Chapter Twenty
Sabrina
I stand in front of the mirror again, and this time I don't hate what I'm looking at.
The black short-sleeve top fits comfortably, nothing tight enough to feel restricting or make me feel like I'm being put on display. The straight-leg jeans sit perfectly, and my navy trainers finish the outfit in a way that actually feels like me.
I tried the dress earlier.
Bianca had handed it to me like it was something I was supposed to be excited about – a black, backless dress that probably would've looked good on anyone else. I put it on, stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself for a full minute before deciding I hated it.
Not because it looked bad, but because it didn't feel like me. It was too exposed, too controlled, too much like something chosen for me rather than by me.
So I took it off, shoved it to the back of the wardrobe and didn't think about it again.
My gaze drifts over the details I don't usually think twice about. The scars on both my arms are fully visible, faint in some places and sharper in others. They don't bother me. They never have. They're simply part of me, like everything else.
The tattoos stand out more. The skull and butterfly inked into my right arm sits exactly where it always has, dark against my skin and impossible to miss. Just above my collarbone, four small dragons rest in a line, each one slightly different.
Me. Mario. Lillian. Asher.
That one was Asher's idea. He'd gone on about it for months, refusing to drop the subject and insisting we needed something that tied us together permanently.
Matching tattoos or nothing. He hadn't even given us options; he'd simply shown up one day with the design as though the decision had already been made.
As though we needed something to make our bond permanent.
We didn't.
What we'd been through together had already done that. The tattoo had simply made it visible.
They're here now. All of them.
Something about that feels steady and familiar, like I'm not completely out of place in a world that still doesn't quite fit. School doesn't feel normal, but they do, and for now, that's enough.
I grab my phone from the bed, glance at the time and head for the door.
Dinner with all five families.
That should be interesting.
The living area is already prepared when I get downstairs. Everything feels carefully arranged, as though even something as simple as dinner here has layers to it.
I walk over and take the empty seat beside Bianca. It feels like the easiest place to sit, the least complicated.
Dario is standing on the couch, half leaning over Rafael as though he's in the middle of a serious negotiation.
“I need it,” he says, staring at him with complete focus.
Rafael looks down at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“You don't need it.”
Dario straightens and meets his gaze properly, his expression completely serious.
“You do know this island is surrounded by mafias, right?”
A pause stretches between them.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Rafael doesn't react much, but there's something there.
“I'm aware.”
Dario nods as though that confirms everything.
“Right. So if I don't have a sword, how am I meant to protect myself?”
Rafael studies him for a moment.
“What exactly do you know about the mafia?”
Dario frowns as though the question is ridiculous.
“I know enough.”
Rafael's gaze flicks briefly towards the others in the room, clearly checking whether anyone has been telling him things they shouldn't have.
“I know they kill people,” Dario continues, completely serious. “So I need to protect myself. And everyone else.”
Rafael looks back at him slowly.
“And how do you know that?”
Dario blinks.
“Duh. I went on Sabrina's phone and Googled it.”
I look away.
Rafael exhales quietly and rubs his temple.
“Of course you did.”
Dario nods, unfazed.
“So I need a sword.”
“No.”
Dario narrows his eyes slightly, thinking.
“Okay. Then I'll take a gun.”
Rafael looks at him properly now.
“No.”
“But you all have guns,” Dario argues, gesturing vaguely around the room.
“That doesn't mean you get one.”
Dario considers that for a second, clearly unimpressed.
Rafael rubs his temple again, slower this time.
“No sword. No gun. End of discussion.”
Dario goes quiet for approximately two seconds before spotting me and immediately jumping off the couch. He runs over and climbs up beside me like this is a personal betrayal.
“Dad just doesn't get it,” he says.
“Clearly,” I reply.
He leans closer, lowering his voice as though he's about to tell me something important.
“I'm going to make him regret it.”
I glance at him.
He turns his head just enough to look back at Rafael, holding eye contact for a second with an expression far too serious for a four-year-old before looking away as though nothing happened.
I look down, hiding the small smile threatening to appear.
The atmosphere in the room changes the moment the doors open. Conversations quiet, postures straighten and everyone's attention sharpens without anyone needing to say a word.
The French arrive first.
Sebastian Lambert walks in as though he owns the space without needing to prove it, his presence controlled and calculated. Tristan follows just behind him, looking exactly as he did earlier – relaxed in a way that isn't real, his eyes already moving and taking everything in.
My gaze lingers for half a second before shifting towards the next arrivals.
The Spanish.
Andreas Romero enters first, his presence heavier and quieter, the kind that doesn't need attention but commands it anyway. Eleanor walks beside him, composed and observant, her eyes already scanning the room in a way that feels more personal than strategic.
And then–
Luis.
He steps in behind them, and the moment I look at him, his eyes meet mine.
Deep brown. Steady.
Familiar in a way that settles without needing an explanation.
We hold eye contact for longer than we should.
Eleanor reaches me first, pulling me into a hug so suddenly that my body stills for a second. It's unexpected, too close and too familiar for someone I don't know.
