Chapter Thirteen – Cassian
I’ve walked past this door five times.
Each time, slower.
Each time, closer.
Now I stand just outside it. Again.
Her door is shut. No sound beyond it. No breath. Nothing.
My palm hovers above the wood. I don’t knock.
My fingers curl instead, pressing into the side of my thigh.
She hasn’t left the room since we returned from the dunes. Since she asked if I could love her and then kissed me like she didn’t need the answer.
Since I didn’t give one.
The door creaks.
I freeze.
It opens only halfway.
And then—
She stands there barefoot, one hand still on the knob, the other tangled in the lace hem of the gown clinging to her like spun air. Ivory, loose at the shoulders. Thigh-high slit that sways open with her sway. The fabric is soft enough to be transparent in the light. Her skin is flushed—not blush, but heat. Fever. A blooming rose that crawls up her throat.
Her eyes are puffy, red-rimmed. Like she’s been crying or dreaming too deep.
Her mouth parts—dry, too dry—and she starts to speak.
“Cassian—”
I’m already there.
My hand lifts—instinct, not thought—and presses to her forehead. Thumb brushing aside a damp strand of hair stuck to her temple. Her skin scorches beneath my palm.
She flinches slightly, but I don’t move. She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”
But her legs shift like she’s bracing herself against gravity. Her gown slips down one shoulder. My eyes follow the line of her collarbone, the way it pulls tight like a string straining to hold her upright.
She tries again.
“I just need to rest—”
Then her stomach growls. The sound ricochets between us, oddly alive in the stillness. She stiffens.
I raise a brow.
She scowls.
“I’m fine.”
My hand drops from her face. I take her fingers—too warm, too limp—and turn gently, guiding her down the hall. Her pace stutters, but she doesn’t resist. She lets me lead her like she’s too tired to argue. Or maybe because she knows I won’t let her fall.
We reach the kitchen.
The maids see me before the door finishes opening. Their chatter dies mid-word. One drops a spoon. Another jerks upright so fast her apron whips sideways. Eyes widen. Back straighten.
I raise one hand. They scatter.
Not out of fear, exactly.
But they know what I am when I enter a room without shoes, without gloves, without guards.
Elaria eyes the table like it’s too far. I pull a chair out for her and she sinks into it with an exhale, hand flattening over her stomach.
I move to the counter.
Pancakes.
I reach for the cast iron pan, lifting it with one hand as my other grabs the bananas—three, ripe, dark-flecked. Butter hisses the second it hits the heat. I slice the fruit thin, fingers moving from memory.
Flour. One cup.
Eggs. Two
Milk. Not too much—just enough to keep it thick.
Baking powder. Salt. A touch of vanilla.
I mash the banana in a bowl, mix it with the egg, and whip in the dry. The pan smokes. I swirl butter and pour. The batter spreads in a perfect circle. The sizzle is sharp. Familiar. Like the sound of guns too close but harmless if they’re yours.
The second pancake hits the skillet. Then the third.
Behind me, she sighs softly. I don’t look.
Juice. I pour orange into a glass, cold enough that the frost clings to the sides. Set it beside her. She blinks, then sips. Like her throat isn’t quite hers.
I plate the first stack. Three pancakes, golden-edged, layered with banana slices and a drizzle of honey from the jar on the top shelf.
I turn just in time to see her watching me.
The fork clinks.
She takes a bite.
Then another.
Then—A body enters like it owns space.
Lorenzo.
Shirtless. Joggers slung low. Hair damp. A smear of shaving cream still clinging to his jaw.
He stops halfway in.
Eyes widen.
One brow lifts. Then the smirk follows.
“Well,” he drawls. “Am I dreaming, or is Custode delle the second making breakfast?” He crosses his arms. “Did I miss an apocalypse?”
I reach behind me, plate in hand.
Slide it toward him.
Three pancakes. No honey.
He blinks once. Then takes it.
Shuts up.
I walk to the table.
I sit. Beside her.
