Chapter 17
Harlow
Dante and I have been living like ghosts in the same house.
He’s constantly away, buried in business, just as I’ve made sure to keep myself occupied. It’s an unspoken arrangement, one neither of us acknowledges, yet both seem content to maintain.
Three days have passed since our wedding. Three days since he had his mouth on me, unravelling every fibre of my being, only to walk away as if it meant nothing. By the following morning, my belongings had been relocated to the master bedroom, merging our spaces into one.
Yet he hasn’t slept here.
Not once.
I have no idea where he disappears to at night. The thought stirs something uneasy, a flicker of jealousy I refuse to acknowledge. What if he…
I shut down the thought before it fully takes shape.
I don’t care.
It’s easier this way. It keeps the boundaries exactly where they belong.
Love has never been a conviction I’ve held. It’s a beautifully spun deception, a fragile promise people chase, only to watch it unravel into disillusionment. Betrayal. Pain. That’s why I refuse to invite complications into my life. I need to keep my distance, before it’s too late, before I suffer wounds deeper than the ones I already carry. Keeping Dante at arm’s length isn’t just a choice. It’s survival.
I throw back the covers and sit up as sunlight spills into the room, the June heat already thick in the air. As always, the view outside holds me captive.
From here, the sea stretches toward the horizon, an unbroken expanse of calm. Yachts drift across the water, their white sails slicing through the shimmering surface. Below, the beach is pristine, bathed in gold, breathtaking no matter how many times I lay eyes on it. For a moment, I let myself take it in, the quiet, the stillness, the illusion of peace.
Exhaling, I turn away from the view and step into the bathroom, letting the scalding water pour over me. Steam rises in thick swirls, the heat seeping into my muscles, easing tension I hadn’t even realized was there.
After a long shower, I gather my hair into a sleek ponytail, sweep on a touch of mascara, and slip into black leggings and a fitted sports bra. As I make my way to the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso lingers in the air.
“Buongiorno, signora.”
Bianca greets, her voice warm as she moves efficiently through the space, arranging breakfast.
“Good morning, Bianca.”
I reply, stretching slightly.
“Shall I prepare you something to eat?”
She offers.
“Not yet,”
I say, reaching for a glass of water.
“I’m heading outside for an hour of pilates.”
Bianca nods in approval.
“Your mat is already set up. I’ll bring you a smoothie when you’re finished.”
I pause, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She waves a dismissive hand.
“It’s no trouble.”
I give her a small nod of gratitude.
“Thank you.”
Taking a sip of water, I step outside, ready to lose myself in movement. The estate is quiet, the early morning sun casting a soft glow over the manicured gardens. My mat is laid out on the grass, the air warm but not unbearable. I move through each position, stretching and settling into the rhythm of my workout.
Then, that feeling creeps in, the unmistakable prickle at the back of my neck. My body tenses before my mind can catch up, instincts sharpening as an unwelcome sensation coils low in my stomach. My stalker has been silent for too long. The quiet doesn’t bring comfort, it feels like waiting. Like patience. Like something lurking just beneath the surface, biding its time. I know I’m probably being paranoid, but the thought refuses to loosen its grip. And that’s what frustrates me the most. The power this faceless bastard holds over me, invading my thoughts, making me question everything. I glance toward the house, scanning the windows for movement, expecting to find nothing but shifting shadows. Instead, my gaze lands on an upper window.
Dante stands there, watching me.
The tension in my muscles shifts, something raw stirring beneath my skin. I can’t see his expression from here, but the rigid set of his jaw and the muscle ticking in his cheek tell me enough. Even from this distance, I feel the intensity of his stare, the weight of it dragging over my body like a touch. I hold his gaze for a moment, refusing to react, before turning back to my workout as if I never noticed him at all. If he insists on watching, perhaps I’ll give him something worth looking at.
I turn my focus back to my exercises. The minutes pass, my body falling into the familiar pattern.
But the feeling returns.
A different kind of stare, this one unwelcome.
For whatever reason, Dante can watch me all he wants, devour me with his eyes, and I let him. Maybe even enjoy it. I’m not about to analyse that too much.
But this? This, I don’t tolerate.