I hesitate briefly before returning it.
Her voice lowers as she leans in.
“I'm so happy you're back home.”
Home.
The word sits strangely, but I don't react to it. By the time she pulls away, the moment has already passed.
The Mexicans arrive next.
Alejandro Leyva enters first, his presence impossible to ignore. There's weight behind every step and every glance, the kind that comes from years of being exactly where he is now.
His sons follow – Antonio first, sharper and more focused, then Santiago and Emiliano.
And finally–
Valeria.
Our eyes meet almost instantly. Her blue eyes glisten with a spark I know all too well.
Her attention shifts slightly, and I follow it to one of my brothers.
Matteo.
He's already watching her.
Valeria's smile changes as she tilts her head just enough to acknowledge him.
Matteo's jaw tightens almost instantly.
This is very interesting.
The Donovans don't take long to follow.
Sean Donovan is the first through the door, and the second he sees me, his attention locks onto me. There's no hesitation as he walks straight over and pulls me into a hug like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I don't resist it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rafael. His eyebrows lift, confusion flickering across his expression before disappearing.
Sean's voice is low when he speaks.
“Funny how you always end up around the mafia, isn't it?”
There's something almost amused in his voice.
By the time he pulls back, Rafael's attention has already shifted, drawn away by the sudden noise at the entrance.
Asher walks in loudly and unapologetically, like the entire room belongs to him whether anyone agrees or not.
“Miss me?” he calls out to no one in particular, already pulling attention without trying.
Mario follows behind him, quieter and composed, his eyes assessing everything around him.
Lillian is last, her expression unreadable and her posture closed off as always, like she's here physically but nowhere else.
Dario spots them instantly.
He doesn't hesitate. He jumps off the couch and runs straight towards them.
“You're here!” he says, already talking before he even reaches them.
He crashes into Asher first, then Mario, then Lillian, words spilling over one another as he starts explaining everything that's happened as though he's been waiting specifically for this moment.
None of them stop him.
Asher laughs, Mario listens and Lillian simply stands there, letting him talk without interrupting.
The room settles.
Then the door opens one last time.
The Greeks.
Theo Nikolou enters first, his presence quieter than the others but no less commanding. Irina walks beside him, composed and elegant, her attention already moving through the room with quiet precision.
Then their children follow.
Ioanna and Elias.
The moment I see the thin scar on Elias's eyebrow, everything inside me tightens.
It's barely noticeable to anyone else, but I'd know it anywhere.
My breath catches before I can stop it, and suddenly the room isn't the room anymore. The noise disappears, the light fades, and everything sharpens into something colder and heavier, as though the air itself has thickened around me and pulled me under.
Memories slam into me.
Cold bites into my skin. Damp concrete presses against my knees, seeping through the fabric until it feels like it's inside my bones. My arms are pulled tightly behind my back, my wrists raw where the rope has already cut too deeply, burning with every small movement I refuse to make.
I won't give him a reaction.
Not in front of him.
Ivan Volkov stands a few steps away, looking as though he's enjoying the silence more than anything else. His smirk is slow and deliberate, carved into a face that looks as though it has never known softness.
He drags a chair closer, the metal legs screeching against the floor. The sound is sharp enough to echo inside my skull.
He sits forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching me like I'm something he owns the right to break.
“You have a choice, little one,” he says smoothly, his Russian accent curling around the words like something poisonous. “Kill him... or take the punishment.”
His hand lifts slightly in a simple gesture.
The boy is already there, kneeling.
He's a little older than me, with messy brown hair falling into his eyes and blood dripping from a fresh cut above his brow. His hands are tied, but he sits straight anyway, defiant as he watches me.
Ivan pushes a knife across the concrete floor.
It scrapes as it moves, slow and deliberate, like he wants me to hear every inch of it.
“Pick it up.”
I don't move.
Not a single muscle.
“His name is Elias Nikolou,” Ivan continues, almost casually. “Very important name. But that does not concern you. What concerns you is what happens next.”
He leans back slightly, spreading his arms as though this is all some twisted game.
“You kill him... and you walk out of here untouched. You refuse, and–”
He doesn't finish.
Elias looks at me then, his dark green eyes locking onto mine without fear, pleading or panic. There is only understanding, as though he already knows what I'm going to choose.
But he's wrong.
He can't really see me. Ivan made sure of that.
The mask covers my face completely, featureless and erasing everything I was, everything I could be and everything I'd been before that moment. I am nothing but eyes in a room designed to strip me down to obedience.
But I don't belong to him.
I never did.
So I choose the pain instead of the knife. Instead of the boy kneeling in front of me, I choose silence and endurance. I choose every second of what comes after, and I survive all of it.
I don't remember how long it lasts. I only remember that I don't break.
Not once.
When it's finally over and I'm able to move again without someone forcing me down, I don't run. I wait. I watch.
Then, when the building finally falls quiet, I slip into Volkov's office and use his computer to contact the Greek Mafia.
I risk everything on a single message.
And they come.
They find him.
They save him.
But he never sees the girl behind the mask.