Chapter Forty-One
Sabrina
Sleep never came.
I'd stopped chasing it sometime around three in the morning. Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself back on the front steps of the Romero estate. I could still hear Dario crying and feel the helplessness of standing there with a gun pointed at his head.
No matter how many times I reminded myself it was over, my mind replayed those moments. The terror. The certainty that I was about to watch my little brother die because of me.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the white paint with tired eyes. Dawn had yet to break, leaving the bedroom wrapped in darkness, but the silence brought no comfort. It only gave the memories more room to breathe.
The Russians hadn't broken me, and neither had Ivan. But the moment they put a gun to Dario's head, the walls I'd spent years building inside myself began to crack.
I hadn't thought. I hadn't planned. I'd simply reacted.
Even now, remembering it left my stomach twisting with shame.
I knew better. Ivan had made certain of that.
Anger makes you stupid. And stupid gets you killed.
The words drifted through my mind in Ivan's voice, as cold and merciless as the day he'd first spoken them.
It had been one of the first lessons he'd taught me.
Long before I'd learned how to pull a trigger or disappear into a crowd, he'd taught me that emotion could get me killed.
Every mistake earned another bruise, every flash of emotion brought another punishment, and every failure ended with Ivan reminding me that feelings weren't strengths. They were weaknesses people exploited.
I'd hated him for it. God, I still did. But hatred didn't make the lesson any less true.
The Russian holding Dario hadn't been thinking like a trained soldier. He'd been thinking like a grieving brother. Revenge had become more important than victory. He wanted me to suffer, and the moment he saw panic break across my face, he believed he'd already won.
That confidence was what killed him.
He'd become so consumed by revenge that he'd forgotten the first rule of survival: never focus so completely on one threat that you fail to see another. By the time he realised his mistake, it was already too late.
The sniper's bullet reached him before his finger ever tightened around the trigger.
One second he was smiling.
The next, he was dead.
The crack of the rifle split the air, followed a heartbeat later by the heavy thud of his body hitting the ground.
For one impossibly long moment, everything stood still.
Then Dario ran.
My throat tightened at the memory. The second the Russian collapsed, Dario broke free and threw himself into my arms. I dropped my weapon before he even reached me, catching him as he buried his face against my neck.
He'd been shaking so violently that I could feel every tremor against my chest. I held him so tightly I was afraid I might never let go.
“I'm here,” I'd whispered against his hair. “I'm here.”
He'd cried until there was nothing left.
I hadn't cared who was watching or that the entire Moretti family had seen me lose control. For those few minutes, there had been no Diabola, no Morana, no assassin.
Just Sabrina holding her little brother.
And that was the problem.
Because now everyone knew exactly where to hurt me.
I rolled onto my side and stared towards the window. The first faint hint of morning had begun to bleed through the curtains, but I didn't feel tired anymore. I felt awake, too awake.
The estate had survived the attack, but the message had been clear. Sergei Volkov wasn't going to stop.
Neither was I.
The only difference was that now he knew exactly what I would protect at any cost, and I knew exactly what I had to do before he got another chance.
A small movement beside me caught my attention.
Dario was curled against my side, tucked between Mum and Dad in their bed. His tiny hand was wrapped tightly around the sleeve of my shirt, while his stuffed dinosaur rested beneath one arm.
Carefully, I brushed the loose curls away from his forehead. He shifted closer without waking, instinctively seeking the reassurance of having someone beside him.
I watched him for a moment, my chest tightening.
He was alive.
I repeated the words silently, hoping the part of me still trapped on those front steps would finally believe them.
Dad's arm rested protectively around both of us, while Mum lay on Dario's other side, her breathing soft and steady. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed how little any of us had slept.
None of us had, not since the gala, not since Russia had stormed the Romero estate and reminded us they weren't finished with me yet.
I watched Dario for another long moment before sinking back into the pillow.
His nightmares had become everyone's.
The first night after we brought him home, he'd woken screaming. Before I'd even managed to sit upright, the bedroom door had burst open. Matteo reached us first, with the others following seconds later.
Looking back, I realised none of them had really been asleep. They'd been waiting for the sound every one of us knew was coming.
