Chapter Twenty - Lira
Mico’s arm clamps around the back of my thighs like I weigh nothing. My voice shreds against the sky. My fists pound into his back, useless. My heel twists. I kick hard—lower, with aim for his balls.
He grunts. The blow lands.
He stumbles a step, jaw locked in pain, and I twist against him, wriggling free just enough to slip down. The moment my feet hit the earth, I’m running.
I bolt toward the forest, longing for the man who stood there and watched it happen like it meant nothing. I don’t care. I’ll still run to him.
“Severo!” I scream.
But I don’t make it far.
Fingers catch my hair. The yank jerks my spine back so sharp I gasp. Mico hauls me back with a grip I’ve never felt from him before—not gentle, not protective. Possessive.
“Let go of me!” I spit. I claw at his hand, at his wrist, twisting, pulling—but he’s stronger.
His other hand grips my arm, drags me toward the car waiting just at the edge of the trees.
“Stop it, Mico. You’re hurting me—”
He doesn’t stop.
I kick again, but he doesn’t flinch this time. He slams me against the side of the car. My shoulder hits first. The metal takes the sound, and then his face is in front of mine, close, too close.
“You’re never going back to him,” he growls.
My chest rises too fast. His face is red, sweat beading at his temple. I see madness in his eyes—desperation carved into every line of his face.
“You hear me?” His voice shakes. “You’re not going back. I love you, Lira. Come to your senses.”
Tears push against my eyes—not from pain. From fury. From humiliation.
I choke down the sob.
“If you don’t stop this right now,” I say through clenched teeth, “you’ll lose me. Do you understand me, Mico? You’ll lose me forever.”
Something in him twitches. But the look that follows isn’t surrender—it’s obsession.
“I’m not losing you again,” he whispers, and his grip tightens. “I won’t.”
He shoves me toward the open back door. I stumble. I don’t get a second chance to resist.
I’m forced inside.
The door slams shut before I can throw myself out.
He shoves me into the passenger seat, hands gripping my arms harder than he should. I fight, uselessly—nails catching on the side of the door, legs kicking against the footwell—but he pins me with a look and forces the door closed.
The lock clicks.
He gets in beside me, adjusts the mirror, and starts the engine. Gravel spits beneath the tires as we pull away.
I stop fighting.
The cuts on my wrists sting with every small movement, raw from the ropes, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood.
I lean against the cold glass of the window: the sky outside painted in motionless grey.
Trees blur past. Empty stretches of road unfurl like a punishment.
My breath fogs against the glass. I don't wipe it away.
He drives in silence for a while. Then—
“You hungry?” His voice is cautious. “Thirsty?”
I say nothing.
The road hums under us. My face is soaked. I don’t even realize I’m still crying until the salt reaches my lips. The silence swallows everything except the thudding weight in my chest.
He tries again. “You should eat.”
Still nothing.
After nearly an hour, the car slows. He turns into a supermarket lot, empty except for a white van near the loading dock. He parks close to the entrance, the engine ticking as it cools.
He turns to me. “I’ll be five minutes. Do you want anything?”
I keep my head to the window.
“Lira—”
I don’t look at him. I don’t move.
His sigh scrapes against my ear. “Fine.”
The door opens. Closes. He locks the car from his key fob and walks toward the glass doors of the store.
As soon as he disappears inside, I move.
The car is silent but not still. I lift the glove box—nothing. A useless stack of napkins. I lean over to the floor of the backseat, digging through the space beneath it. My hands brush against canvas. A zipped pouch.
I tug it out. It’s heavier than it looks. The zipper jams twice before it gives.
Inside: a small handgun. Compact. No magazine.
My fingers go numb.
I don’t let myself think. I reach again and find another item tucked into the side lining of the bumper. Pepper spray. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it.
I load the gun. It clicks into place.
My breath comes faster now. My eyes dart to the supermarket entrance. The automatic doors slide open.
He’s walking out— fast. Bag in one hand. Keys in the other. He’s only been gone three minutes.
I clutch the grip tighter.
The door opens. He slides in. His hand goes to the gearshift.
I turn and press the barrel to the side of his throat.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been expecting this the whole time.
“Of course,” he mutters, his voice tight. “Of course you’d find it.”
I keep the gun steady against his throat.
His breath is shallow, his eyes pinned to mine like he’s trying to find the version of me he used to know. He won’t. She’s gone.
He leans forward slightly, like he might talk me down. Like a man still clinging to hope.
“You’re out of your mind,” he says. “He doesn’t want you. He told you he used you. Are you dumb?”
My hand tightens.
My face is cold. The kind of cold that comes after too much heat. After much crying. My cheeks sting. My throat aches from holding it all in.
“I don’t want you either,” I whisper. My lips barely move. “And I do not care if he wants me or not. I want my place in the world.”
I look at him then, really look—at the man who stood beside me while they tied my wrists. At the man who watched me scream into duct tape and never flinched.
“Fuck you,” I say. “And fuck him.”
He flinches now. Finally.
His hands lift from the wheel, slowly, like I might shoot him right there. The whites of his eyes shine in the dark, too wide to be calm.
“Can’t you give me a chance?” he asks. His voice cracks. “We can start over. I’ll fix it. Just... come back.”
