Chapter 22 Daisy
The apartment felt foreign. Every step echoed too loudly, every breath too sharp—like the walls themselves were rejecting me. Every movement felt wrong, as if I were dragging myself through a life that had already rejected me.
With frantic hands, I yanked the travel bag from the closet and stuffed clothes inside—aimless, driven by an inner storm I couldn’t control. My heart pounded in my throat as I threw things in at random.
I just wanted to get away.
Away from him.
Away from everything.
And yet… as I rushed between drawers and dressers, I listened. For footsteps. For the creak of the door. For any sound that meant he was here. That he would come to stop me.
Again and again, I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and stared at the empty screen. Nothing. No call. No message. No apology. Only silence.
My stomach twisted tighter with every glance.
God, I didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to touch him again. Didn’t want to breathe him in. And yet something inside me screamed, quiet and desperate: Please stop me. Please fight for me. Show me I still matter to you, even if I can’t believe it myself.
Part of me hated him. Hated him with everything I had left.And still—God, still—I wanted him to tear open the door. To pin me against the wall. To say it.You’re staying. You’re mine.
I hated myself for the thought.
My hands shook so hard the zipper caught twice before it closed.
A car drove by. I froze.Headlights brushed the wall—Maybe it was him.Maybe—But it wasn’t.
Only strangers.
Only silence.
He knew I was leaving.And he didn’t come.Not a message. Not a sound. Nothing.
Rage hit first. Then despair.I wasn’t worth it—not even enough to stop me.That was the truth I’d been running from.
And it finally caught me.
With the last of my strength, I dragged my bag to the door and forced my hand down on the handle.
Every step betrayed my heart.Every step screamed Stay!My mind whispered Run.I didn’t know which voice was mine anymore.
Streetlights smeared into gold and rain as I ran. The world kept moving. He didn’t.
I clutched my phone as if I could will a message to appear. But the screen stayed dark. Like him.
As the train pulled in, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. I was so tired. I waited for him until the doors closed. He had let me go—without a fight, without a word.
And though I had expected him to stop me at any moment, I knew I wouldn’t have stayed.
Maybe that was what hurt the most.
That I left.
And that he made it so easy.
Maybe that was how love died—not with betrayal, but with silence.
The train doors opened with a hiss. Cold air rushed in, biting at my skin, but I barely felt it.
With the bag slung over my shoulder, I stumbled across the platform, each step like wading through water. People streamed past me. Voices. Shouts. The world roared and I didn’t.
I wasn’t searching for faces. I didn’t want to see anyone. Only one person.
And then she was there.
Jen.
Standing at the edge of the platform, hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Her eyes found me instantly. No smile. No questions. Just one second where she saw everything.
My steps slowed. I wanted to stay strong. I wanted not to fall apart.
But when she wordlessly opened her arms, something inside me ripped wide open.
The bag slipped from my shoulder. I stumbled the last few feet and let her pull me in—firm, unshakable. No questions. No reproach. Just warmth—and the silent promise that I didn’t have to fight anymore. For once, someone didn’t ask me to explain my pain. They just held it.
I buried my face in her shoulder, tears spilling silently down my cheeks. And for the first time in days, I let go. Quietly. Slowly. In the arms of the one person who didn’t ask why I was broken.
“Daisy, I can’t wrap my head around this. Why didn’t you tell me about Mason earlier?”
Jenn sank onto the couch beside me and tugged the blanket over our legs. Her old, worn sofa was soft, familiar, and for a moment, it calmed my frantic heart.
“I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
Jenn pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry.” She leaned back, studying me. “And Damian just shot Mason like that? I mean, I can’t blame him, but still—normal people don’t just do things like that.”
“Damian is not a psychopath,” I said quietly, too quickly. Even as the words left my mouth, they rang false, like I was trying to convince myself.
“Then he’s a narcissist with psychopathic tendencies,” Jenn sighed. “I know it’s complicated, but you have to think of yourself—your safety, your future. You can’t stay with someone who destroys you like this. Rome could be a new beginning.”
I nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s for the best. At least for a while.”
“You don’t have to tell him where you’re going. I’ll help you. We’ll get through this.”
I closed my eyes, resting my head against her shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She stroked my back. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”
“I just hope it’s the right thing.”
I stayed with Jenn for two more days. Damian never reached out, but I was certain he knew where I was—he could track my phone.
During that time, I bought a new one and set my plan in motion.
On the third day, I went to my mother’s in Greenwood Falls. We walked through the fields together as I told her I’d be going to Rome for a while. I left out the details. She wasn’t thrilled, but she accepted it.
The terminal in Rome buzzed with hurried voices and the rattle of rolling suitcases. Warm lights cast soft shadows across the sleek walls, the air heavy with coffee and city dust.
I stepped off the gangway and into passport control. The sterile airport chill gave way to warm Mediterranean air as I walked through the doors.
