Chapter 5
M y breathing finally settles, but my mind won't stop racing. The panic has receded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and… disappointment. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the reality of what just happened.
Two panic attacks in one night. After months of progress.
I drop my hands and stare at the floor. The therapy sessions, the breathing exercises, the carefully constructed routines I've built. All of it swept away in seconds when the bullets started flying. Then again in this room when the walls started closing in.
Daniel stands by the door again, rigid and distant after that moment of connection. I'm grateful he's not looking at me. I don't want to see pity in his eyes.
"I haven't had an attack in three months," I say, more to myself than to him. "Now I've had two in one night."
My voice sounds hollow in the small space. I pick at a loose thread on my dress, the beautiful Valentino that now bears bloodstains and torn seams. Just like me. Damaged goods trying to look whole.
"That's how it works sometimes," Daniel says, surprising me by responding. "One step forward, two steps back."
"That's not very encouraging."
He shrugs, still facing the door. "Truth rarely is."
I study his profile—the strong jaw, the focused eyes.
"I thought I was getting better," I whisper. "Really better."
"You are."
"Then why does it feel like I'm right back where I started?"
Daniel shifts his weight but doesn't turn. "Triggers stack. Combat zone, confined space, recent trauma. Anyone would struggle."
I consider this, rolling the idea around in my mind. It makes logical sense, but the fear lingers. I'll never truly heal, that I'll spend the rest of my life jumping at shadows and struggling to breathe.
"What if this is as good as it gets?" The question slips out before I can stop it, naked vulnerability I wouldn't normally show.
Daniel finally turns, his eyes meeting mine. No pity there, just steady understanding.
"It won't be."
The certainty in his voice wraps around me like a blanket. I want to believe him. I want to trust that this backslide is temporary, not permanent.
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"Because I've seen it." Something flickers across his face—a memory, perhaps. "The brain adapts. Learns new pathways. But it takes time."
I nod, letting his words sink in. There's comfort in hearing this from someone who's been there, not just read about it in a textbook.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of going backward. Of being that broken girl again."
"You were never broken." His voice is low, certain. "Wounded, maybe. There's a difference."
His words settle over me with a strange comfort. In this stark room, there's no room for pretense.
"You should rest." Daniel says, his voice softer than before.
I glance at the small cot against the wall with its thin mattress and scratchy-looking blanket. The thought of closing my eyes, of being vulnerable, makes my skin crawl.
"I don't think I can sleep." I tuck my feet under me on the chair. "Too wired."
Daniel nods, accepting this without argument. He shifts his weight, adjusting his stance by the door as if preparing for another long stretch of silence.
"I'm sorry for being difficult," I say, surprising myself. "I haven't exactly been easy to deal with tonight."
His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable passing across his face. "You've been fine."
A short laugh escapes me. "No, I haven't. But thanks for the polite lie."
When he doesn't respond, I fill the silence. "I know I can be... a lot. Especially now." I gesture vaguely at myself. "This isn't exactly my first time being difficult with security."
Daniel's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Remember that day at the beach house? When you and Matteo were assigned to me?" The memory rises unbidden - me sulking, snapping at them, deliberately trying to lose them on the boardwalk. "I was such a pain in the ass."
Something flickers across Daniel's face - the smallest change in his expression, there and gone in an instant.
"It wasn't like that," he says after a moment.
"It was exactly like that." I trace the pattern on the arm of the chair. "I was spoiled and entitled. I made your job harder on purpose."
Daniel shifts his weight again, his eyes moving back to the door. "You were just a kid who wanted some freedom."
"I was nineteen, hardly a kid." I tilt my head, studying him. "You and Matteo must have drawn straws to see who got stuck with babysitting duty."
His silence speaks volumes.
"That's what I thought." I smile, but there's no humor in it. "The Feretti princess throwing a tantrum because her brothers wouldn't let her go to Cancun with her friends."
Daniel's shoulders tense slightly. "That's not how we saw it."
"No?" I challenge.
He meets my gaze directly, his blue eyes intense. "No."
The single word hangs between us. He doesn't elaborate, doesn't try to explain further. Just that single, firm denial that somehow carries more weight than a lengthy explanation would have.
