Chapter 16 Beatrice
BEATRICE
The apartment is dark when I unlock the door, that familiar hush settling over me the moment I step inside.
The air feels different somehow—too still, too heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.
The faint warmth from the wine I drank earlier lingers in my veins, but beneath it sits the unmistakable weight of what I did tonight, what I allowed myself to feel, what I allowed myself to want.
Matteo Davacalli cannot come near me again. If he does, I won’t survive it.
Not my resolve. Not my future. Not the carefully packed lie of a life I’m barely holding together.
I drop my purse on the counter with a dull thud and press my elbows onto the cool stone surface, letting my head hang for just a moment, willing myself to breathe, to think, to regain even a sliver of control.
“Long day?”
The voice slices through the dark, and I jolt back two full steps, hand flying to my chest as my pulse spikes painfully.
My eyes snap toward the piano, toward the faint outline of a fresh box of roses sitting where there had been nothing this morning.
And then I see him.
Giacomo sits on the piano bench, tucked into the shadows like something coiled and patient, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze fixed on me with the kind of stillness that makes my skin crawl.
“Giacomo,” I manage, my voice thin. “I thought…You’re early.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile. He simply watches me with the unblinking calm of a predator assessing the moment before it strikes.
“I had an early flight,” he says, his tone quiet and cool enough to slide under my skin.
“I couldn’t wait to see you. I missed my fiancée.
” His eyes sharpen, cutting straight through whatever composure I’m trying to gather.
“Though it seems I cannot say the same for you, cara. Out of sight, out of mind… isn’t that how the saying goes? ”
My heartbeat turns violent, thundering in my chest, flooding my limbs with tingling adrenaline. Every instinct flares—run, freeze, placate. The air feels poisonous, thick with the implication beneath his words.
I force my legs to move, turning away under the guise of busying myself, pulling open the refrigerator just to have something solid between us.
“You must be exhausted. Let me make you something. Coffee, maybe… or tea? Your flight was long, I’m sure.
I can cook too, if you want. Carbonara? I’ve been practicing.
I think I finally perfected the recipe.”
I turn, trying a smile I can’t feel, but it withers the moment I meet his eyes.
They are narrow. Cold. Accusatory. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight with something dark and coiled.
And I know, without him saying a word, that he didn’t come home early to see me.
He came home early because something is wrong. He came home early because he suspects.
“Giacomo?” I swallow hard, forcing my voice into something resembling calm. “Is something wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just watches me.
His eyes track every twitch of my fingers, every shift of my weight, every breath I take, as if he’s cataloging the smallest betrayal, as if he’s waiting for even a flicker of guilt to give him permission to explode.
The silence between us stretches too long, too tight, coiled with an anticipation that turns my skin cold.
Stay calm, I tell myself. But my pulse is already pounding in my throat.
“Where were you?” he asks finally. His voice is low, deceptively even.
Almost calm. Almost.
I’ve had enough time to see past the version of him he shows the world. There is a pot simmering beneath his ribs, a slow, controlled boil, and if I want to avoid the scalding eruption, I need to move carefully. Very carefully.
“I went out with friends,” I say, keeping my voice steady by sheer force. “I needed air.”
“Air.” He repeats the word slowly as he rises from the piano bench, each vertebra aligning with eerie precision. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Your phone was off. So was your location, cara.”
My stomach sinks. “I was with my friends, Giacomo. Old school friends who came into the city.”
He steps closer.
And with every step he takes, something inside me drops a little lower, like a stone sinking in cold water. The room shrinks. The tension thickens. The air tightens.
“Which friends?” he presses, voice soft but deadly. “And why have I never heard of them?”
“You never asked.”
Wrong answer.
“Don’t be smart with me, Beatrice.” His voice sharpens, slicing clean through the distance between us until only a breath remains. I can smell the sharp bite of his cologne, the scent of airports and anger. “Where were you?”
“I told you. I was out with friends because I needed—”
He moves.
Fast.
Too fast for me to even brace.
His hand clamps around my wrist with a violent snap of pressure, fingers digging in hard enough to send a bolt of pain up my arm. My breath catches in my chest as he yanks me closer, his face inches from mine, eyes wide with something dark and unhinged.