Angling my body slightly, I become aware of one of the guards lingering nearby. His posture is casually confident, arms crossed and a faintly arrogant smirk playing upon his lips. His gaze trails slowly down my figure, lingering boldly on the curves of my backside with an intensity that sends an unsettling prickle across my skin. When he steps closer, his attention deepens, becoming far more invasive than admiring, leaving me acutely aware of his unwelcome scrutiny.
“I wasn’t expecting morning entertainment.”
He muses, his tone laced with insolence, each word carrying a lazy sort of arrogance that grates against my patience.
I rise from my stretch, my expression composed as I meet his gaze.
“You would do well to keep your mouth shut,”
I say, my tone smooth, edged with quiet authority.
“And your eyes where they belong.”
I let the words settle between us before adding, almost idly.
“It’s unwise to antagonize the hand that holds the power to have you castrated.”
His smirk falters, uncertainty flickering across his face before he schools his features, forcing out a low chuckle.
“Fiery, aren’t you?”
he muses, though there’s a fraction less confidence in his voice now.
“No wonder the boss is so taken with you. If your skills in bed match that sharp tongue of yours…”
I don’t dignify him with a response, only holding his gaze long enough for the amusement in his eyes to wane. The shift is subtle, but I catch it, the moment he realizes he’s overstepped. Without another word, he takes a step back, his smirk fading as he turns away.
I move through the rest of my workout, pushing each movement a little harder, letting the sun warm my skin, the sea breeze brush over me. This was supposed to help, stretch, breathe, relieve tension, but my shoulders are still tight, my jaw locked. Some people are just insufferable.
With a quiet exhale, I grab my towel, running it over my damp skin as I make my way back inside. The shift from the sunlit gardens to the cool interior of the house is immediate. As I step into the kitchen, I expect to find someone bustling around, but the space is empty, silent except for the faint hum of the espresso machine cooling down. My gaze sweeps across the room before landing on the island. There is a fresh breakfast, warm, perfectly plated. A cappuccino sits beside it, the foam still holding its delicate swirl.
A small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips. This has Bianca’s touch all over it. I school my expression, reminding myself that attachment is a mistake I can’t afford, but I can acknowledge kindness when I see it. From the moment I stepped foot in this house, she has been nothing but considerate, a rare softness in a world built on sharp edges.
I settle onto the stool, pulling the cappuccino closer and taking a slow sip. The moment of peace lingers for only a short while before the sound of footsteps draws my attention as Mario steps inside. He scans the room out of habit before his gaze settles on me.
He nods in greeting, offering a small but knowing smile.
“Buongiorno.”
I lift my coffee in response. “Morning.”
He walks to the espresso machine, pressing a button.
“Saw you outside earlier.”
He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but there’s something in his tone, weighing the statement.
I take a slow sip. “And?”
His eyes flick to me as he takes a seat across the table, stirring his coffee.
“And I noticed you weren’t alone.”
I exhale through my nose, setting my cup down with a quiet clink.
“If you’re talking about Dante, I already knew he was watching.”
Mario smirks faintly, but his expression doesn’t quite soften.
“I wasn’t talking about Dante. And you’re well aware of it.”
My fingers tighten slightly around the porcelain, but I don’t look away. He doesn’t have to say it. We both know who he means.
“He was a fool who forgot his place,”
I say, my voice smooth.
“And I don’t concern myself with men who don’t matter.”
Mario takes a slow sip of his coffee.
“Men who forget their place tend to have short lifespans.”
He speaks as if it’s a simple truth, nothing more than the natural order of things.
“The only question is whether a reminder will suffice, or if a more permanent solution is required.”
My nails press into my palm.
“I handled it.”
He sets his cup down.
“That’s not the point.”
A quiet tension lingers between us, not hostile but not entirely easy either. Mario leans back in his chair, appraising me with an expression that gives nothing away.
“You’re sharp,”
he says after a brief pause.
“You understand how things work. But there’s a difference between taking care of something yourself and having people who make sure you never need to.”
I arch a brow.
“Is this your way of suggesting I run to Dante whenever someone tests my patience?”
His lips twitch, the faintest trace of amusement.
“No. I’m saying you no longer have to handle everything on your own.”
He pauses, head inclining slightly.
“Not anymore.”
Something about the words sits heavier than they should. I hold his stare, trying to read between the lines, but Mario is a wall, stoic, impenetrable, and resolute. I don’t thank him. That’s not how men like him operate, and I get the sense that he isn’t looking for gratitude. But there’s something in his expression, that makes it clear, he’s already made his decision. And whether I realize it or not, I might already be under his protection.
