Chapter 32
Harlow
A few days have passed, and the tension coiled in my chest has eased, if only slightly.
Between Dante’s relentless possessiveness, his insatiable hunger for me, and the ever present spectre of my stalker, I feel as though I’m perpetually walking a dangerous balance.
Dante barely allows me out of his sight. Even now, as I move through my pilates routine, I can feel the weight of his gaze searing into me from his office window. I don’t need to look to confirm it, I know he’s there. Watching. Guarding.
And the security detail? They hover like vultures, maintaining a respectful distance yet poised to intervene at the first sign of trouble.
My body flows through the motions. My muscles burn, but I welcome the discomfort. Anything to quiet the relentless hum of unease in my mind.
I freeze mid-stretch, my pulse hammering against my ribs as my eyes catch a flicker, a shadow.
My gaze snaps toward the far window, the one in the west wing. That part of the estate is rarely occupied, its rooms untouched, steeped in silence. Yet, for the briefest moment, I swear I saw movement behind the glass.
A sharp jolt of adrenaline slices through me.
I swallow, forcing logic to override instinct. It’s probably Bianca. One of the maids, tending to the space, shifting things around.
Or maybe… I’m just imagining things.
A slow exhale escapes me as I shake my head, pushing through the last of my stretches. But the unease doesn’t dissipate. A cold weight lingers in the pit of my stomach, pressing down, heavy and unshakable.
What if it’s him?
The thought crashes into me with brutal force, stealing the breath from my lungs. It’s not like he hasn’t been in this house before.
I grit my teeth. No. I refuse to let him invade my mind, to dictate my every move, to reduce me to a prisoner in my own home.
And yet.
Even as I finish my workout, the feeling refuses to leave me. It lingers, like a whisper at the back of my mind.
The guards keep their position as I make my way back into the house. They follow me only to the main hallway before scattering back to their assigned posts.
Good.
I don’t need an audience for this.
I move through the quiet corridors, my steps soft against the marble. The west wing is always empty. Always silent.
So why the fuck was there movement?
As I approach the room, I notice the guard first. He stands rigid in front of the door, his expression blank but his body language screams tension.
I slow my steps, coming to a stop before him.
“Why are you here?”
The guard doesn’t answer immediately and a flicker of unease coils in my stomach.
“I’m under strict orders from Mr. Salvatore.”
He replies evenly, his tone careful.
I couldn’t care less.
“What’s behind the door? Why are you standing watch?”
My voice is smooth.
His jaw tightens.
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
I take a step closer, my gaze unwavering, cutting through him. “Open it.”
“Ma’am—"
“Now.”
He hesitates. I arch a brow, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
“That wasn’t a request.”
The guard exhales, exchanging an uneasy glance with the other men stationed nearby. Then, without another word, he unlocks the door and steps aside.
What greets me on the other side makes me halt mid-step.
This, I did not expect.
A boy.
He’s tall, lanky, his frame bordering on gaunt. Blonde hair falls messily over wary, wide eyes, his entire posture coiled tight. He’s curled up near the far end of the room, fists clenched at his sides, watching me like a cornered animal.
Instinct propels me forward, but the guard swiftly moves to block my path.
“I wouldn’t advise that, ma’am.”
I level him with a cold glare.
“He’s only a child.”
“He’s a risk.”
Bullshit.
Stepping around him, I lower myself onto my knees, carefully meeting the boy’s gaze.
“What’s your name?”
His shoulders tense, uncertainty flickering across his face. I soften my voice, reassuring.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid.”
His chin lifts slightly, his small body still tense with hostility. “Luka.”
Luka.
I glance at the guard.
“Why is he locked up?”
No answer. Of course.
I turn back to the boy.
“What happened? Why are you here?”
His lips press together before he mutters.
“I ran away.”
Something sharp lodges itself in my chest.
“From where?”
His gaze flickers to the door, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t want to go back.”
Fuck.
That’s all I need to hear.
I push up to my feet, taking Luka’s wrist gently. “Come on.”
The guard immediately moves to block me.
“Mrs. Salvatore, I can’t allow you to do that.”
I snap my head toward him, my voice ice cold. “Move.”
He stalls. Then finally, he does.
But just as I reach the hall, another louder voice cuts through the space. “Don’t.”
I whip around.
Dante.
His expression is dark, unreadable. His jaw tightens as his eyes flick between me and Luka.
I look at him, my gaze sharp.
“Would you care to explain why there is a child being held in our home?”
Dante’s eyes flick to the guards. A silent dismissal. The men disappear, leaving us alone.
“He’s Albanian,”
Dante says flatly.
“His father is dead. His uncle wants him back. That should tell you everything.”