Dario hadn't willingly let go of any of us since. It was as though some frightened part of him believed that the moment he was left alone, someone would come back for him.
None of us had tried to convince him otherwise.
Dario was never alone. Someone was always beside him during meals, while he coloured, whenever he watched cartoons. No one complained about postponed meetings or interrupted phone calls.
Family came first. It always had.
Dad and Dante had gone a step further. Their offices barely resembled themselves anymore.
Toy boxes, blankets, stuffed animals and colouring books had replaced the polished order they once held.
Business meetings carried on around Dario as he built dinosaur puzzles on the rug or watched cartoons on an iPad.
No one asked him to leave. They simply made room for him.
Even something as ordinary as using the bathroom had changed.
Someone always walked Dario to the door.
He insisted on going inside alone, clinging to the last piece of independence he still believed belonged to him. Every few seconds, his small voice drifted through the wood.
“Are you still there?”
Someone always answered. Quietly. Immediately. Reassuring him they hadn't gone anywhere.
It broke something inside me every time I watched it.
Children weren't supposed to fear being alone. That kind of fear belonged to children raised in places like the Volkov estate.
Children like me.
Never Dario.
I closed my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand against the ache building behind them.
I'd spent years convincing myself that leaving Russia meant leaving Diabola behind.
Instead, the violence had followed me here.
Into the home I'd only just found.
And now a little boy couldn't even use the bathroom without needing someone outside the door.
That wasn't something I could forgive.
My gaze drifted back to Dario. His breathing remained slow and even, his face finally peaceful after days of restless sleep. His fingers were still curled around my sleeve, but the desperate grip had softened.
For now, at least, he felt safe.
I intended to make sure he stayed that way, no matter what it cost me.
Morning came, but the heaviness over the estate remained.
Voices stayed quiet. Laughter rarely lasted.
Some wounds didn't bleed. They still changed everything.
Breakfast passed quietly. Every conversation that drifted towards Russia or Sergei was gently steered somewhere else. Dario, blissfully unaware of the storm gathering around him, spent the entire meal explaining to Luca why dinosaurs would have made terrible pets.
“They'd eat all the people on the island,” he said with complete conviction. “And they wouldn't fit through the front door.”
Luca nodded as though he were receiving classified intelligence.
“That is a serious design flaw.”
“It is.”
A few reluctant smiles appeared around the table. For a few precious seconds, the house almost felt normal again.
When breakfast was over, Mum smiled at Dario.
“How about we go feed the ducks before it gets too warm?”
His face lit up.
“Can we take bread?”
“If your father hasn't eaten it all already,” Mum replied, earning an exaggerated look of offence from Dad.
“I heard that.”
“I wanted you to.”
Then Mum looked at Dad.
“I'll keep him busy.”
Dad gave a single nod.
Nothing more needed to be said.
Dario jumped down from his chair and grabbed Mum's hand.
“Come on!”
She laughed as he tugged her towards the patio doors before glancing back over her shoulder.
“I'll be a while.”
The moment they disappeared into the gardens, the warmth seemed to leave with them.
Nobody spoke as the rest of us made our way towards Dad's office.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It was expectant.
The letter Sergei had sent after the gala, declaring that I belonged to him, still rested in the centre of Dad's desk. Its edges had softened from being unfolded so many times, but no one suggested throwing it away.
Destroying the paper wouldn't destroy the threat.
Dad picked it up, his jaw tightening as his eyes settled on the familiar handwriting. Without a word, he began to read.
“I am collecting what belongs to me.”
The room fell completely still.
“The Moretti Princess. My father promised her to me. She is my bride, and I will collect what is mine.”
My stomach twisted.
The words no longer frightened me.
They revolted me.
Sergei had inherited more than Ivan's empire.
He'd inherited his obsession.
To men like them, people were property. Debts. Bargaining chips.
Dad continued.
“And as for the boy...” His voice slowed almost imperceptibly before he forced himself to finish. “...the Volkov debt remains unpaid.”
Silence settled over the office once more.
Matteo was the first to break it.
“What debt?”
Dad lowered the letter.
“I don't know.”
Carlo frowned.
“What debt could Sergei possibly be talking about?”
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
“None of this makes any sense.”
No one answered.