Chapter 21
Harlow
Morning sunlight spills through the open curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. I stir, stretching slightly before blinking against the brightness. The sheets beside me are cold.
Dante is gone.
But his presence lingers, in the faint imprint of his body on the mattress, in the warmth that had been there hours ago, in the scent still clinging to the sheets. I exhale slowly, my fingers grazing the empty space where his body had been. The moment I register the action, I retract my hand as if scalded.
It means nothing.
I had woken up more than once, during the night, tangled in him, an arm heavy around my waist, his breath warm against my neck, our legs a mix of heat and friction. It was proximity, nothing more. A byproduct of sharing a bed, not intimacy.
And now, he’s gone before I even opened my eyes. I presume he’s maintaining his distance once more.
Perfect. Precisely as it should be.
My gaze drifts to the watch, confirming it’s still early morning. With a quiet sigh, I push back the covers, running a hand through my tousled hair before slipping out of bed. I move through my morning routine, the motions automatic, before changing into a sports bra and high-waisted leggings.
As I step beyond the confines of my room, the house remains steeped in silence. Soft footsteps whisper against the marble floors as I move through the quiet hallways, the stillness almost sacred at this hour.
Outside, the morning air greets me, cool, invigorating, infused with the delicate fragrance of jasmine and freshly cut grass. The world hums with tranquillity, the gentle rustling of leaves blending with the crash of waves against the shore, a soothing melody of nature’s design.
I settle onto my mat, easing into my pilates routine, letting my body wake up with each movement. The rhythm is familiar, grounding, but something feels different today. As I glance around, my gaze drifts over the guards stationed around the property. They’re all here, positioned as always, yet there’s a noticeable shift in their stance.
They’re not watching me.
Or rather, they’re purposely avoiding it. Their backs are rigid. Gazes averted. As if looking in my direction would be some kind of offense. A strange feeling coils in my stomach, but I shake it off, forcing myself to refocus. As I sink deeper into the stretch, eyes burn into my skin, searing through the morning calm. Not the ominous, skin prickling kind that sets me on edge. This is different. Familiar.
A gaze I know all too well.
Something I’m used to.
My gaze sweeps toward the house, landing on the large window that overlooks the garden.
And there he stands. Again.
Dante.
His gaze fixed upon me with an intensity that coils a slow shiver down my spine. It has become almost ritualistic, this silent observation, this quiet scrutiny. His expression remains an impenetrable mask, but his gaze is anything but indifferent. It’s heavy. Intentional. I hold his stare for a moment longer before turning away.
After finishing my stretches, I head back inside, stopping in the kitchen to make myself a smoothie. Bianca is already at the counter, humming softly as she prepares something.
“Buongiorno, Mrs. Salvatore,”
she greets, her voice warm.
“I have your drink ready for you.”
She hands me the glass, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good morning,”
I reply, accepting it with gratitude, and offering her a smile in return. “Grazie.”
She inclines her head. “Prego.”
As I take my first sip, I catch the knowing look in her eyes.
“The men have been very disciplined today,”
she remarks, a glimmer of amusement lacing her tone.
“Must be under strict orders.”
My lips curve into a wry smile.
“Yeah, I noticed. Any idea why?”
She simply shrugs, though the mischief in her gaze doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Perhaps Don Salvatore made his expectations very clear.”
I shake my head, unwilling to push further. Instead, I take another sip.
“I’ve been meaning to make use of the gym downstairs but haven’t had the opportunity,”
I muse, setting the empty glass down.
“I suppose now is as good a time as any, I could certainly use it.”
With that, I make my way toward the door, already anticipating the distraction a workout might bring.
Bianca nods approvingly.
“Good. You’ll have it all to yourself.”
As I step inside, the room unfolds before me, spacious and impeccably designed, outfitted with state of the art equipment and sleek, mirrored walls. I begin with strength training, the weight in my hands grounding me, before shifting into a steady rhythm on the cardio machines.
After an hour, sweat drips down my back, my muscles burning in the best way. But before I wrap up, my eyes catch the boxing bag in the corner. I grab a pair of gloves, slipping them on before stepping toward it. The moment my fist collides with the bag, something shifts deep inside me, unravelling the tight coils of tension that have been wound for far too long.
This is exactly what I need.