“I’m fine,” she says without looking at me.
She’s not. Her lips are pale around the edges, and the heat hasn’t left her cheeks since we stepped in.
Across the kitchen, Lorenzo smirks into his fork. The scratch of his knife is loud in the hush. He tears into the pancakes like a man delighted by domestic theater.
The side door creaks open. One of the internal men—Luca. He’s out of breath. He leans down, whispers something behind Lorenzo’s shoulder.
Lorenzo’s expression sours like milk in the sun. The fork stills mid-air. His gaze sharpens.
“Dante,” he says aloud, eyes flicking to me. “He’s here.”
She’s already pale, but she pales further.
Lorenzo’s voice softens. “We have maybe a minute. He could search. She can’t go to her room.”
A maid appears—silent, summoned by instinct, not command.
Elaria stands, shaky. I don’t need to say anything. She understands.
Lorenzo nods to the far panel near the wine cellar. The maid opens it and Elaria disappears behind her, eyes catching mine for just a second.
My uncle walks in an unbuttoned coat, silver rings gleaming. His eyes scan the room like it offends him simply by existing.
He’s not alone.
The woman at his side is younger—early twenties. Dark silk blouse. Short hair styled into an asymmetrical cut that draws attention to the sharpness of her cheekbones. Eyes kohl-lined, mouth glossed red. Beautiful in the way paintings are: curated, expensive.
She doesn’t look at me.
She looks around like she’s already bored.
Uncle sits. Doesn’t wait to be invited. He serves himself the pancakes—three—and begins to eat.
He gestures with his fork. “This is Amara. She’s from the Del Fiore family. They’ve been loyal for three generations.” The girl finally glances at me. “She’ll be your wife.”
The sentence lands with no inflection.
He chews.
“Enough time has passed since the Fontanesi girl.”
He says it like he’s naming a dead horse. Not a person.
“You’ve grieved,” he continues. “Fine. I tolerated it. But this… silence?” He wipes his mouth, calm as ever. “It’s indulgent. It’s childish.”
My jaw clenches.
His gaze sharpens. “All we have is business now, Cassian. You know that. You were raised in it. We don’t bleed for ghosts.”
He leans back in the chair.
“Maybe you can stop playing mute and speak. It’s getting tiring.”
Then, like that, he stands. Fixes his cuff. Nods toward Amara.
“She’ll stay. Get to know each other. I trust you’ll be polite.”
He’s out the door before the echo finishes.
Lorenzo lingers behind him, mouth quirking.
He disappears too. Amara steps forward.
She circles the table, her heels soft against the tiles. She stops in front of me and tilts her head.
“You don’t have to speak,” she says. “I’m good at listening.”
She takes a step closer. Fingers graze the edge of my shirt sleeve.
“You don’t even have to look at me,” she murmurs. “I don’t need words.”
Her hand skims my chest.
I stop it. She doesn’t recoil.
Instead, she slides forward again—closer this time—like it’s a dance and I haven’t quite learned the steps. She places a knee on the edge of the chair beside mine.
I jerk up, one hand on her hip—guiding, not bruising. The other on her wrist.
I move her. To the door. The scrape of footsteps come behind us. A soft cough. A body too tired to mask its own presence.
I turn. Elaria.
Still feverish. Still barefoot. She stops at the threshold, mouth parted.
Amara turns too. Smiles faintly. Then—
She kisses me. Like she’s planting a flag.
I don’t kiss back. I grab her wrist.
This time, it’s less gentle. I shove the door open behind her and push her through.
Her heels scrape against the stone.
The door slams shut and I walk over to Elaria, worried.
She takes one step back. Just enough to draw a line.
“I heard him.” Her voice is soft. No edge. “Maybe he’s right.”
It doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like surrender.
“You shouldn’t be doing this with a fugitive.”
The word twists in her mouth. Fugitive. Like she’s trying it out. Seeing how it tastes when applied to herself.