I want to press him, to ask what he means, how they did see it. But something in his expression stops me. There's a boundary there I'm not sure I should cross.
I keep my position by the door, eyes on the tiny red light of the security camera. Two hours have passed since our last conversation. Two hours of silence broken only by Lucrezia's occasional sighs and the soft sound of fabric shifting as she tried to get comfortable.
She finally gave up twenty minutes ago, curling onto her side with her head resting awkwardly against the mattress. Her breathing has deepened into the even rhythm of sleep, her face softened in a way I rarely see anymore.
My shoulders ache from standing in the same position for so long. I roll my neck, hearing the vertebrae crack, but keep my eyes on her. My hand twitches at my side with the urge to brush the strand of hair that's fallen across her face.
I clench my fist. Stay in position. That's not your place.
But my mind keeps circling back to our conversation earlier. The way she talked about herself at nineteen. The memory she brought up of the beach house detail.
She had it all wrong.
We never saw her as difficult. Not once.
What I remember is a young woman testing boundaries, yes, but also trying to carve out some normal life for herself. The youngest Feretti, the only daughter, with two overprotective brothers who ruled their world with an iron fist. How could she not push back?
I remember standing on the boardwalk, watching her laugh with a group of college kids she'd met that day. Just for a moment, she wasn't a mob princess with a security detail. She was just a girl making friends.
Fuck, it was logical. All of it. Her desire for freedom, for normalcy. Her frustration with the constant shadow of security. She'd done what any person would do in her situation. Tried to adapt, to build connections outside the gilded cage of her family.
I take a risk and step away from the door, moving closer to check on her. In sleep, her face shows traces of that nineteen-year-old girl—the one who smiled easily. The one who hadn't yet learned how cruel the world could be.
My hand moves before I can stop it, hovering inches from her face. I want to brush that strand of hair aside, to feel if her skin is as soft as it looks. To offer some small comfort, even if she'll never know it.
I pull back sharply, disgusted with myself. This is unprofessional. Inappropriate. She's vulnerable, traumatized, and under my protection.
I return to my post by the door, posture rigid, focus reset. The distance between us is necessary. Professional. Safe.
But I can't help glancing over at her sleeping form one more time. She wasn't difficult back then. She was brave. Determined to live on her terms despite the golden handcuffs of her family name.
And after everything she's been through, she's still fighting to reclaim that life. Still showing up at family events. Still trying to heal.
I'm still staring at Lucrezia's sleeping form when my mind shifts to the attack. The coordination, the weapons, the cold efficiency. All signs point to a well-trained team.
Who would target the Ferrettis this openly?
Ivan Volkov.
The name surfaces in my mind like a shark fin breaking water. The Russian mob boss was found dead sixteen months ago in his house. No suspects officially named.
But everyone in our world knew who was responsible.
Noah Rivera. Though Matteo was the one who killed the bastard.
Ivan was chasing the Ferettis for years because Noah killed his nephew. The guy deserved it. He was a human trafficker.
The Ferettis had been waiting for retaliation. Damiano doubled security at all properties. Enzo started carrying an extra piece. Even Alessio cut his European business trip short to return to New York. Everyone was on high alert for weeks.
Then... nothing.
The Volkov organization went quiet. So quiet that after two months, we started scaling back some security measures. The threat assessment indicated they might have accepted the loss and moved on to internal power struggles.
Clearly, that was wrong.
I rub my jaw, feeling stubble beneath my fingers. The timing makes sense now. They waited until we lowered our guard. Until we were all gathered in one place, vulnerable and visible.
Lucrezia stirs in her sleep, murmuring something inaudible. Her brow furrows as if she's fighting something in her dreams.
I force myself to look away. To focus.
The Volkovs. That's who we're dealing with. But who's running things now that Ivan is gone?
If I'm right, this is just the beginning. The first move in a blood feud that won't end until one family is destroyed.
I check my watch. Four hours trapped now.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension in my muscles. Stay alert. Stay ready.
That's all I can do for now. That and make sure nothing happens to her on my watch.