“I already started without you.” My fingers tremble again, but my voice doesn’t. The words leave my mouth flat, final.
He looks stunned. It only lasts a moment. Then he blinks, and something inside him breaks. The pain floods his expression too fast for him to cover it.
He nods. His voice goes soft.
“Then shoot me, Lira.” He presses his throat into the gun. “Go on. I’d rather die than live without you.”
I stare at him. At the tear clinging to the edge of his lashes. At the desperate way he watches me like he thinks there’s still a door open somewhere.
There isn’t.
I lower the gun—slowly. Not out of mercy.
The barrel presses to my own temple.
His mouth opens. “Lira—”
“I mean it,” I say, each word sharpened. “You’ll have to watch me die.”
His eyes widen. He lunges forward.
I start to pull. He smacks my wrist sideways. The gun fires as my finger squeezes, and the side mirror bursts outward in a mess of glass and sparks. The gun clatters to the floor. People scream outside. A woman ducks. A man shouts something from across the parking lot. Feet scatter.
Inside the car, it’s still. Just breathing.
I don’t wipe my tears. I don’t look away. He’s staring at me like I’ve grown claws. Like he doesn’t know what to do now that I’ve stopped pretending I’m sane.
He looks at the gun on the floor.
Then at me.
“You’d rather die than be with me?”
I bend down, pick it up again, slow, measured. The gun is warm from the shot.
I meet his eyes as I raise it again—not to him . But straight to my own head.
My voice is hollow.
“Over and over again.”
He stares at me. A single tear slides down his cheek, and he wipes it away like it betrays him.
He opens the door and steps out. His face is washed out now, tear-streaked and shadowed under the fluorescent parking lot lights. He doesn’t slam the door. He just leans in through the open window, eyes dull.
“He’s going back to them,” Mico says quietly. “To Marrazzi Estate . He’s giving it all up—the inheritance, the ports, everything. Mina and Maksim so they’d let you live.”
Mico keeps talking. “You want to find him? Follow the M3 eastbound. Take the Kinglake turnoff at Hazeldene. You’ll reach the foothill road in two hours, maybe less if you don’t stop.”
His fingers tighten briefly on the window frame, then let go. He takes one step back. “He loves you. He only did this to save you.”
Then he walks away.
Just like that.
I don’t think. I don’t blink. I shove the door open and climb over into the driver’s seat, one knee landing hard on the gearshift. My fingers are slippery. I can’t breathe. I jab the ignition. The engine kicks alive.
My hands are shaking.
The wheel feels too wide. The air is too hot. My foot slams the pedal and the tires screech out of the lot.
I drive.
I can barely see the lines on the road. My chest pulls so tight I feel like I’m going to vomit. I bite the inside of my cheek. It doesn’t stop the tears. Nothing does.
They spill fast. I scream into the empty car— choked, all from the back of my throat—but I don’t slow down. I can’t. I hit the highway at full speed, windshield slick with city light and grief.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I keep them on the wheel. I drive through it.
****
After hours, the road bends into view of the estate.
Marrazzi Estate rises like a shadowed monolith against the horizon—elegant, endless, cruel. I see the front gates wide open. No hesitation. I don’t slow. I don’t blink.
I drive straight through.
Gravel sprays under my tires as I burst into the compound. Men start shouting. Shapes rush from the front steps—armed guards in black. I slam the brakes, and the car jerks to a stop. They pounce immediately.
I kick the driver’s door open hard—metal cracks against bone—and two bodies reel back. I’m already out before they recover. My hand finds the pepper spray and I aim fast—one, two, three men stagger back clutching their faces. I grab the gun tucked in my waistband. Men drop.
But there are more.
Rough hands seize my arms. One grabs my waist. Another wrests the gun from my fingers.
“Enough!” a voice snaps from behind them.
They freeze. The grip on me loosens, and the men part without another word.
Matteo steps through.
His shirt is open at the collar, gun still visible at his side, eyes unreadable. But he gives a single nod.
“She’s the third heir,” he says flatly. “Unhand her.”
They let go immediately.
I step forward, rage and heartbreak turning my vision to glass, and I slap him. Hard. My palm stings.
He doesn’t flinch. “I deserved that.”
“Where is he?” My voice is raw. My chest won’t stop heaving.
Matteo looks toward the house. “In the study. With them.”
“Take me.”
He bows slightly. “This way.”
He walks fast, but I walk faster. My boots echo against polished stone. The hallways are grand, dark-paneled and cold, filled with the quiet stink of old money and betrayal.
At the carved double doors, he lifts a hand to knock.
I don’t wait.
I raise my foot and kick the door open.
It slams into the wall with a bang.
Four heads turn.
Mina. Maksim. Two suited lawyers.
And him— Severo —seated at the head of the long table, pen in hand, poised above a set of papers. He looks up.
I walk.
Straight to him.
He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me like I’m something far away, like he’s already convinced himself I can’t be real.
I reach the table.
His hand twitches at the edge of the paper.
I grab the document—the contract, the betrayal—and tear it in half. The sound rips through the room like thunder.
Gasps behind me.
Then I lift my hand and slap him, hard, across the face.
His jaw shifts with the impact. His head turns. But he doesn’t retaliate. He just stares back at me. And breathing like I’ve just torn something inside him.