Chapter 18 DOLL
XVIII. DOLL
I was back in my jeans and black top, wearing his leather jacket as the night suddenly became even colder. On the back was written House of Clowns with a splash of red, green, and orange, and a clown in the middle.
He let me go with a promise that I would be back. I didn’t promise it because I had nowhere to go anymore. I did it because he had become my home. In a short time, he became what I needed and what I wanted all along.
When I reached the house, only the kitchen light was on.
Even though it was still a day, the rain outside made everything dark.
I rushed inside, and as I opened the door, a familiar scent touched my nose.
It’s true that smell can trigger memories, and this one pulled out the trauma I had been trying to bury.
I looked around. Something was wrong. Christian and Carlo weren’t home, but when I walked to the counter, I saw a small note.
Please call when you get home, Sophie.
The paper was crumpled, like someone had squeezed it tight, and the edges were stained, as if it had been sitting there for days.
Still, I picked up the phone. My fingers shook as I dialed Sophie’s number. It rang a couple of times before she finally answered.
“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s me.”
There was a sharp breath on the other end. “Oh my God, Chiara. You’re alive.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “There’s so much to tell you. Wanna come over?”
She sighed. “I had to go back to Chicago,” she said. “Tristan got this new job and I had to go with him.”
My chest tightened. “When are you coming back?”
She sighed. “I don’t know,” her voice started to break. “I hate it here.” I heard her sniff before she tried to speak again. “I wanted to tell you...”
But I cut her off. “Do you know where Carlo is?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said, her voice shaking. “Your father,” she whispered, “he’s out.”
My heart started pounding so fast that I could hear the ringing in my ears. She only knew about one of my fathers, and it wasn’t Rocco. It was the same man my mother had tried to escape from. The same man who used to beat me and Carlo. And now he was free.
“Christian took Carlo, and they went to Rome after he beat Carlo with a stick,” she said.
My throat tightened. “Is he...” I could barely breathe. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice low. “But Christian finally realized how stupid he was and ran with him to Rome. His old friend helped them out.”
I nodded, exhaling as if that could steady me.
“Wherever you were, just go back,” she said quickly. “You’re not safe.”
In the background, I heard Tristan calling her name.
“I gotta go,” she said. “But promise me you’ll be safe.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, my voice cracking. “I promise.”
She was about to say something else, but the line went dead.
I turned around slowly, my stomach twisting. My father was standing there with a length of cord hanging from his hand. He smiled as he raised the knife and sliced the cord in half.
“Well, well, well,” he shouted. “Who do we have here?”
Nico Serra. The man who raised me. The man I thought for a long time was my dad.
Every time he hit me, I told myself he didn’t know better, that it was the alcohol talking.
But when I escaped, when he went to jail for domestic abuse, and when I found out he wasn’t even my biological father, there was nothing left to stop me from hitting back.
Carlo and Christian were his. I never was. He knew that deep down, and that’s why the beatings I got were worse. That never changed the truth of what he was. A monster raised me, and I called him Dad.
His words always made me weak, and for years, I thought it was tough love. But that’s what happens when you grow up in an abusive home. You don’t know any different. You either survive or you sink deeper.
Blood or not, a parent should never hit a child. A parent isn’t a parent when they decide that blows and pain can teach a lesson, when the only lesson you ever needed was love.
People like that don’t deserve children. They don’t deserve anyone. But life isn’t fair. We learn to live with it, but we never forget. It cuts into old scars until it becomes a wound that may never heal.
Scars can make you or break you. I chose to wear mine like a beauty mark. Because that’s who I am. A better person.
He lunged forward, and before I could move, his hand wrapped around my throat. His grip tightened until I couldn’t breathe. Then he shoved me to the floor. I tried to crawl back, but his boot came down between my ribs.
I coughed hard, pain tearing through my chest. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragging me across the floor toward the kitchen. I clawed at the cabinets, trying to grab something, anything, but every time I reached out, his fist found my face.
My vision blurred. My body started to give up.
Then a knife fell from the counter. I grabbed it, my fingers slick with sweat, and when he leaned in, I drove it into his leg.
He groaned in pain. “You little bitch!” he shouted, grabbing my wrist and slamming me against the cabinet.
I wasn’t done. He dropped the knife on the counter, and I snatched it again, my head spinning, vision pulsing red.
I lunged forward and plunged it into his neck.
He stumbled back with his eyes wide, his hands clutching the handle as blood ran down his chest and shoulders. Then he dropped to his knees.