A sleek black limousine waited outside, its polished surface catching the evening light. Its tinted windows hid the interior, only shadows moving behind the glass.
In front of the car stood a man in a flawless dark-blue suit, hands clasped behind his back. His posture was professional, but the weight of his gaze found me instantly.
“Miss Elfhorn?”
His tone was polite, measured, his eyes running over me with quiet precision.
I nodded, though hesitation lingered. Could I trust him?
“My name is Marino Gewalgi. I’ll be your driver.” His voice was steady, almost impersonal, yet he knew exactly who I was. My father had either given him a photograph or detailed instructions.
I nodded again, surprised at how smoothly it had all been arranged. Marino stepped aside and opened the door with an elegant flourish.
A familiar warmth hit me the second I leaned in, carried by the faint scent inside, and then I saw him.
My father. Frenco Massimo Feretti.
Even seated in the shadows, his presence filled the space. His suit was perfectly cut, his smile radiant. For a heartbeat, something tight pulled in my chest — not fear, not distance, just the old weight of wanting to make him proud.
“My little Daisy,” he said in that deep, warm voice that had always comforted and unsettled me at once.
I slid inside, and he drew me into a firm embrace.
He was only forty-six, but already a legend.
Born into blood and power, into loyalties bound by danger, he had carried the weight long before he understood it.
At twenty-three, when my grandfather died, his youth ended in a single moment.
With a child on the way, he had been forced to become something more: a leader, feared and respected, ruthless enough to hold an empire.
“It feels so good to see you again, la mia piccola principessa.”
“Dad,” I whispered, my voice trembling with relief and memory. “It’s good to see you too.”
The door shut, and the limousine rolled forward. Inside, leather breathed quiet luxury, touched with citrus and cologne.
“How was the flight?” he asked, offering me a chilled bottle of lemonade.
“Long, but worth it. I needed a change.”
“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again—you’re always welcome here. I’m glad you’re finally accepting something from me. For years, you wouldn’t.” His words carried a subtle reproach.
“I know. Thank you, for helping me.”
“I called the museum. You can start there whenever you like.”
Of course he had. His name in Rome opened any door.
“You can stay with me as long as you want.”
“I already told you what I’d prefer.”
“If you tell me where you want the apartment, I’ll make sure it’s yours.”
“I’m sorry we haven’t had much contact these past years, Dad.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I know your reasons. How’s your mother?”
“She’s happy.”
He had loved her once—loved her fiercely—before the Feretti name consumed him.
She was only eighteen when I was born, still a girl, wild and searching.
His world suffocated hers. Surrounded by drugs and darkness, she spiraled until he cut her free.
He gave her an apartment, hoping she’d find stability, but she drifted anyway.
Only when Chase entered her life did something finally shift—for her, and for me.
“I’m happy for Claire. We talk sometimes, you know.”
I studied his face. He would never stop loving her. Not really.
“You sounded upset the last time we spoke. Tell me who I should cut the head off.” His mouth curved as if joking, but his eyes were flat, deadly serious.
A nervous laugh slipped out. I knew better. He wasn’t joking.
“The work, the life there—it just became too much.”
“I see.” He knew I was lying.
The car pulled up before his estate—high walls, armed guards. His men opened the door, their eyes tracking me as I stepped out.
“I want you to rest here, find your peace. After that, we’ll get you an apartment.”
Rome always sharpened something in him — not because I feared him, but because this city made his influence impossible to ignore. But I knew myself. His world was a cage. Still, I was grateful. I saw in his eyes how much it meant to have me close again.
He led me through marble halls and high ceilings, past paintings that stared down like silent judges.
Being here with him always reminded me of who he really was — not just my father, but a man whose presence shaped every corner of his world before he ever spoke.
Pride and tenderness colored his voice as he showed me each room, as though reclaiming a part of fatherhood with every step.
“I prepared this room for you,” he said, opening a heavy door.
The room was beautiful—warm, elegant, the kind of space that embraced you. But it wasn’t the furniture that struck me.
It was the photograph on the nightstand—an old picture of us, taken when I was five. His smile then was carefree, unburdened. My face was innocent, untouched. My chest tightened. La mia piccola principessa. His little princess.
He walked to a shelf, almost hesitant, and opened a small box. “I kept all your things.”
Memories spilled out—the faint, dusty scent of old books and childhood toys. Scribbled pages. A sticker book, battered and faded but unmistakably mine. My throat closed as tears stung my eyes.
He said nothing, just watched me. In his gaze was regret. And love.
“Grazie,” I whispered, the lump in my throat choking the words. “It means so much.”
He smiled faintly and set a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll always have a home here.”
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.
“Maybe something Italian? It’s been so long since I’ve had real Italian food.”
“Perfect. I’ll have the cook prepare something special.”
I sank back onto the bed, drawing a long breath. For that moment, thoughts of Damian faded away.