Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lily
Weeks Later
I still wake up some nights with the echo of fear in my lungs.
Not screams, not shaking. Silence sits heavy on my chest, like a shadow remembering how it once ruled me.
But I breathe through it now. I don’t flinch at every sound.
I don’t wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.
Because I do, almost. Therapy has helped a lot more than I expected, honestly.
It didn’t erase the hurt, but it gave it shape, a form I could face without crumbling.
It helped me put the broken pieces in order.
Some are still jagged, some don’t quite fit like they used to, but that’s okay.
I’m still me—different maybe, but stronger in the quiet, steady kind of way.
And I’ve found a place for that strength.
The women’s shelter is housed in a brownstone Damiano bought a few years ago for “tax purposes.” It smells like coffee, baby wipes and fresh laundry.
The walls are covered in children’s crayon drawings and flyers about legal aid and emergency housing.
It’s run by women who have seen hell and survived.
They don’t ask questions when I show up.
They simply hand me a cup of tea and show me where the spare towels are kept.
At first, I do nothing more than folding laundry and organizing supplies.
But soon I’m sitting with women as they cry, holding trembling hands.
Reading to a little girl with a bruise-shaped shadow under one eye.
I see parts of myself in every room. I’m not helpless anymore.
I have power—he gave me power. I help where and when I can, with medical checks for women’s pets, holding hands during custody calls, patching scraped knees or painting tiny nails.
Sometimes I merely sit and listen. That’s all some of them need.
Some of them remind me of myself. Of Chiara.
I’ve also met the women I was abducted with, Laura, Issy, Giulia and Anne. It was strange, seeing them without panic in their eyes. There were tears, of course there were, but there was also laughter, defiance. Life.
We exchanged numbers and made promises to keep in touch, to show each other that survival didn’t stop at escaping.
Then today, finally, Chiara came to the shelter with me.
She was quiet at first, sticking close to my side like she used to when we were little.
I caught her looking at the other women like she was trying to figure out where she fit.
Victim? Survivor? Something else? I didn’t push her.
I offered her a cup of tea and waited. Eventually, one of the women, a young mom named Emily, sat beside her.
They started talking, slowly, carefully.
But when I glanced over an hour later, they were laughing, their heads bent together, something unspoken passing between them like shared light.
Chiara is healing too, in her own way. Her scars are different from mine, more hidden maybe, or deeper, but we carry them together now.
We don’t avoid the past anymore. We name it.
We talk about her mother’s betrayal and her end.
We talk about our father’s fall from grace.
About how strange it is to grieve someone and still be so angry at them.
But most of all, we talk about the future.
The one we’re building, piece by piece, without anyone else writing the rules for us.
When I head home that night, I see Damiano’s men stationed discreetly nearby, following my every move, ready to intervene. I don’t even look twice at them anymore. They are part of my life now, as is the danger. But I’ve learned to breathe around it, to thrive despite it.
Damiano is waiting in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, something warm and unreadable in his eyes as he looks at me. He wraps me in his arms and kisses me senseless. Then he leads me through the penthouse to the terrace.
The city outside is casting golden light across the sky while we eat dinner in the soft glow of the fading day. I prattle on and on about my day and he listens, or rather he watches my mouth move, eyes hungry and burning. But he also seems oddly distracted tonight, silent.
After we finish dinner, he pulls me toward the outdoor lounge and seats me on the sofa. I know him well enough now to recognize when something in him is unraveling.
Then he kneels in front of me—kneels—and takes my hands in his. His grip trembles.
“I need to say something, little flower,” he says hoarsely, voice tight with restraint. “And I need you to hear all of it. Even the parts I don’t deserve to say.”
I nod and sit up straighter, heart already hammering.
“I am not a good man. I should’ve never let you near my world,” he says.
“What happened to you…the fear, the danger, you being taken from me, all of it is because of what I am. What I chose to become. And I can’t—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard.