I miss Enzo’s gym, the familiar scent of leather and sweat, the controlled chaos of bodies moving in perfect rhythm. I miss the sharp crack of gloves against pads, the disciplined repetition of my training, the way I could lose myself in teaching self-defence, showing others how to fight, how to protect themselves, how to never feel powerless. That ache settles somewhere deep, but I push through it. I channel everything into the bag, each punch carrying the weight of my frustration, my stress, the thoughts I refuse to entertain. Strike after strike, my body moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over, the rhythm both punishing and cathartic.
By the time I finally still, my breath is ragged, my pulse thrumming, my skin damp with exertion, but for the first time all morning, my mind is quiet. I peel off the gloves, heading back upstairs for a well needed shower.
The cool water cascades over my skin, soothing the ache in my muscles, washing away the sweat and the lingering tension. By the time I step out, my body feels refreshed. I wrap myself in a plush towel, patting my skin dry before running another through my damp hair. Once within the confines of my walk-in closet, I slip into a delicate floral summer dress, its fitted bodice accentuating my waist before flowing into a soft, billowing skirt. The fabric is weightless, effortlessly elegant, the muted hues of blush and cream evoking quiet luxury. I reach for a wide-brimmed straw hat, sliding it into place. I fasten the delicate straps of my heels, retrieve my bag, and stride toward the door. As I step into the corridor, my gaze drifts toward Mattia’s room.
Pausing briefly, I knock before pushing the door open.
“Hey, sleepyhead,”
I murmur, amusement lacing my tone.
“Feel like going shopping with me today?”
A low groan escapes him as he rolls onto his side, burying his face into the pillow.
“No, thanks. Shopping is boring.”
I laugh.
“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t ask.”
I leave Mattia to his sleep and make my way downstairs. As I approach the grand entrance, the double doors glide open, and a woman steps inside as if she owns the place.
She moves with the calculated grace of someone who thrives on being observed, each step a silent demand for attention. Everything about her is sculpted, polished to perfection yet utterly soulless. The kind of beauty money can buy, curated rather than earned. She reeks of excess, from the painstakingly taut skin to the artfully enhanced curves that toe the line between allure and caricature. Artificial in body, artificial in spirit.
Behind her, Piero steps into view, his expression taut with irritation. He looks my way, about to speak, but the woman breezes past him, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenience. Her gaze lands on me, and I don’t miss the precise moment she assesses my outfit. Lips curling, disdain flickers across her face.
“Well. At least you put in some effort, even if dressing like a high end escort doesn’t make you a lady.”
I arch a brow, but she doesn’t stop there.
“I assume you’re new here.”
Her tone is the perfect blend of condescension and dismissal.
“Though, given the circumstances, I suppose it’s generous of Dante to keep you around. He always did have a soft spot for women who are… aesthetically pleasing, if nothing else.”
My grip tightens around the small purse in my hand. The movement doesn’t escape her, not in the slightest. If anything, she savours it, relishing the small victory she thinks she’s won.
“A word of advice?”
she continues airily.
“Wearing expensive things doesn’t give you class. And standing around in the foyer like a decorative vase won’t change your place here. If you’re done parading, the kitchen is down the hall.”
There is no mistaking me for the staff, yet she pointedly chooses to ignore that fact. The audacity would almost be impressive if it weren’t so profoundly irritating. She thrusts her designer bag into my hands, the weight of it as obnoxious as the woman herself.
“I’ll have a mimosa. Bring it to Dante’s office.” She pauses, then lets a patronizing smile unfurl.
“He likes me relaxed.” Another slow sweep of her gaze over me. “And do ask the other staff how I take it. I’m rather particular, and I’d hate for you to bungle such a simple task.”
For a moment, I say nothing. The sheer gall of her words should amuse me. It doesn’t. The way she so casually lays claim to my husband sends a sharp pang of anger through me, hot and unwelcome. I extinguish it before it can take root. I shouldn’t care.
I do not care.
With feigned indifference, I let her bag slip from my fingers. It lands with a heavy thud, its contents spilling across the marble floor in an undignified mess.
I hear a sharp inhale behind me, and when I glance back, I find Mario has joined Piero by the door, both of them watching with dark expressions, though there’s no mistaking the glint of anticipation in their eyes.
The woman frowns down at her scattered belongings before her gaze snaps back to me, outrage colouring her features.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
I step forward, heels clicking softly against the marble, ignoring the mess at my feet. My smile is slow.