I step forward, my anger boiling.
“He’s only a kid. Not a fucking enemy.”
Dante’s gaze turns to steel.
“You don’t know that. Your trust is a liability, and mark my words, it will be your downfall.”
I shake my head, frustration simmering beneath my skin.
“For God’s sake, Dante. He’s barely older than Mattia. What exactly do you think he’s going to do? Produce a weapon out of thin air and assassinate us in our sleep?”
His lips press into a thin, uncompromising line.
“You’re being naive.”
I let out a sharp breath, unimpressed.
“And you’re being irrational.”
His expression shifts, cruel and unmistakable. A smirk tugs at his lips, his voice low and cutting.
“You can play queen all you want, but at the end of the day, you're just another Ricci bastard trying to claim a throne that was never meant for you.”
It slashes through me like a knife.
For a second, I just stare at him.
I see the exact moment he realizes what he said. The way his lips part slightly, like he wants to take it back. Like he knows he went too far.
But I don’t give him the chance.
I step back, my voice cold and detached.
“Go fuck yourself, Salvatore.”
Pivoting sharply, I turn on my heel and stalk toward the stairs.
My heart pounds, anger burning through my veins like wildfire, each step fueled by the sting of his words.
I take the stairs two at a time, needing distance, needing air, needing to put a wall between myself and the man who just reminded me exactly where I stand in his life.
And here it is, the consequence of my own miscalculation.
I knew that getting emotionally entangled with him would, sooner rather than later, come back to haunt me.
And now, the moment has arrived.
I reach my bedroom, shoving the door open. The tension still coils tight in my chest, and I force a slow inhale. Then another.
I need to calm down.
I’ll get changed. Go to the gym. Hit the boxing bag until my knuckles ache, imagining my husband’s face with every punch.
My eyes land on my phone, resting on the nightstand, vibrating with an incoming call. My brows pull together.
Unknown number.
A chill snakes up my spine. I already know this won’t be good. For a long moment, I just stare at it, instinct whispering a warning. My pulse kicks up a notch as I finally reach for it, pressing it to my ear.
All I hear is heavy breathing.
I grip the phone tighter. My voice comes out cold, sharp.
“What do you want?”
No answer. But my phone pings with a message. I lower the device, my stomach knotting as I open it. The image loads painfully slow, pixels sharpening until recognition slams into me like a freight train.
Mattia.
He’s outside the gates, motionless, hands tucked into his pockets, oblivious. The angle of the photo is too precise, too intimate. Someone is watching him. Someone close. But why is he there? He never steps beyond the gates without a guard. A cold dread seeps into my veins, slow and merciless.
At last, the voice slithers through the speaker, distorted, mechanical, void of humanity.
“You have exactly three minutes to retrieve him. After that, he vanishes.”
My grip tightens.
“If you touch him, I’ll—”
The person releases a chuckle, low, taunting, laced with amusement.
“And what exactly will you do? Time is slipping through your fingers. Tick-tock.”
I don’t second guess it. My fingers glide over my phone’s screen, urgency thrumming beneath my skin as I fire off a message to Piero.
Harlow: Something’s wrong. Meet me outside.
His reply is immediate.
Piero: Stay where you are. I’m on my way.
But I can’t wait. Not when Mattia is standing out there, completely unaware of the danger lurking just beyond the gate.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I move quickly. Down the stairs, through the halls, out the front doors. The sun beats down, but my skin feels cold.
Where the hell are the guards?
I reach the gates, scanning the area. The usual men stationed here are nowhere in sight. The unease in my chest tightens, sharp and suffocating.
Something isn’t right.
I don’t see Mattia. My fingers hover over my phone, about to call Piero again, when I hear a rustle behind me.
The air shifts.
A presence.
I whirl around just as a hand clamps over my mouth. The cloth smothers me, the scent thick and chemical, sharp enough to burn my lungs.
No.
I thrash, my nails clawing at the iron grip around me. My body twists, legs kicking, but the scent is already sinking in, flooding my system.
Where the hell is Piero?
I try to spin, to elbow my attacker, but my limbs are betraying me. The world tilts, my vision blurring. My mind screams at me to fight, but the drug is relentless, dragging me under.
A breath ghosts over my ear, cloying and nauseating. The voice follows, low, taunting, laced with triumph… and familiar. Yet, in my haze, I can’t quite place it. My thoughts slip like sand through my fingers, too disoriented to grasp onto clarity.
“You always did enjoy playing hard to get, didn’t you, bambolina?”
A wave of revulsion surges up my throat.
The last thing I register before oblivion claims me is the sound of laughter, soft, satisfied, and entirely self-assured.
And then, the world fades to nothing.