I reached for the pot on the stove, lifted it with both hands, and swung. The metal cracked against his face.
He fell and became still.
My arms shook. My eyes blurred again. The kitchen started to spin.
I hit the floor, feeling the cold tile against my cheek, and everything went dark.
My eyes opened, and through the window I saw it was already night. I tried to sit up, but my body felt like it was made of lead. Every muscle burned. I looked at the clock. Just after seven in the evening. I needed to call someone for help.
But the only person I thought was Rocco.
I would call him. This time not ask for Rio’s burial site, because I knew he was alive. This time, it would be a favor he couldn’t refuse. I wanted Nico gone. For good.
I reached for the phone, but the cord hung loose from the wall. My pulse kicked harder. Then I remembered there was another phone in Christian’s room.
I dragged myself toward the stairs. Every bone screamed as I climbed. When I finally reached the room, I pushed the door open and saw the phone on the nightstand.
I crossed the floor, picked it up, and dialed Rocco’s number. The phone didn’t even ring once before he answered.
“You owe me a favor,” I said, clutching my stomach.
“Chiara?” His voice was surprised, then he gave a short laugh. “What do you mean?”
“You found out who owns House of Clowns,” I said. “You sold me to him.” My voice rose, anger cutting through the pain. “And you knew all along Rio was alive.”
Silence. Then a sigh.
“You have to understand,” he said. “I did it to protect you. If the Family had known you were still walking around, they would have taken you out. You’re dangerous for them.”
“Whatever,” I said flatly, swallowing every weak excuse he offered.
“How do you know Rio is alive?” he asked, his tone shifting. “No one knows that.”
“And it will stay that way if you help me,” I said.
He paused. “What do you need?”
“I...” I took a shaky breath. “I killed Nico.” My back straightened, but pain shot through every limb. “I want you to get rid of the body.”
He laughed quietly. “Didn’t know you had it in you, kid.” His voice turned low. “Proud of you.”
“Will you help me or not?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been in La Maddalena for a day already. I can be there in an hour.”
I nodded to myself, even though he couldn’t see me. “I’ll wait here.”
One hour had passed, and he still wasn’t here. The clock kept ticking, and all I could think about was how I had to go back. I promised Oscar I would return by midnight, and I needed to keep that promise. He was already broken enough, and I couldn’t let him think I had left for good.
He was the only person I could come back to. There was nothing left for me here. I belonged with him.
A door swung open downstairs. I could hear someone coming through the hall. I reached the top of the staircase and froze. Rocco was already in the kitchen, and beside him stood a familiar face.
“Rio,” I whispered.
The sound of his name barely left my lips before the flood hit me. All the anger, grief, and need for him that I buried came crashing back. No matter how much I hated that he let me believe he was dead, I still needed that closure.
My body hurt, but somehow I forced myself down the stairs. When I reached him, standing there in jeans and a black hoodie, I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped my arms around him.
He stood still for a moment, then leaned into me, pulling me closer.
But instead of the words I had hoped for, all I got was a soft chuckle.
“Oh,” he said lightly, “do I know you?”
I stepped back.
He didn’t remember.
He hadn’t stayed away because he didn’t want me. He stayed away because he couldn’t remember me at all. A tear slipped down my cheek, and my heart split in two. Half of me wanted to stay and find out what happened, and the other half wanted to run back to Oscar before everything shattered again.
They say it’s better not to know, but sometimes not knowing is what eats you alive. It never really leaves you. It stays, gnawing at you, forever.
I turned to Rocco. “He doesn’t remember?”
He lifted Nico’s body, glancing at me. “Not a thing.” Then he looked toward Rio. “A little help, boy.”
“How?” I asked, staring at them as Rio brushed past my side.
“No clue,” Rocco groaned.
Rio didn’t meet my eyes. Something was off. I could feel it deep in my chest. I reached out and touched his shoulder.
“Can we talk?” I whispered.
He nodded, but his face was blank.
My gut twisted into knots, my mind racing with questions I didn’t want the answers to.
They lifted the body together, Rocco holding him under the arms while Rio grabbed his legs. They carried him outside, moving like nothing happened. No one would question it. No one ever cared enough to.
To them, Nico was just another drunk who had passed out.
When they came back in, they carried a few bags from the car. They set them down and pulled out bleach and cleaning supplies.
“Little help?” Rocco said.
He spoke like I wasn’t bruised and half broken. I dropped my gaze and nodded, forcing myself to move. My brave little me, I was earlier, was gone again, slipping away like it always did.