He finishes his coffee, pushing back from the table.
“Enjoy your breakfast.”
He says, nodding toward my plate. Then, without another word, he turns and walks out of the kitchen.
After finishing my meal, I head upstairs, debating whether to throw on a swimsuit and spend some time by the pool. The thought of dipping my toes into cool water and a quiet escape is tempting, but before I can follow through, I remember, Mattia has practice today. And I promised to take him. Or rather, I insisted he let me.
I go about getting ready for the day, and by the time I’m finished, a quick glance at the clock tells me it’s already late morning, just past noon.
Yet Mattia remains undisturbed, lost in the depths of sleep. I smirk. That boy could let the entire day slip away in bed if given the chance.
Crossing the hall, I knock on his door before pushing it open. He’s sprawled across the mattress, limbs tangled in the sheets, dead to the world.
“Mattia.”
I call, stepping closer.
Nothing.
I poke his shoulder.
“Wake up, dormiglione.”
He lets out a low groan, barely shifting as he buries his face deeper into the pillow.
“Five more minutes.”
“It’s already noon,”
I remind him.
“You should eat something and get ready, I’m taking you to practice today.”
That catches his attention. His head lifts sluggishly, heavy with sleep, as he blinks up at me.
“You’re driving?”
I offer a simple nod. “I am.”
That seems to rouse him fully. With a quiet sigh, he pushes himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Alright.”
I take a step back, granting him space.
“Come on, get dressed and meet me downstairs.”
After lunch, he bolts back to his room, to throw on his gear and grab his bags. By the time he returns, he’s barrelling down the stairs toward me, dressed in his team kit, his last name emblazoned across the back alongside his number, nine.
At last, we make our way to the door. Whoever said women take the longest to get ready has clearly never met Mattia. The boy requires more time than even I do, and I need plenty.
Once, I overheard him singing in the shower, and if that performance was anything to go by, staging a full-blown concert evidently adds to his routine.
Outside, the heat lingers, as if the afternoon refuses to surrender to the approaching evening. It’s nearly half past four by the time we leave, and we have only minutes to make it to practice. I scan the driveway, expecting to see Piero, but he’s nowhere in sight. Instead, another man steps forward, one of Dante’s Soldati.
“Signora Salvatore.”
He greets with a slight nod, his posture rigid, his tone all business.
“I’ll be taking Mattia to practice today.”
I inform him.
He hesitates.
“Signora, that’s not advisable—”
“You’re welcome to follow in another car, but I’m the one driving him.”
I don’t wait for further protest. Plucking the keys from his grasp, I nod at Mattia and stride toward the garage. He rushes after me, practically launching himself into the passenger seat just as I start the engine.
I arch a brow.
“Are you even old enough to sit in the front?”
He yanks the seatbelt across his chest and clicks it into place, flashing me a smug grin.
“Not really, but I’ve got my seatbelt on, and it’s just a short drive. So it’s fine.”
I exhale, shaking my head.
“Whatever. Not like you’d listen even if I said no.”
“Exactly,”
he utters, leaning back as if that settles it.
“You’re not my mom, and I’m big enough to decide for myself.”
I smirk, resting a hand on the steering wheel.
“Keep dreaming, kid. And let’s drop the mommy thing, we’ve already talked about that. I’m not here to boss you around. That’s your father’s role.”
He wrinkles his nose, clearly unimpressed.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes before I glance at him.
“I heard you got into a fight at your last practice,”
I say.
“Want to talk about it?”
His lips press into a thin line. “No.”
I nod, keeping my tone light.
“Alright. But if you ever do, I’m here.”
He stays silent, staring out the window.
Stubborn. Just like his father.
When we arrive at the football field, the air is warm, the sky clear.
“Did you put sunscreen on?”
I ask as Mattia grabs his bag.
“Yes.”
He mutters before running toward the field.
I make my way to the benches, the ones reserved for matches, where parents and spectators gather to watch. As I settle in, I catch the unmistakable weight of lingering stares. Dressed in leggings, a T-shirt, and my trainers, with a cap pulled low over my face, I should blend in. But apparently, that’s not enough to go unnoticed.
