Chapter 24 Besiana
Besiana
There are no dreams and no darkness, just the slow, silent drift into morning.
I'm alone in the bed, but he's here, Dom, leaning against the window with his eyes locked on me.
He looks like an avenging angel in this cold, sterile room.
I wrap the sheets tight around me, waiting for him to say something, anything.
When he tells me to get up, his voice is flat. "We missed breakfast. Dress warm."
No pet names. No cara, or Besa. Nothing soft. No sign of the man who held me last night. I try to read him, but his expression is a wall.
I should be glad he hasn’t disappeared on me again, like most other mornings.
Instead, there's a knot in my chest. I sit up and pull the blanket around me, remembering the shirt he tucked around my shoulders while I sobbed. How embarrassing. I wish I hadn’t cried like that, like a child. I wish I knew what he was thinking now.
"Are you mad at me?" It slips out, the pathetic whimper of it, before I can swallow the words.
His gaze flicks to me, sharp and bright. "No."
I wait for more, for anything. I don't get it.
When he says, "Dress," it sounds like an order, but a part of me wishes it were an invitation. He’s got the body of a Roman statue and the personality of one, too. He’s still watching me when he says, "I'll be downstairs," then turns away and leaves the door open behind him.
I dress quickly, struggling with the clasp on my bra, my fingers as clumsy as my thoughts.
Why didn’t he stay to watch me dress? I know he likes that.
I get the feeling this whole thing is a game of pretend, but I'm not very good at playing.
I look in the mirror. I look small. Out of place.
Like a little lost bird. Like my mother used to say when I followed my father from room to room, trailing him like a shadow.
I wish I hadn’t told Dom everything.
He's in the kitchen when I come down, telling the maid to prepare breakfast. The maid nods and then disappears behind the big white doors.
"The others are out for the day," he says, pulling a chair for me.
The table is heavy and polished, set for more people than we’ll ever have. I don’t think I’ll get used to that, the cold elegance of this house, the way every room echoes like an empty hall.
"So it’s just us?" My voice sounds unsure.
"And the staff." He takes the seat across from me, looks at his phone, then sets it face down on the table. "It’s better this way. Easier."
"For what?"
"Breakfast." His eyes catch mine, and he adds, "You aren’t ready for them yet." I know he means his family, and I can't argue with that. His brothers. The women. The noise and the laughter would all be too much for me today.
I’m relieved and lonely all at once. "Is this your way of letting me down easy?" I try to make it sound like a joke. He doesn’t answer.
The maid brings a tray, and I force myself to eat. Pancakes and bacon. Strong, hot coffee. I make little maps in the syrup with my fork. Each bite sticks in my throat.
Dom watches me, quiet and calculating. "We’re going to the lab today," he says finally.
"We?"
"You and me. I have business there, and I’m not leaving you alone." He says it like a fact. No emotion. Not yet.
My stomach twists. "I’ll be safe if I stay here."
"No." He pours himself another coffee. " I can’t trust you not to run off on another suicide mission. Besides, I want to show you the lab."
My breath hitches. He doesn’t know I’ve already been there, already seen the inside and spoken to Dr Clara Voss. He doesn’t know that I was the one who got the location of the ixaphorine out of the chemist and passed it on to Baba. That I’m to blame for the loss and the delays.
I want to ask how much he knows. I want to ask if he’s testing me.
What I say is, "I'd rather not."
"Why?"
It hangs between us, the question and my hesitation. I fidget with the mug and press my fingers to the warmth like it can thaw the frost in his words.
"I don’t want to meet the chemist." My voice is thin.
"I want you to," he says.
"But why—"
He stands abruptly, pushing the chair back. It scrapes across the floor. "Let’s go," he says, turning away, heading to the front door.
I follow him, each step more uncertain than the last. He takes my coat and holds it for me. I shrug into it, biting my lip.
It’s the coat he bought for me, the Italian one I wore to my father’s yesterday. Luxurious and soft, heavy on my shoulders. "What if I refuse?" I ask, testing.
His eyes darken. I know the answer.
