Chapter Twenty-Five
Lily
In the car on the way to Father’s house, I stare out the window and nervously chew on my thumbnail, a bad habit I can’t seem to get rid of.
Damiano is sitting next to me in the back and I can feel his gaze burning the side of my face.
He has his arm slung on the backrest behind me and is crowding my space, adding to the nervousness I feel.
Suddenly his hand is on the back of my neck, tracing slow circles and I freeze.
“Little flower.” His voice is a soft murmur that compels my head to turn in his direction. “Why are you nervous?” I try to look away but he captures my face with his other hand and I can’t escape his probing gaze. How can I explain my life in so few words? Do I even want to let him in?
“No reason. It’s the first time I’ve seen my family since I left…” I trail off.
I texted Chiara to let her know that I was coming, and now that I am going to see her again, I realize how much I missed her.
How much she must feel my leaving like a betrayal.
We have been inseparable since our childhood, protecting each other from our parents.
But now I’ve left her alone. I’ve failed her.
The car reaches the familiar gate, which immediately opens.
Damiano must have called ahead to let Father know we were coming.
When the driver parks by the front steps, Damiano tells me “Stay here,” and steps out to round the car then opens my door.
I climb out, taking his offered hand like a comforting lifeline.
We climb the flight of stairs. He has his hand on the small of my back and acts like I am made of glass ready to shatter.
The front door opens and we are ushered in by the housekeeper.
The familiar scent of my father’s house hits me like a punch to the gut—polished wood, leather furniture and the lingering bitterness of old memories.
When we step into the living room, both my father and Daria shoot to their feet, their faces tight with anger. My father’s fury is palpable as his eyes lock onto mine.
“You ungrateful bitch!” His roar freezes me in place, the venom in his words slicing through the air like a blade.
Then everything unfolds so quickly that I don’t have a chance to process it. A loud, sharp smack echoes through the room, followed by a sickening sting across my face. I barely have time to register what’s happening before I hear a bone-crushing roar, followed by a crack then a howl of agony.
What the hell just happened? My brain takes a few seconds to break down the events.
Father backhanded me and Damiano twisted his wrist so violently it now looks broken.
I blink, stunned, my palm pressed against my throbbing cheek. Father is howling in pain, clutching his wrist, which now hangs at an odd angle.
When I glance up, Damiano, his grip firm around Father’s throat, is lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing. His face is a mask of fury, his eyes locked onto Father’s with a ferocity that sends a chill through me.
“If you ever touch what is mine again,” Damiano snarls into his face, his voice low and deadly, “I will not only break every fucking bone in your body, I will bring you so much pain you will be begging for a bullet in the head.” The words are cold, calculated and full of a promise that chills my spine.
He tosses Father aside like a rag doll, and he crashes to the floor with a grunt of pain.
I can see the terror in his eyes, but Damiano doesn’t give him a second thought.
Then, as if nothing has happened, he turns his gaze to me.
His eyes are icy, controlled and sharp. The command in his voice is undeniable.
“Go pack your things,” he orders, his tone brokering no argument.
“You are not staying one second longer than necessary.” His words pierce the air, and the weight of them presses down on me.
But I can’t tear my eyes away from Father, who is struggling to get up from the floor, his face contorted with pain and humiliation.
Damiano’s presence is suffocating in its dominance and I know without a doubt that nothing will stop him from taking what he wants. Not Father, not Daria, not anyone.
I swallow hard and force my feet to move, my heart hammering in my chest. I scurry upstairs, terrified by this side of him. This is the Demonio they all fear. He looks ready to murder everyone in this house in cold blood. Then maybe bathe in their blood.
Chiara is sitting on my bed when I walk in.
She looks up when she hears the door. As she sees it’s me, she jumps up and rushes forward to hug me.
I can’t help myself—I collapse into her arms. Tears flood my eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I let myself feel the relief of having someone who cares.