“Giacomo—” I hiss, stumbling back until my spine meets the counter. “You’re hurting me.”
But the words don’t soften him. They sharpen him.
His grip tightens, twisting my wrist, pain spiking so sharply I gasp. “Do you think I’m a fool?” he growls, teeth barely parting.
“Let go of me. Giacomo,” I manage, my voice tight with pain. “Let go— you’re hurting my wrist. Stop—”
He doesn’t stop.
The hurt doesn’t deter him. It feeds him.
He doesn’t let go—not completely—but the pressure on my wrist eases enough for the sharpest pain to ebb.
I try to pull back, to reclaim even a sliver of space, but he steps in with me, closing the distance until his chest almost brushes mine.
His breath fans across my cheek, hot and furious, dragging a cold shiver straight down my spine.
“Do you see this?” He lifts my left hand sharply, forcing the ring inches from my face.
The diamond glints in the low light like an accusation.
“You wear my ring. You are my woman. That means your safety is my responsibility. You don’t just ignore my calls and vanish.
” His voice deepens, darkens. “I have enemies in every corner of this city. They know who you are now. They know what you mean to me. They know how to strike if they want to.” A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“I refuse to lose you the way I lost my mother.”
The words are shaped like concern, but nothing about the man holding me looks concerned. He looks volatile. He looks dangerous. He looks like the room is one breath away from detonating.
“Giacomo.” My voice is low, a warning without much force behind it. “Let. Me. Go.”
He doesn’t.
Seconds stretch.
My pulse hammers. He still doesn’t move.
“Let me go, Giacomo.” I repeat it, firmer this time.
Nothing.
So I take his thumb in my free hand and wrench it back, hard. He hisses through his teeth, his grip breaking just enough for me to tear my wrist out of his hold.
He steps back, only half a step, but it’s enough to see something flicker across his face—surprise, brief and sharp, like he didn’t think I’d ever fight him.
I lift my chin. I meet his stare without wavering. I pull every buried shard of anger and fear and humiliation I’ve been swallowing for months and let them settle over me like armor. I refuse to shrink. I refuse to break. I refuse to let him see the part of me that still trembles.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m not an object for you to throw around. I am a person, Giacomo—not your rag doll, not your possession.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
When he makes no move to leave I steel my spine and hold my ground. I will not allow him to push me down anymore. He has not earned my submission; he took it from me forcibly. And now, I’m taking it back.
“You need to leave,” I repeat. “Or I will call security and have you removed. This is my home.”
The instant the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve struck a nerve. A dangerous one.
His jaw clenches, the anger in his eyes shifting from simmer to something cold and electric. The air tightens as if the room itself is bracing for impact. We stand locked in a silent standoff, the tension pressing against our chests like a physical weight.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at me, furious, calculating, and for the briefest moment… something else. Something softer. Something like respect warped into something far more dangerous.
And still, neither of us breaks. Neither of us blinks. Neither of us breathes. We hover on the edge of something that could break either way—peace if I am lucky, violence if I am not.
I brace myself for the worst.
A part of me even thinks of the man downstairs, the one I left in a utility closet with his hands on my body and his mouth on mine. If Matteo is home, all I need to do is scream. He’ll come. At least I hope he will.
But then Giacomo blinks.
And just like that, the fury drains from his face, vanishing so abruptly it leaves a hollow ache in its wake.
He straightens, smoothing his shirt, forcing his muscles to relax in movements so precise and mechanical they feel unnatural—like he’s wrestling himself back into the mask he wears for the world.
“I think we need some space from each other, cara mia,” he says, voice soft, almost tender. He takes a step toward me. I take one back. He notices. He stops.
“I’m sorry for what I did, my love. I should have never been so harsh. I should have never handled you like that.” His voice thickens with practiced remorse. “You are my delicate flower, amore mio. I only worry for your well-being.”
He reaches for me, and I step back again. His hand drops, and for a moment he looks wounded, as if I’m the one who’s wronged him.
“Bea…”
“Just go.” My voice is calm, steady, final. “Please. I need to rest. It’s been a long day.”