Chapter 17
SCARLETT
Dante wants us to dig into my memories and I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
We’re in his office, the door closed, with Viktor standing outside guarding us. Dante is explaining his plan like it’s a business strategy instead of potentially traumatizing me all over again.
“We need to recover what you blocked out from that night. There might be details about the ledger’s location that could end this.”
“You mean you want to poke around in my trauma until something useful falls out.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“How about no?”
He leans back in his chair and studies me with those grey eyes that see too much. “How about we try anyway. Because the alternative is staying in this limbo forever while people keep dying.”
I hate that he’s right. And I hate even more that my scrambled memories might be the key to ending this nightmare.
“Fine. But if I have a breakdown, you’re dealing with it.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The first session is awkward as hell.
We’re sitting in chairs facing each other, and Dante’s trying to guide me through relaxation techniques that feel ridiculous.
“Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing.”
“This is stupid.”
“Scarlett.”
“Fine.” I grumble and close my eyes, immediately feeling exposed and vulnerable. “Now what?”
“Think back to that night. The room you were kept in. What do you remember while you were there?”
“Five girls. The room was fortified with no way to escape. Blackout windows…”
“Good. What else?”
I try to focus but my mind keeps skittering away from the memories like they’re hot coals. “I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.”
“That’s the trauma response. We’ll work through it slowly.”
His voice is low and steady in my ear, surprisingly gentle for a man who makes his living through violence. And my body is responding in ways that have nothing to do with the memories.
The warmth of him so close. The scent of his cologne. The way his presence makes me feel safe even when we’re diving into the worst night of my life.
“Scarlett, focus.”
“I am focused.”
“On the memories, not on me.”
“How did you—”
“Your breathing changed. Try again.”
Over the next few days, we fall into a pattern. Morning sessions in his office where Dante guides me through the trauma with careful questioning and I try not to notice how intimate it feels.
Sometimes Luca bursts in asking why we’re sitting so close, and I have to scramble for explanations that a five-year-old will accept.
“Mama, why are you and D whispering?”
“We’re just talking about grown-up stuff, baby.”
“But you’re really close together.”
Dante doesn’t miss a beat. “Your mama’s helping me with something important. It requires concentration.”
“Oh. Can I help too?”
“Not this time, buddy. But you can help Rosa make cookies.”
“Okay!” He runs off without further questions, and I release a shaky breath.
“That was close.”
“He’s five. Everything is an adventure and nothing requires deeper explanation yet.” Dante turns back to me. “Where were we?”
Other times the sessions are painful and serious. Like the day I remember Antonio’s hands on me, tearing at my dress, his breath hot and sour against my neck.
I break down completely, gasping for air like I’m drowning, and Dante pulls me against his chest without hesitation.
“Breathe. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“He tried to—”
“I know. But he failed. You got away. You survived.”
I cling to him while the panic attack ripples through me, and when I finally calm down I realize this is the gentlest I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling back.
“Don’t apologize for having a normal response to trauma.”
“It’s been six years. Shouldn’t I be over it by now?”
“Trauma doesn’t work on a schedule. It takes as long as it takes.”
I study his face, seeing something in his expression that baffles me. “You sound like you know from experience.”
“Everyone has trauma. Some of us just hide it better.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s already shifting back into business mode.
“We should continue. If you’re up for it.”
During one session, something strange happens.
Dante’s asking me to describe the room again, and I’m rattling off details without thinking.
“The room had crown molding. A dark chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Large windows with blackout curtains. Antique furniture pushed against the walls—all of it bolted to the floor. The decorative vases were already gone by the time I got there.”
I stop talking when I notice the way he’s looking at me. “What?”
“How do you know all that? Those specific details about furniture placement and what was missing?”
“I don’t know. I just…I see it. In my head. Like a photograph.”
“You have photographic memory.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It absolutely is. And you have it.” He leans forward, suddenly intense. “Scarlett, this changes everything. If you can remember visual details that clearly, you might be able to see things you didn’t consciously register that night.”
“Like what?”
“Like who else was there. Who gave the orders. Who knew about the ledger.”
My stomach twists. “I don’t want to remember more.”
“I know. But we need this.”
He’s right and I hate it.
Over the next few sessions, we focus on visual details. And slowly, painfully, things start to surface.
Hands. Elegant hands with perfectly manicured red nails. Expensive perfume that mixed with the smell of blood and fear. A cold, cultured voice giving orders.
“Focus on the voice. Male or female?”
“Female. Definitely female. Older, I think. Used to being obeyed.”
“What was she saying?”
I close my eyes and try to hear it again. “Something about cleaning up the mess. About making sure there were no witnesses.”
“Did you see her face?”
“No. Just her hands. And I heard her heels clicking on the marble floor.”
“What kind of heels?”
“Expensive. Designer. The sound was distinctive.”
Dante’s quiet for a long moment. “A woman. That’s new information.”
“Does it help?”
“It narrows the field significantly. There aren’t many women with that kind of power in the families.”