“I can’t keep hiding like this,” she continues. Her voice is steady, but her fingers aren’t—she keeps flexing them. Opening and closing her hands like she can’t get the blood to move right.
Her eyes flick toward the door behind me.
“Can I talk to Allegra?”
Her eyes meet mine again. She’s trying to sound clinical. Like its logistics. But her voice is fraying at the edges.
I move toward her again. This time, I reach for her hands.
She lets me touch them. For a breath.
Then pulls away like I burned her.
She stares at my fingers like they betrayed her.
“I’m not my sister, Cas. She lives in me—I know that. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there. When I dream, when I feel—sometimes it’s her.”
Her voice tightens.
“But I am not her. I’m not her,” she says again, softer. “And I will never be the woman you loved.”
I want to deny it. But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
Her expression doesn’t change. But her body does. Shoulders pull in. Elbows tighten toward her ribs. Her chin lifts just slightly, and that’s what breaks me—
That she’s trying to look composed even now.
“It’s my sister you want.”
She says it plain. No war in her voice.
“Isn’t it?”
The part of me that used to belong to Giovanna still hums when Elaria speaks with that cadence. Still aches when she smiles without meaning to. Still wants to reach for her when she flinches.
But it’s not Giovanna who came barefoot into my kitchen. It’s not Giovanna who stood in lace and firelight, asking me if I could love her and not just her ghost.
A tear streaks down Elaria’s cheek. She turns.
She disappears down the hall.
I follow without thinking, chest heaving, fists clenched at my sides, every step slamming into the floor like a threat I don’t know how to voice.
She throws the door open. Tears on her cheeks. Eyes like fucking fire.
“Leave me alone,” she screams, voice shattering down the hall.
She goes to slam the door but I’m already there—hand on the wood, pushing it open with my shoulder. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t want me here. I am here. I have to be.
She stares at me, bare feet planted, chest heaving, body trembling. Her hands are fists at her sides. Anger and pain and grief written into every tense line of her. Her face wet. Her eyes red. And so fucking beautiful I can’t breathe.
I cross the room.
And I kiss her.
I kiss her hard—mouth open, tongue sliding past her lips, stealing the breath from her lungs before she can use it to push me away. My hands come up to her cheeks, wet with tears, and I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling through the floor.
Her hands press to my chest—pushing. Then pulling.
I kiss her deeper.
She moans, low and raw and ragged, and then shoves me back—not to end it, but to take control. She grabs the thin straps of her lace nightgown and yanks them down her arms, strips the whole thing off in one motion and lets it drop to the floor at her feet.
My breath stops.
Her body is all glowing skin and sharp breath. Breasts flushed and bouncing with each rise of her chest. Her nipples hard, taut, begging. The curve of her waist narrowing to her hips, her stomach trembling, thighs tight. Her cunt is already slick between her legs, the shine of it catching in the low light, and my cock throbs hard enough to ache.
She crashes into me again, mouth devouring mine, hands clawing at my shirt, trying to rip it open. I let her. I let her do whatever she needs.
Because she could tear me apart right now, and I’d let her.
Her tongue tangles with mine. Wet, frantic, desperate. I can taste the salt of her tears and the fire in her breath, and her body presses into mine like she’s trying to burn away everything we can’t say.
We’re both breathing like we’ve just come back from war.
Her mouth is still on mine when I grab her thighs and lift her—bare skin hot in my hands, legs wrapping instinctively around my waist. She gasps into my mouth, nails digging into my shoulders, but I’m already moving.
The table is a blur in the corner of my eye—papers, books, glass, scattered clutter—and I don't hesitate. I get there in three steps, turn, and sweep everything off the surface with one arm. The sound of it crashing to the floor is nothing compared to the sound she makes when I set her down, ass to wood, legs still spread, breath coming in ragged bursts.
I grip her knees and open her.
Her cunt is flushed, glistening—dripping with fury and want. I drop to my knees without a word. Without a fucking thought.
She tries to speak, maybe curse, maybe beg, but her head snaps back and her hands fly to the edge of the table the second my mouth hits her.