I sigh and draw the fur tighter around me. It smells expensive. It smells like him.
We’re silent on the drive, the car warm and fast. Outside, New York is all gray skies and concrete. Crowds of people in dark coats, black umbrellas stabbing at the air. I watch them pass, watch the city blur around me.
When I can't stand the quiet anymore, I break it with my voice.
"Are you done with me?" It comes out too soft, too quick.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. "I'm not."
His words hold me, but I don't know how long I can believe them. We pull up to the dilapidated warehouse. The knot in my chest tightens, a hard, urgent pulse.
"I’ll stay in the car," I say before he can argue.
"No."
"Yes," I insist. "Please. Just this once."
"Besiana—"
"I don’t want to go inside." I twist the coat in my lap. I know I'm being a coward, but I don't care. If Clara lets on she’s already met me, it will raise questions I can’t answer without giving away my part in the warehouse raid. "Please."
I watch him struggle with it, watch the hesitation. The suspicion. He’s searching my face, the way he did last night, like he’s waiting for me to lie.
His hand lingers on the door handle. "Fine," he says, and his voice is clipped, harsh. Like it pains him to give in. "Stay here. Don't move."
The door shuts hard, and he beeps the doors locked. I see him in the rearview mirror, his broad shoulders, his quick, determined stride. I’m not used to men walking away from me. I watch until he disappears, the dark suit of him swallowed by the brighter bodies on the street.
I slump back against the seat and press my fingers to my temple. The panic fades, replaced by another fear, just as insistent, just as big. My father’s words press against the inside of my skull:
"There are consequences to every choice, Besiana."
Each word is a bullet. Each word is a weight around my neck.
I want to scream at Baba to shut up, but he isn't here.
Just my own thoughts, my own relentless mind.
And my father's words. There are consequences to every choice, that much has never been clearer.
When I chose to betray Domenico. When I chose to betray my father.
When I chose to let myself believe Dom wanted me for more than a peace deal and a body to bury his secrets in.
Now, I have betrayed everybody I was ever close to and have nobody left. Baba also warned me about that:
"Betrayal has a way of catching up to you, Besiana."
And it feels like my betrayal is closing in on me, circling me, squeezing the air from my lungs.
Like everything I've done is coming back to haunt me.
Like the dreams that wake me in the night, Dom's voice, his fury, the bed cold and empty when morning comes.
My veneer of safety, the words Dom shouted as he thrust into me that first time we had sex, stop feeling quite so safe.
Perhaps Baba is right about that too: that Domenico is using me.
"Do you think he loves you, Besiana?"
I shiver and check the time. Twenty minutes. What’s taking so long. What is Dom doing in there?
I close my eyes and see his face last night, the fury in his eyes and the unbreakable strength in his grip around my throat.
“If you aren’t loyal to me and my family, you don’t get to live. Do you understand?”
And after all the messes I made, I cried like a fool in his arms and spilled out all the secrets about Mami and Dritan that I’d never meant to tell.
"What kind of man does that to his own family?" He sounded so human, so warm when he asked.
"The kind you don't say no to." My voice was raw. Desperate.
Dom held me tighter. I felt like maybe I’d said yes to the right thing for once in my life.
Now I don't know what to think. He’s been so cold this morning, so distant. I can still feel the warmth of his arms around me last night, but maybe Dom is right—maybe none of it matters unless I am loyal to him and his family. Loyalty I’ve already shattered before it had a chance to build.
Maybe I’m just a pawn in his game. Maybe he doesn’t care what I told him. Maybe he only pretended to so he could use my confession to get back at Baba. Maybe he’s moving all the pieces into place while I sit here, waiting to see what he does next.
The air in the car is too hot. I shrug out of the coat and stare at the building until my vision blurs.
When Dom finally comes back, he looks different. Looser. Less restrained. There’s a new softness to his mouth. I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m just desperate enough to imagine it. He climbs into the car, says nothing, then starts the engine.
He doesn’t ask why I wouldn’t come in. He doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t say that Clara mentioned me, or that she told me where the warehouse was.
I pretend the silence means he doesn’t know.