Chapter 7 #3
Then—movement.
I crossed the kitchen in three long strides, each step measured, but heavy with the weight of every thought I refused to release.
I slammed the tray onto the island.
Hard.
The impact reverberated through the room, porcelain cracking with a sharp, final snap that cut the air like a gunshot.
The tray shattered.
Fragments scattered across the stainless steel surface, some spinning before coming to rest, others skittering to the floor.
All broken. All useless.
Just like the moment.
Just like everything else I’d been forced to endure.
Chiara didn’t flinch at the noise, the chaos, or the destruction.
She stood there, composed, unreadable, as if the room—and my fury—were nothing more than a breeze passing through.
She looked at the broken tray.
Then at me.
No shock. No judgment. No curiosity.
Just understanding.
Without a word, she turned.
Walked to the utility closet.
Retrieved a long-handled dustpan and brush.
And returned.
She crouched.
Her movements were practiced—efficient in a way that came from years of doing this exact same thing without complaint.
She began sweeping the shards.
Each stroke deliberate.
Each motion precise.
The fragments gathered into a neat pile.
Organized. Contained.
Just like everything else in this place.
She tipped the debris into the bin.
The sound was soft.
Final.
Like something being erased.
Like the moment never mattered at all.
Then she straightened.
Turned back to me.
And spoke.
“How about you tell me, cara mia, your favorite food?” she said, leaning closer, her voice soft but warm, carrying that unmistakable Italian cadence.
“I’ll start making it for you right away—Ti prometto, you’ll eat and feel better in no time.”
Her voice was respectful.
“I’m not hungry. I’m angry.” I said.
The words came out rougher than intended.
Not directed at her.
But at everything else.
At the situation. At the night.
At myself.
She didn’t argue. Just nodded once.
And let it go.
I pushed forward before I could feel anything again in that kitchen, before I could make a mess out of my anger.
Then I turned and walked out.
The hallway stretched ahead—long, shadowed, silent.
My footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor.
I kept my gaze forward.
But as I passed the open archway leading back into the dining room, I caught a glimpse.
Just once.
A mistake.
Inside, they were still there.
Seated together.
Closer now.
More relaxed.
More... present.
Violet’s laugh drifted through the room—soft, melodic, effortless.
A sound that belonged.
A sound I could never claim.
Vincenzo leaned toward her, listening, responding, his voice low and unguarded.
Candlelight flickered across their faces, warm and gold, softening everything.
For a moment, they seemed almost unreal—intimate, private, a world built only for two.
And I—was not part of it.
Not then. Not ever.
I tore my gaze away before it could settle, before it could hurt any more, and kept walking.
Step after step up the stairs, away from the light, away from the table, away from the life I had just been forced to witness.
But not away from the truth—no matter how far I walked, I would still feel it.
Everywhere.
Inside, my room greeted me with stillness.
I stripped out of my clothes without hesitation.
Jeans slid down.
Top followed.
Fabric hitting the floor in a soft, final sound.
I stood there in just my black boyshorts and bra, the air cool against my skin.
I let my gaze drift across the scars that mapped my body.
Jagged lines etched across my ribs, thin pale slashes running along my arms, burn marks darkening the curve of my shoulder blade.
Bullet grazes, knife cuts, and other horrors that left their mark long after the pain had faded.
Elena—a living map of survival.
Naples. Athens. Marseille.
Cities where I had run.
Cities where I had bled.
Five years of eluding Ruslan Baranov and his men.
Five years of never being safe.
And yet, standing here, in this room, watching what I had to endure tonight, I realized—it wasn’t worse.
Not really.
It was just... different.
Different in a way that left no physical marks.
Different in a way that clawed at something inside me I couldn’t bandage or hide.
A knock came at the door.
Soft.
“Who is it?” I asked, voice careful.
“Ciro.”
The name landed quietly in the room.
My pulse gave a single, sharp kick.
I turned my head slightly toward the door.
“Come in.”
Silence followed.
Then—
“No.”
His voice came through the wood, steady but restrained.
“I don’t have that right.”
A pause.
“You might want to come out. I have a package for you.”
Anger flickered again under my skin.
I exhaled slowly, then crossed the room without bothering to dress.
I opened the door wide.
And there he was.
Ciro.
Standing in the hallway.
But the moment his eyes landed on me—everything shifted.
His gaze flicked across my exposed skin.
My bare midriff. The scars.
The thin straps of my bra cutting across my shoulders.