“I can’t forgive myself for that. For letting you get hurt. For dragging your light into my dark.”
My throat burns. He lifts his gaze to mine, and I’ve never seen him look so raw, so stripped of the power he wears like a second skin.
“But,” he whispers, his knuckles caressing my cheek, in an achingly tender gesture, “I don’t regret taking you for myself. Not for a second. You were the one thing I was never meant to have, and now you are the only thing I can’t live without.”
I try to speak, but he presses a finger gently to my lips.
“You are everything to me, Lily. You are my salvation and my undoing. My peace and my fury. My queen.” He cups my face between his palms, reverent and aching.
“I love you.”
Tears slip down my cheeks, silent and burning.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine, breath shaking. “I’ll leave it all behind,” he whispers. “The mafia. The power. The empire. I’ll walk away from it tomorrow. Hell, I’ll burn it all down if you ask me to. Just say the word. Marry me. Be mine in every way, I’ll follow you anywhere.”
I pull back just enough to see him, to let him see me.
And I smile.
“No,” I say.
His face goes blank. Then something flickers—pain, confusion, devastation, all tangled together in his eyes.
I reach for him, palms framing his jaw as I lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, then his lips.
“I’m not saying no to you,” I reassure him. He stares at me in confusion, eyes wary and breath coming out in sharp rasps.
I smile faintly. “Do you remember the first time you proposed to me in that restaurant?”
His lips twitch, but barely. “I said it was a merger.”
“You told me I’d have power, wealth, influence through you.” I arch a brow. “You made it sound more like a hostile takeover.”
He huffs a broken laugh, and I press a hand over his heart.
“And I said no. Because I didn’t want to be owned like some kind of helpless doll in a world ruled by money and violence.” I lift my chin now, letting him see the full force of who I’ve become since.
“But now? I want that power. Not to stand behind you, but with you. To use it to protect the people no one else does. The way you protected me. Avenge them the way you avenged me.”
His eyes burn into mine like he’s trying to memorize every word.
“You said I’d be a queen.” My voice goes softer. “Then let me rule beside you.”
“You want to stay?” His voice is almost disbelieving. “With me?”
I nod. “I want the whole storm, Dark. I want you, all of you. I don’t care how dark it gets, as long as we face it together.”
Emotion crashes over his face like a wave he’s barely keeping himself above. His hands tighten around me, grounding himself.
“I love you,” I say, fiercely now. “And I think I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you standing over a man with a bloody knife and murder in your eyes.” A smile curls at my mouth. “I think some part of me recognized you as mine, even then.”
A breathless chuckle leaves him. He presses his forehead to mine, and for a moment, everything is still. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, then he stands and hoists me up to crush me against his chest, arms wrapping around me like he is never letting go again.
“Marry me,” he murmurs again, voice thick with emotion. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Say yes and I’ll build a world for you.”
“Yes,” I whisper into his neck. “Yes, Damiano. Always yes.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I don’t feel afraid of the dark anymore. Because I know who walks beside me through it. And he’d burn the world down to keep my light safe. We stay like that, breathing each other in, hearts finally beating in the same rhythm.
Then he takes my hand. “Let me remove and put back your ring, officially. I will get you a new one tomorrow.”
I rip my hand away from his with a playful smile. “Uh-uh, Mr. Dark and Dangerous. I like my ring. I’m keeping it. And there is no way you are removing my ring…”
But then I take a step back and look up at him with a mischievous glint in my eye. “…unless you are fast enough.”
His eyes darken instantly, understanding exactly what I mean. “You try to run from me, little flower, and I swear I’ll give you the spanking of your life.”
I grin.
“Well then,” I whisper, retreating farther, “you’ll have to catch me first.”
And before he can even blink, I am gone, barefoot, laughing, my dress flying behind me as I bolt through the condo.
Behind me, he curses softly, then laughs, low and dangerous.
It’s the sound of a man who has been hunting me since the day we met.
And this time, I’m not running away. I’m running home.