A few of the mothers eye me with thinly veiled judgment, whispering among themselves, their gazes assessing. Others offer tight, artificial smiles, the kind that scream forced friendliness rather than any genuine attempt at connection. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
My shoulders tense instinctively, a reaction I can’t shake. I hate that I do this now, scan my surroundings, brace for something unseen, something lurking just beyond my reach. Sitting out in the open like this, I feel exposed. A target. And I hate him for it. For turning me into someone who flinches at shadows, who second-guesses every stare. Anger coils beneath my skin, hot and volatile, but I force it down. I won’t let him have that power over me.
But somehow, he does.
And I hate how weak that makes me.
I shift my focus to the field, putting distance between myself and the women’s scrutiny. Practice begins, and the coach takes command, his energy sharp and engaging as he moves along the sidelines, delivering crisp, authoritative instructions. He’s firm yet encouraging.
Time passes quickly between their warm-ups, drills, and tactical exercises. When the session winds down, I make my way across the grass to find Mattia. The coach notices me first, his features set in an easy expression.
He’s a tall man, likely in his forties if I had to guess. Decent looking, I suppose, nothing striking, that commands attention. The kind of face that blends into the background, forgettable in a way that makes it easy to overlook.
“Mrs. Salvatore,”
he greets, his tone warm and polite.
“I see we have a new supporter on the sidelines.”
I’m not sure how he knows who I am. Instinctively, my body stiffens, but logic follows quickly. He likely saw me arrive with Mattia, and word travels fast.
A Capo dei Capi’s wedding was never going to be a quiet affair. I need to compose myself.
I force a small chuckle.
“Just making sure he behaves.”
“That’s a full time job,”
he says with a good natured laugh, leaning in slightly.
“I have to say, it’s good to see someone looking out for him.”
I offer a polite smile, but before I can respond—
Mattia appears between us, scowling. His eyes flick between me and the coach, his small frame rigid, his expression a perfect mirror of Dante’s. I bite back a laugh. No DNA test needed here.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
“Yeah,”
he mutters, grabbing his bag and practically dragging me toward the car.
As we approach, my gaze drifts toward the windshield—
And I freeze.
There’s a note tucked under the wiper. Something about it makes my stomach twist. I reach for it, but the moment my fingers graze the paper—
I see it.
Blood.
Splattered across the hood of the car. Dark. Fresh.
A sharp inhale lodges in my throat as I take a step back on instinct, my grip tightening around Mattia’s wrist as I move him behind me.
My heart pounds like a drum against my ribs.
Not again.
Dante’s men, already sensing something is wrong, rush toward us. With a deep breath, I unfold the note, my pulse hammering as my eyes scan the words.
You were dressed in white, but stained in red.
Mine you are—alive or dead.
A violent shudder runs through me.
Mattia tugs at my arm.
“What’s going on?”
His voice is laced with worry.
I can’t answer. I can’t think.
The blood. The words.
He’s here.
Maybe standing right beside me on the sidelines, blending in effortlessly with the other parents, watching, smiling, pretending to belong. Or perhaps he lingered just beyond my periphery, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to remind me that no matter where I go, no matter how far I run, he follows.
A slow, insidious chill creeps over me, burrowing beneath my skin like a sickness. There is no privacy. No sanctuary. I am always being watched. Even when I don’t see him. Even when I don’t know he’s there.
He found me. Again.
My breath turns shallow, my vision tilting at the edges. My body reacts before my mind can fully process it, pure instinct, pure adrenaline. I refuse to fall apart.
Not here.
Not now.
The air feels heavier, pressing against my lungs, but I force myself to stand my ground. He wants me to panic, to feel powerless. I won’t give him that.
Fingers tighten around Mattia’s wrist, anchoring me to something real. Pulse hammering, thoughts racing, I steady myself, forcing my spine to stay straight, my expression impassive. If he’s watching, I won’t let him see me break.
Mattia frowns, his grip tightening around my hand.
“Can I have your phone?”
I barely process his words, but I hand it to him, my fingers numb. He quickly unlocks it, his small hands moving fast as he dials.
“Dad,”
he says urgently into the receiver.
“Something’s wrong. We need you here.”
I don’t hear Dante’s response.
All I know is that five minutes later, he’s there.
Storming toward us like a force of nature, his expression murderous.