“What happened?” Chiara’s voice trembles as she pulls back, her hands gripping my arms, searching my face. “I heard shouting downstairs.”
My heart races, and I struggle to find the right words. “Father… He was angry, and he…he hit me.” The words come out in a rush, but the shock is still overwhelming. My body shakes, my knees threatening to give way as my brain catches up with everything that’s happened.
Chiara’s eyes widen in disbelief. “What? He’s never hit either of us before. Never.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but the adrenaline still makes me lightheaded. Chiara takes my hand and leads me to the bed. We sit side by side in silence, then she asks softly, “Are you safe, Lee?”
I swallow hard and nod. The truth is, I don’t know.
Despite his reputation of being ruthless, I know that Damiano wouldn’t hurt me.
But then again, I witnessed him breaking Father’s wrist without blinking, as if it were a mere twig.
Would he hurt my sister if he thought that she’s standing between me and him? Better not find out.
“I need to pack. He’s waiting,” I tell her, straightening. She frowns and I feel the need to clarify. “He has this…possessive streak. He won’t let me leave, no matter how much I try to reason him. Everything is a bit confusing right now, but I’ll ask him to let me spend time with you, I promise.”
She sends me a long look filled with concern, but she doesn’t push. “Okay, if you say that you are safe, that’s all I need to know.” She stands and hugs me. “Take care, Lee. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I whisper, watching her slip out into the hallway, the sound of her footsteps fading as she disappears down the corridor.
As the door closes behind her, the weight of everything crashes into me again. I’m not afraid of Damiano. I’m not afraid of him in the way I should be, or at least not for myself.
I press my palm to the aching throb in my cheek, trying to steady my breathing.
I want to sit back on the bed to process the events but I need to pack.
Then I will leave the house I spent so many years in, and this time I know I won’t be coming back to stay.
I go to my closet and retrieve the belongings I couldn’t take with me in my escape.
Mom’s music box I kept as my jewelry case, a picture album from my days with Mom and Mom’s sundress, the only clothing from her I hadn’t given to Goodwill.
As I am now the same height as her when she was alive, the dress fits me and I wear it on special occasions when I need her presence with me.
I jam everything into a small suitcase, then I look for a last time at the room that has been mine all these years but where I never felt welcome or safe.
I hurry down to the sitting room, afraid to walk into a bloodbath.
But everything still looks exactly like before I went upstairs.
Father is sitting on the floor, cradling his broken wrist, tears and snot streaming down his face.
Daria stands rigid nearby, pale as bone china, eyes wide and glued to Damiano like she’s watching a bomb tick down to zero.
Damiano, in stark contrast, is composed, dangerously so.
He ends a call with a flick of his thumb, then turns as my footsteps echo in the doorway.
In a few strides, he’s in front of me, taking the suitcase from my hands without a word.
His grip on my elbow is firm, not rough, but there’s no mistaking the message in his touch—we’re leaving.
He walks me out in silence, guiding me down the steps and into the waiting car like he’s sealing the end of a chapter.
When I slide into the seat, he reaches over, buckling me in with careful fingers, then gently tilts my chin toward the light.
His gaze lingers on my bruised cheek, and though his touch is soft, his face has gone blank, cold, calm. Too calm.
Something feral simmers behind that quiet. “The driver will take you home. Put ice on your cheek. Luc will meet you there soon,” he says evenly.
“Wait, what about you?” I ask, my voice small. “Aren’t you coming too?”
He leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead like it’s a goodbye. “I have business to finish. I won’t be long.”
A pit opens in my stomach. “Damiano…” My voice cracks. “Please don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt Chiara. She had nothing to do with this.”
He doesn’t answer and closes the door. Then he’s gone. As the car pulls away, I twist in my seat, watching him ascend the stairs like a dark, vengeful angel on a mission.
* * * *
I’ve been sitting in the bathtub so long the water’s gone cold, but I don’t move. My arms are wrapped tightly around my legs, my forehead pressed to my knees, and I just…breathe.
In. Out. In.