His eyes widened—just slightly.
Just enough to betray him.
Then, almost immediately, he dropped his gaze—too fast.
He took three quick steps back, creating distance as if it were instinct rather than choice.
“I’d appreciate it if you dressed more... modestly.” He said, his voice tightening despite the control he tried to maintain.
I didn’t move.
“Where’s the package?” I asked, holding out my hand.
Without looking up, he extended a small matte-black box tied with a thin silver ribbon.
I took it.
Turned it in my hands.
Heavy enough to matter. Light enough to be suspicious.
“Who’s it from?” I asked.
“Matteo Alvarez.”
“Violet’s father,” Ciro added.
He still didn’t look at me.
“Apparently, it’s a Spanish custom,” he said, voice steady but distant. “When they attend a wedding—even one they didn’t plan for—they bring a gift for the bride.”
A quiet, humorless breath slipped out of me.
I glanced down at the box again, my fingers tightening slightly around its edges.
“I displaced his daughter at her own wedding,” I said. “And they still sent a gift.”
I lifted my gaze, studying him now.
“From what I understand, the Spanish and the Italians are already at war,” I said, my voice even but edged. “And if anything, it escalated the moment Vincenzo chose me over Violet—their so-called princess. That marriage was supposed to stabilize things, not fracture them further.”
I let that settle before continuing.
“So you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly eager to trust a gift from them,” I added, glancing down at the box before looking back at him. “Especially one that came from her father.”
A faint pause.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bomb inside.”
That made him look up.
Just enough.
But enough to meet my eyes.
“It’s been scanned,” he said evenly. “It’s not a bomb.”
A beat.
Then—
“I should go.”
A brief pause, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“I’m... not entirely comfortable staying.”
His hand lifted in a vague gesture toward me, then stopped midway, as if even that felt like too much.
“With this,” he added quietly.
A faint flush touched his face under the hallway light, and he looked away, jaw tightening as he reined himself back in.
“I trust you understand.”
He shifted, already half-turned to leave.
“Ciro.”
The voice came from down the hall, sharp enough to halt him mid-step.
Both of us looked.
Vincenzo was already walking toward us.
And at his side—Violet.
Still pale. Still fragile-looking.
But composed.
Her hand rested lightly on his arm, as though she belonged there.
As though she always had.
Vincenzo’s expression was unreadable at first.
Then his eyes found mine.
And something dark moved across his face.
Something possessive.
“Explain why you’re standing there, half-dressed, in front of my man.”
The question cracked through the hallway.
“I’m in boyshorts and a bra,” I said evenly. “That’s not naked.”
His jaw tightened.
Then his gaze snapped to Ciro.
Ciro straightened immediately.
“Boss,” he said evenly, “I warned her as soon as I saw her.”
A quiet beat.
“I know you wouldn’t want any man looking at your wife this way.”
I scoffed at his words, and Vincenzo’s gaze snapped back to me.
“You call me ‘wife’ like it’s some title I should honor,” I said, voice tight. “Especially when Vincenzo clearly doesn’t treat me like one. So why does it matter if another man sees me in boyshorts and a bra? It shouldn’t. It doesn’t.”
The air seemed to still.
Vincenzo’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Ciro,” he said, calm and lethal, “leave.”
There was no hesitation.
Ciro dipped his head—brief, respectful—and turned on his heel.
His footsteps were quiet as he walked away, the soft sound of his shoes fading down the corridor until it was gone.
Silence rushed in to replace him.
Vincenzo removed Violet’s hand from his, despite her surprise and hesitation.
His tone was flat, but edged with something barely contained.
“Renzo will escort you home.”
Then he left her there, his attention snapping toward me.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body press against mine, suffocating, demanding.
“Step inside.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, a single, urgent thud.
I froze.
“Elena.” His voice dropped, low and lethal, every word dripping with danger and control.
“Inside. Now.”
The command hit harder than volume ever could.
Defiance ignited in my chest, sharp and burning.
I wanted to snap back, to tell him he had no right to order me.
Wanted to remind him he had just spent that grand “happy” dinner with Violet—why wasn’t he escorting her home?
Why was he here, standing over me, angry that another man saw me dressed like this?
I wanted to say it all.
Every word of outrage. Every spark of pain at watching him give Violet everything I would never have.
I wanted to scream, to spill it all, to let him see exactly what he’d done to me.
I couldn’t hide it anymore—but I didn’t.