“Give me one compelling reason I shouldn’t have you escorted from my house by that over styled hair of yours.”
She recoils, a flicker of uncertainty flashing in her eyes before she straightens, regaining her bravado.
“Who the hell do you think you are to speak to me—”
“Mrs. Salvatore.”
I interrupt her, letting the words settle, watching as the realization dawns. Her lips part slightly, any remaining confidence draining from her face.
“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but that would be a lie. And frankly, I’d rather not waste my time on dishonesty.”
She stands frozen, grasping for a response. But I don’t let her find one.
“You will not treat my staff like they’re disposable. You will not treat me like I’m invisible. And you will not, under any circumstance, step foot in my home again.”
I sigh, tilting my head.
“And if you do, I’ll let the boys decide where to dump what’s left of you. Frankly, I’m in the mood for something scenic. Maybe the Amalfi cliffs?”
A slow, saccharine smile curves my lips.
“I guarantee you my husband would cover my bail in a heartbeat, but if I do it right, there won’t be a body to find, would it?”
I tilt my head slightly, feigning contemplation.
“And that isn’t the kind of spectacle we want Mattia to witness.”
A slow blink, my lashes sweeping down in mock innocence.
“As his stepmother, I should really encourage better coping mechanisms.”
She says nothing, but I catch the flicker of fear in her eyes, the precise moment she comprehends the gravity of her mistake. A shift in the air makes me aware of another presence behind me. When I turn, I find my husband descending the staircase, each step carrying the weight of his authority. His rage is palpable, thick enough to choke the room, but as I hold his gaze, I realize none of it is meant for me.
No, all is for the Dollar Store Marilyn Monroe.
Annoyed but wholly uninterested in whatever absurd theatrics are about to unfold, I turn on my heel and step outside, leaving them behind without so much as a passing glance. I refuse to indulge the thought, yet it lingers, unwelcome and insidious, refusing to be dismissed. The idea of Dante with her gnaws at me, a slow-burning irritation I cannot seem to shake. Did they share a history? Do they still? The very possibility is as maddening as it is absurd.
The feeling twisting in my chest is dangerously close to jealousy, and I loathe it. I shouldn’t care. I do not care about Dante Salvatore. Perhaps if I say it enough times, I’ll start to believe it.
Piero falls into step beside me, ever the silent shadow at my side.
“Signora.”
He opens the door as we approach the waiting car.
I slip inside, sinking into the plush leather interior as Piero takes his place up front. The driver starts the engine without a word.
“Let’s head to Chiaia. We’ll stop at Via dei Mille first.”
I instruct.
As the car pulls away, my gaze drifts to the line of black SUVs parked in formation, their presence an unspoken declaration. Piero follows my gaze.
“A few more men will accompany us for security. Don Salvatore’s orders, you’re not to go anywhere with fewer than ten.”
There’s no argument from me. A certain relief settles in. Stepping outside no longer feels as simple as it once did. It isn’t exactly fear, but I’m not reckless either. This stalker, whoever he may be, has elevated his fixation far beyond mere obsession. I have yet to determine what, or rather who, I am truly up against, and that uncertainty is far more perilous than any threat I can see. Perhaps he’s merely another deluded man. Or he is something far more insidious. Regardless, I am not naive. If increased security ensures my safety, I will not reject it. Only a fool mistakes prudence for weakness.
I shake the thoughts away, unwilling to let them take root. Dwelling on uncertainty serves no purpose. Instead, I focus on something far more tangible, distraction. A day of shopping should help.
It’s time to keep my promise and spend some of my husband’s money.
The drive doesn’t take long. I scroll through my messages, catching up on unread texts from Sofia and Elena. A soft smile tugs at my lips. There are some from my brothers and father, too. The words don’t feel any less strange as I read them. Despite everything, I miss them all.
And I hate that.
Yearning for something that was never mine to begin with feels like attachment, and that is dangerous territory. It sneaks up on you, winds itself into your chest, and makes you believe in things you shouldn’t. Because what happens when they disappear again? Everyone in my life has left, one way or another. What if they do the same? I close out of the messages, pushing the thought away.
As we arrive, the streets are alive with energy, the summer sun casting a golden glow over the cobblestone roads. Chiaia is bustling, elegant, filled with the hum of conversation and the click of designer heels. And, of course, I attract plenty of attention. Being shadowed by four imposing men in tailored suits and discreet earpieces tends to do that.
