping maybe he’d call.
Hoping he hadn’t forgotten me. Hoping that maybe—just maybe—he’d come sweep me out of that place like it was all some mistake.
He never came.
But now he’s here. He’s saying all the things I begged for in silence. Promises. Apologies. I love you.
And yet… I can’t say the words back.
They’re lodged somewhere behind my ribs, swollen and aching. I feel them in my throat, hot and desperate. But they won’t move. They stay caged there, pulsing with all the grief I haven’t named.
He must sense it—my stillness, the weight in my eyes. Because he speaks again, and his voice softens even further.
“I know I hurt you,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve to be here. But I won’t give up .”
He reaches for my hand.
“I’ll prove to you that you’re safe with me.”
The space between us folds in. I don’t resist.
He leans forward and wraps his arms around me again, slower , as if giving me the chance to pull away. But I don’t. I fall into him like breath returning to lungs. My head rests against his chest, where I can hear his heart—solid, rhythmic, alive.
I’ve missed this. Missed him. The way he smells like salt and cedar.
The way he holds me like I matter. I want to stay here, buried in his warmth until everything else falls away.
I want to forget the steel walls and the panic and the blood in my mouth and the scent of silk straining against my throat.
I want to forget that I tried to end it.
I close my eyes.
But something doesn’t settle. It hovers at the edge of my thoughts like static. A twinge low in my belly, like a thread pulling taut. I don’t know what it is.
I shift slightly. I feel the blanket slide over my legs. His arms tighten just a little.
I try to breathe deep—but it catches halfway.
This should feel like peace.
So why does it still feel like I’m being watched?