I devour her.
Tongue flat, wide, licking up every drop like I’m starving. I groan into her, the sound vibrating against her clit, and she shudders—hips bucking, thighs clamping around my head for one wild second before she breaks apart all over again.
I grab her thighs, pull them wider, hold her open as I bury my face between her legs. I suck her clit between my lips, tongue flicking. She’s soaked.
Every part of her is slick and needy, and I lap at her like I’m claiming territory. I push my tongue into her pussy, fucking her with it, tongue-fucking her deep, and she screams—not a word, just raw sound, her voice breaking as she arches off the table, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising like she can’t get enough air.
Her thighs are still trembling when I rise from between them, lips wet, breath hot. I grab her by the waist—rough, urgent—and lift her off the table.
She gasps, but doesn’t fight it.
Her arms wrap around my neck instinctively, her legs around my hips, and I carry her across the room without stopping, without a word. Her skin is flushed and sweating against mine, her chest heaving against my sternum, and all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and her breath dragging in shallow, wrecked gasps.
I reach the wall and turn her in my arms.
I pin her there—chest to plaster, palms spread wide beside her face. Her back arches, ass pressing against me, still slick, still open. I step back just long enough to shove my pants down. They drop to the floor with a dull thud.
My cock is throbbing. So hard it hurts.
I grab her hips, tilt her forward slightly, and thrust into her in one deep, merciless stroke.
She gasps—loud, high, broken—and I groan as her pussy clamps down around me, tight, wet, dragging me deeper with every inch. Her body jerks against the wall, cheek pressing to it, nails scraping across the paint.
I grip her hip with one hand, the other reaching around her front. I slide it up, palm dragging across her stomach, over her ribs, until I find her breasts. I grab one, full and heavy in my hand, and pinch her nipple hard between two fingers.
Her ass bounces against my hips with every movement, her body pinned by mine, her cheek smeared against the wall as I fuck her from behind with everything I’ve been holding back.
I lean in—mouth at her shoulder, her neck—and I kiss her there, open-mouthed and hungry. I bite gently. Then harder. My teeth sink just enough to make her flinch, to make her moan, to make her melt under me completely.
I’m fully inside her.
Thrusting, cock grinding into her with every movement. My hand twists her nipple harder, rolls it, then moves to the other, tugging, teasing, while my hips keep driving into her from behind.
Her body tightens against me—sudden, trembling, pulling me in like a wave crashing against rock. I feel the moment she shatters. Her pussy clenches around my cock in hard, wet pulses, milking me with each wave, hips jerking into mine as she comes.
The sound she makes—half-cry, half-moan—is strangled by the wall, her cheek pressed flat, fingers clawing the plaster.
And then I explode inside her—groaning, forehead dropping to the back of her neck, hips grinding deep as I spill into her. My cock twitches inside her with every pulse, cum flooding her, thick and hot and endless. I grip her hip so tightly I feel her flinch—but I can’t let go. Not yet.
My chest heaves against her spine. I stay there.
Inside her.
Breathing hard.
Letting her hold me up without even realizing she is.
Then—
She pushes me away.
I stumble back a step, still breathless, still heavy with her scent, her taste, her heat on me. She walks without looking at me, bare feet silent against the floor, skin flushed and glowing with sex and rage. She picks up her nightgown from where it fell—a puddle of lace.
She pulls it over her body. Then she turns and meets my eyes.
“I’m not Giovanna.”
The words hit harder than the slam of the bathroom door that follows.
And I’m left there—panting, stained with everything I thought I wanted.
****
I don't see her again till it’s dinner time.
I’m already seated at the long dining table when I hear her steps on the marble.
She’s changed into something clean—a soft navy dress that falls just above her knees, long sleeves clinging gently to her arms. Her hair is brushed and pulled back low at the nape of her neck, a few strands loose at her temples. She looks better. Not pale. Not flushed. No fever in her eyes.
She doesn’t look at me.