I don’t even notice the tears until they drip silently onto my skin, joining the water lapping against my body.
It’s like something inside me has cracked open, and everything I’ve ever buried is pouring out, violent, suffocating, endless. I’ve always been good at locking things away, at tucking my pain into corners and sealing them shut. But now the dam is broken. There is no more room to hold it all in.
Father’s slap plays on a loop behind my eyelids, but it’s not only the sting of today—it’s every word he’s ever thrown at me like a weapon. Every time he made me feel small. Unwanted. A burden. All the years of being looked through instead of looked at. A lifetime pretending it didn’t matter.
The guilt for leaving Chiara there, not being strong enough to save her, gnaws at me, suffocating me. The guilt of failing Mom. The guilt of failing myself and my dreams.
I’m sinking, my body shaking, my breath ragged, and it hits me all at once.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not that girl who had a future, a dream, a purpose anymore.
The one who dreamt of a quiet clinic somewhere in the city, a few rescued animals, maybe a life built slowly, gently, with love.
I used to believe in that. Now I’m a ghost of her, watching a stranger live out something I never asked for.
Then I hear him.
Soft footsteps. The rustle of fabric. And suddenly that familiar scent, citrus, cedarwood, something dark beneath it, wraps around me like a memory I never agreed to keep.
Water shifts. A sponge gently glides across my back, slow and tender, and I know without turning that it’s Damiano.
He’s washing me with a kind of reverence I don’t understand, like I’m something fragile, something to be mended.
But I don’t want to be handled like glass. I want to scream. To fight. To feel again.
Yet all I can do is cry, silently, brokenly.
The sobs come from somewhere deep, where the hurt has lived for too long.
My shoulders tremble. I curl my hands into fists, as if I can hold together what little is left of me.
His hand stays on my back, rubbing slow, steady circles.
A gesture meant to comfort, but it only deepens the ache.
Damiano.
I don’t know what he’s doing to me. He has torn down every wall I’ve ever built, swept into my life like a storm that doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t see it, but he has taken my choices, my direction, my freedom. Piece by piece. And now I am floating in the wreckage.
By the time he lifts me from the tub, my skin is cold and my spirit is raw.
He wraps me in a thick towel and carries me to the bed, cradling me like I am made of something rare and fragile.
I shatter anyway. I curl against his chest, fists tucked under my chin, and sob harder than I ever have.
Not out of fear but from sheer, aching despair.
“I didn’t want this,” I whisper, my voice cracked and hoarse. “I didn’t want this life… I wanted my own life. A simple one. My clinic. A family. Dogs. Laughter. A life that isn’t…this.”
His breath catches. He says nothing, but his grip slightly tightens around me, like he is afraid I’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. And maybe I will.
Because now he knows. This life he is building around me like a gilded cage? I never asked for it. I don’t want it.
Eventually, my sobs quiet, reduced to shallow breaths and the occasional tremble.
I feel drained, hollowed out by everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve buried, everything I never got to choose.
My eyes are swollen and heavy, and I’m too tired to hold them open.
Damiano lifts me like I weigh nothing, then gently lowers me onto the bed and tucks the covers around me with a tenderness that makes my throat ache.
He doesn’t say a word, but his hands linger, like he’s not ready to let go.
And maybe that’s what breaks me the most. Because I know he means it in his own way.
His possessiveness, his protection…they come from something real.
Something fierce and raw. And God help me, I care about him.
I wish I didn’t, but I do. I’ve seen glimpses of the man beneath the monster, the pieces of him that feel like safety, like firelight in a storm.
But none of that changes the truth.
This life—his life—isn’t the one I wanted. It’s not the future I dreamed of when I was clinging to hope in a childhood full of shadows. I didn’t ask for this story. And loving him…even a little…doesn’t make it mine.
As sleep pulls me under, I hold onto a single aching truth. He may think he owns me. But I am not his to keep.
And it hurts so much more, because part of me still wants to be.