Three remain within reach, Piero among them, while the others position themselves just beyond view, close enough to act at a moment’s notice. Their presence is both an imposition and a quiet reassurance.
I spend hours weaving through stores, letting myself to revel in the experience. Clothes, shoes, jewellery, by the time I’m finished, the sheer volume of bags exceeds what the car can accommodate.
As I step out of a boutique, something catches my eye, a charming gelato shop nestled between two storefronts. The sight alone tugs at something nostalgic, the pastel-coloured awning and rows of creamy flavours behind the glass reminding me of childhood summers.
Piero notices my pause and follows my gaze, then huffs a quiet laugh.
“After you, signora. Treat yourself.”
I don’t need to be told twice. As I step inside, an elderly man behind the counter greets me with a warm smile.
“Che cosa desidera, signorina?”
I peruse the selections, taking a moment to consider before deciding.
“I’ll have a cappuccino and a scoop of Rocher gelato, per favore.”
The old man nods and prepares my order. I glance over my shoulder at Piero and the others.
“You’re all getting something too.”
They exchange looks but don’t argue, ordering espressos instead. Predictable.
Outside, I settle into a small table on the patio, relishing the sweet bite of my gelato as the men position themselves strategically. I gesture toward the empty chair across from me.
“Sit, Piero.”
“I’m fine standing.”
I give him a pointed look.
“That wasn’t a request.”
He exhales slowly, but he pulls out the chair and sits, his espresso resting untouched in front of him. For a moment, we sit in companionable silence. Then, with studied nonchalance, Piero remarks.
“The boss has no involvement with Marta. She’s his assistant, nothing more.”
I remain impassive, taking another bite of my gelato.
“And why, exactly, are you telling me this?”
A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“No particular reason.”
I exhale, rolling my eyes with indifference.
“Piero, I truly couldn’t care less.”
“Of course not.”
He sips his espresso, eyes sharp with amusement.
Much to my own surprise, I find that I don’t entirely mind his presence. Piero is unlike the others, sharp, calculating, always watching with an intensity that feels almost instinctual. There’s a weight to his silence, a sense that he absorbs far more than he lets on. His dry humour does little to soften the impression that he sees everything, weighs everything. And yet, beneath his composed exterior, something lingers, something just out of reach. I’ve caught glimpses of it, fleeting and elusive, but never enough to grasp what truly lies under. He sets his cup down.
“You’re getting used to all this.”
I arch a brow.
“All this?”
“The men. The security. The reality that someone out there is watching you.”
I glance at my surroundings, the crowd, the lively streets, the ever-present security detail.
“I wouldn’t exactly say I’m used to it,”
I admit.
“But I’d be a fool to reject it. If this stalker is as unhinged as he seems, I have no intention of making his job easier.”
A flicker of approval passes through Piero’s expression, subtle but there.
“Good. You’re smart. Just don’t let the routine make you careless.”
Something prickles at the back of my neck, a phantom touch, too familiar, yet impossible to place. The sensation is fleeting, but it lingers, an unspoken warning that refuses to be ignored. My gaze drifts across the street, scanning the sea of faces. Nothing appears out of place, yet unease curls in my chest, refusing to settle.
Piero notices immediately. His posture stiffens, his voice low and clipped.
“What is it?”
I exhale slowly, willing away the tension.
“Nothing. Just… paranoia, probably.”
He doesn’t look convinced. With a subtle motion, he taps his earpiece.
“Stay alert. Eyes on everything.”
The other men adjust their positions, scanning the street with newfound vigilance.
I force myself to take another bite of my gelato, but the sweetness no longer registers. The gnawing sensation in my chest is impossible to ignore. I may not see him, but I know he’s out there. Watching. Binding his time.
Still, I refuse to let him dictate my day.
So I carry on.
After a few more hours and more stores than I can count, exhaustion sets in, the excitement of the splurge melts into a pleasant fatigue. The sun has dipped lower, casting the city in a soft amber glow as we make our way back. Naples is breathtaking in this light, warm, golden, timeless. But as the car winds through the streets, leaving the luxury of Chiaia behind, I feel the weight of the day settle over me.
I lean my head against the seat, allowing my eyes to drift closed for a moment. Shopping had been a welcome distraction, but reality has a way of creeping back in.
And as the car turns onto the long drive leading to the estate, I can already feel it waiting for me.