I straighten in my chair. I wait for a glance. A flicker of acknowledgment.
She pulls the chair out. Sits across from me. Her hands are calm as she places her napkin in her lap.
The plates have already been set—roast lamb slices arranged beside roasted pumpkin, broccolini stacked like little spears, a dish of warm beetroot and feta. Fresh sourdough sits untouched between us.
She begins eating. I’m relieved she’s here. That the color has returned to her skin. That she’s eating. But her silence slices deeper than anything she’s said to me.
Every now and then, I glance up. She never looks up.
Then the door opens.
Lorenzo walks in, hand still on the latch, chest rising like he ran the last few steps. He’s wearing a gray tee and dark slacks, and his face is tight.
“You’re not going to believe it,” he says, still catching his breath. “Fausto’s at the gate.”
Elaria sets her fork down. She doesn’t speak.
Lorenzo continues. “He wants to search the house.”
I’m already pushing back from the table.
Lorenzo turns to the guard just inside the door. “Take her. Garden. Stay with her. Keep her out of sight.”
The guard nods. Moves quickly to Elaria’s side.
They slip through the far exit.
A minute later, the front doors open.
Fausto enters like he owns the room.
He’s wearing a dark wool coat buttoned at the waist. His silver hair is slicked back, and his beard is groomed to a sharp point at his chin. He has two men with him—one tall and silent, the other wide and heavy across the shoulders.
He smiles like we’re old friends about to drink to the good days.
“Ah,” he says, voice warm but eyes cold. “Sorry for the unannounced visit. I know how these things look.”
He steps further inside, scanning the room as if admiring the decor.
“But we’ve all agreed now, haven’t we?” His tone is pleasant. “Routine checks. Random searches. No one’s being targeted. I just need to find my niece.”
Lorenzo crosses his arms. His stance is casual, but his shoulders are tense. “She isn’t here.”
Fausto raises his eyebrows. He smiles wider.
“I’m sure she’s not. This is just a formality. Ticking boxes, you understand.”
“No,” Lorenzo says. “I don’t.”
Fausto’s grin tightens. He steps closer to the table, brushing a hand over the edge like he’s testing the grain of the wood.
“I could insist.”
I haven’t spoken. I haven’t moved. But my eyes are on him, steady. Unblinking.
He looks at me next. Holds my gaze for a beat too long. Then shrugs.
“You’re right,” he says, shaking his head as if chiding himself. “How disrespectful of me. I shouldn’t have come like this. Stupid, really.”
He turns, motioning to his men.
“Let’s go, boys. No need to stay where we’re not welcome.”
He’s still smiling as he walks out.
I don’t trust that smile.
Lorenzo doesn’t either.
The door closes behind them.
Lorenzo turns to the guard stationed at the wall. “Bring her back. Now.”
The guard nods and moves quickly.
We both stand there in silence. The dining room feels too quiet.
Footsteps return. The guard appears in the doorway.
He’s holding one thing in his hand.
A sandal. The one she had on her foot when she came down this evening.
Delicate. Thin leather.
He holds it up like it’s an answer.
“They’re not in the garden.”
Everything inside me goes still.
The chair crashes to the floor behind me. I’m down the corridor in seconds, boots striking the tile hard. The front doors blast open again, and the cold evening air hits my face.
My eyes scan the driveway.
Then I see it.
Far down the path. Red tail lights. A black sedan turning sharply onto the road.
Fausto.
Lorenzo catches up behind me.
“Shit,” he says, chest heaving. “He took her.”
I turn and run back inside. My keys. My gun.
I make it to the hallway and grab them both in one motion.
Lorenzo grabs my arm.
“Cassian—wait. Wait—listen.”
I shove him off.
“Stop.” His voice is sharp. “Listen to me. You can’t go after him like this.”
I don’t answer.
“You’ll walk into a trap,” he says. “You know how he plays. You run in now, and he wins. You want her back?”
I nod once.
“Then think,” he says. “Because Fausto won’t give her up without a war.”