I open my eyes and find him staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“What else do you remember about Antonio? His last words.”
“He said ‘saint.’ I already told you that.”
“Anything else? Even fragments?”
I dig deeper into the memory, past the fear and trauma to those final moments. “He was whispering. Barely conscious.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Where the saint watches the sinners.’ The words come out in a rush as the memory surfaces fully. “That’s what he said. Not just ‘saint’ but ‘where the saint watches the sinners.’”
Dante goes very still. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. I can see it now. His lips were bloody and he was struggling to breathe but he kept repeating it. ‘Where the saint watches the sinners.’”
“That’s not a dying confession. That’s a clue.”
“A clue to what?”
“To where he hid the ledger.” Dante stands and starts pacing. “Antonio was many things, but he was also paranoid and clever. He would’ve hidden his insurance policy somewhere meaningful to him. Somewhere with religious symbolism.”
“There are probably a thousand churches in this city.”
“Not churches. Think bigger. More dramatic. Antonio loved making statements.”
I watch him pace and feel frustration building. “I don’t know what it means, Dante. I’m just telling you what he said.”
“I know. And it’s more than we had before.” He stops and looks at me. “You did good today.”
The praise shouldn’t make me feel warm, but it does. The sessions continue but I start noticing other things too.
Viktor is around more than usual. I catch him lurking in hallways, watching Dante’s office door, always seeming to be nearby when we’re working on the memories.
“Is it me or is Viktor shadowing you?” I ask Dante after one session.
“He’s protective. Especially right now.”
“Why especially right now?”
Dante’s jaw tightens. “Because tensions are escalating in the city. The other families know I’m protecting you now. They assume I’m hunting the ledger for myself.”
“Are you?”
“I’m hunting it to keep you safe. Whatever power it contains is secondary.”
“That’s not how they see it though, is it?”
“No.”
The weight of that settles over me like a heavy blanket. “So by being here, I’m making you enemies.”
“You being here keeps you alive. Everything else is manageable.”
“Manageable how? How do you manage when former allies become enemies overnight?”
His expression goes hard. “The same way I always have. With superior force and strategic planning.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
I want to argue but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands keep clenching into fists. He’s worried even if he won’t admit it.
That night I overhear him on the phone in his office.
“I don’t care what Petrov thinks. The girl stays under my protection… No, that’s not negotiable… Then let them try. They’ll learn what happens when they come for what’s mine.”
The conversation goes on for another ten minutes, his voice getting progressively colder and more dangerous.
When he finally emerges, he finds me waiting in the hallway.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know things are getting worse.”
“They’ll handle it.”
“You mean you’ll handle it with violence and intimidation.”
“Whatever works.”
I step closer, looking up at him. “What if we just gave them what they want? Told them I don’t know anything useful?”
“They wouldn’t believe you. And even if they did, you’re still a loose end. Still someone who witnessed something they’d prefer stayed buried.”
“So what, I just stay here forever while you fight off enemies I created?”
“You didn’t create anything. Antonio Marchetti created this mess. You’re just caught in the middle of it.”
“Being caught in the middle still puts everyone around me in danger. Including Luca.”
His eyes flash. “Luca is safe here. That’s non-negotiable.”
“But for how long? What happens when this escalates into actual war?”
“Then I win the war.”
The certainty in his voice should reassure me, but instead it just makes the fear worse. The other families think Dante’s hunting the ledger for power. They’re forming new alliances, shifting territories, preparing for conflict.
And it’s all because I called him that night. Because I needed protection and he gave it without hesitation.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For bringing this to your door. For making you choose between protecting me and maintaining peace with the other families.”
He cups my face, forcing me to look at him. “I chose you the moment you called. Everything else is just consequences I’m willing to live with.”
“But Luca—”
“Is safer here with me than he would be anywhere else in the world. Stop questioning that.”
I want to believe him. Want to trust that he can protect us from everything coming our way. But I can see the storm gathering, can feel the tension building like pressure before an explosion.
War is coming. And I’m the reason for it.
Later that week, another memory surfaces during a session.
I’m describing the woman’s voice again when suddenly I remember something else.
“She was talking to someone. Giving orders about the cleanup. And she said a name.”
Dante leans forward. “What name?”
“I can’t quite…it’s on the edge of my memory. Something with a V? Or a B?”
“Focus. This could be important.”
I close my eyes and dive back into the memory, past the fear to that cold voice giving orders, but that’s as far I can get. I try harder and a pang of headache hits me.
“Ah,” I groan, holding my head.
Dante is on my side immediately. “That’s okay, that’s enough. You’ve done well, don’t stress anymore.”
As I lean into him, embracing the comfort his body brings, I can’t help the fear and realization that every day I stay here, every memory I recover, every piece of the puzzle we find—it’s all pushing us closer to violence that might consume everything.
We’re running out of time. The families are circling. Former allies are becoming enemies.
And Dante and Luca are in more danger, all because of me!