Chapter 29
Mikayla
Gianni came to my room just after dawn, when the house was caught in that thin, grey space between night and morning.
I hadn’t slept—not properly. At some point, I must’ve dragged myself from the couch back to the bed, but I didn’t remember doing it.
My body ached in that hollow, bruised way it did after you cried until there was nothing left to give.
My eyes burned like sand had been rubbed into them.
My head pulsed dully. I felt emptied out and sharp all at once, too tired to think and too awake to rest.
I heard him before I saw him.
His footsteps moved down the hall, slower than usual. Measured. Careful. Like he was approaching something unpredictable. Like he wasn’t sure he was welcome anymore.
The sound tightened something in my chest.
He knocked once. Soft. Controlled. Almost polite.
I didn’t answer.
The door opened anyway.
I pushed myself upright against the headboard, folding my arms tight across my chest, bracing for what was to come.
For whatever version of Gianni had decided to show up this morning.
The strategist. The protector. The man who spoke in half-truths and called it safety.
I didn’t know which one I was about to face—and worse, I didn’t care enough to hope.
He stopped just inside the room, the early light spilling in behind him, casting long shadows across the floor.
And the quiet between us stretched, heavy and loaded, waiting for one of us to break.
“You’re awake,” he said.
His voice stayed even, measured, as if he were testing the space—like he’d stepped into unfamiliar territory, unsure whether he had the right to be there at all.
“I didn’t plan on sleeping through my own disposal,” I shot back.
The words landed the way they were meant to. I saw his jaw tighten, muscle jumping once as he absorbed it. He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. Just took the blow and stood there with it.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
The question was calm. Reasonable. Almost kind. That was what made it unbearable.
“That’s not your concern anymore,” I said.
He nodded once, slow, like he’d already known that would be my answer. “I can arrange something for you. A new name. A clean slate. Somewhere quiet and safe.”
“No.”
The word came out sharp and final. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t have to think.
“Mikayla—”
“No,” I said again, louder now. Firmer. “I don’t want anything from you.”
He took a step into the room, then stopped, leaving space between us like he was afraid to cross an invisible line. “This isn’t about what you want,” he said evenly. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
I laughed, the sound bitter and raw, scraping my throat on the way out. It didn’t feel like humor. It felt like something breaking.
“Not interested,” I said. “I don’t want—or need—your help.”
Something dark passed through his eyes. Hurt flickered there before he could hide it, and for half a second, it nearly unraveled me. Nearly.
“I never meant to—” he started.
I cut him off before he could finish, the words spilling out too fast, too honest, like if I slowed down I might lose my nerve.
“I never want to see you again. Do you hear me? Not in a month. Not in a year. Not when you decide you miss the way I looked at you and want to feel better about yourself.”
He flinched.
And that told me the words had hurt the way I intended them to. The same way he’d hurt me by deceiving me.
“I was never anything to you,” I went on, voice shaking now but unstoppable. “Just a bargaining chip you got too comfortable with. So don’t stand there and pretend this hurts you more than it hurts me.”
“It does hurt,” he said quietly.
I met his gaze then. There was exhaustion carved into his face. The regret he wasn’t trying to hide anymore. And for a split second, it almost cracked me open.
I forced myself to stay hard.
“That doesn’t change what you did, Gianni.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
“What can I do,” he asked finally, “to make you change your mind and stay?”
The question was rawer than anything he’d said before. I didn’t hesitate.
“Nothing.”
He closed his eyes briefly, like he needed a moment to absorb the impact. When he opened them again, something had shifted—settled. It looked a lot like acceptance.
“Then I’ll have one of my men drive you,” he said. “Anywhere you want.”
“No.”
His brow creased. “Mikayla—”
“So your men can run back and tell you where I am?” I shot back. “No, Gianni. This ends here. Completely.”
He stared at me, stunned by the finality of it.
“I never want to see you again,” I said. “Not under any circumstances.”
His voice dropped, stripped of pretense. “Even knowing Archie will kill you the moment he finds you no longer under my protection?”
The words should have scared me.
They didn’t.
I felt empty. Spent. Way past fear.
“Even if he does,” I said quietly, “it can’t be any worse than the hundred deaths you’ve already served me.”
Something broke in his expression then—just a fracture, quick and sharp—but I saw it. I felt it echo through my chest like a freight train.
He nodded slowly, once.
“I won’t stop you,” he said.
I didn’t thank him.
He turned toward the door, pausing there for just a moment like he might say something else. Like he might try one last time.
He didn’t.
The door closed behind him, firm and final, and I sat there staring at the empty space he left behind, forcing myself not to cry.