30. Secrets
Chapter thirty
Secrets
(Danica)
If Dante wasn't getting uncharacteristically impatient for my company, I could've slept at least another three hours. Two weeks since our Vegas wedding and we were no closer to solving our conundrum with the ports.
Begrudgingly, I open my eyes, squinting against the light streaming through the half-drawn curtains. He's been hovering this morning, checking on me every half hour like I might disappear if he doesn't. That's usually my first clue that something's on his mind.
"Good morning, moglie mia." Dante kisses me fully awake, and I grin, despite wishing I was still asleep. The clock on the bedside makes it clear that we're way beyond "morning" already, but Dante will always tell me good morning, no matter what time I wake up.
"What do you want?" I growl at him, pretending to be mad. But I know that look in his eyes—he's been building up to something. The careful way he's watching me, the slight tension in his shoulders that wasn't there last night.
"We have work to do," he says simply, planting a kiss on my nose. But his hands linger a moment too long, his touch more deliberate than usual. Almost like he's trying to memorize me.
I can't help but smile, taking his face in my hands. "Hey, baby."
"Hmm, I'll never get tired of you calling me that," Dante tells me as he covers me in caresses. There's a new tenderness in his touch this morning, something almost reverent about the way his fingers trace each curve. It's like he's fortifying himself for something.
When his fingers reach my lower back, I flinch, as always. It's an involuntary reaction, one I've never been able to control even after all these years together. His hand freezes, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. That's when I know.
Today is the day he's finally going to push.
He's touched my scars before, of course—accidentally at first, then carefully, cautiously, as our relationship grew.
But he's always respected my silence, my subtle withdrawals when his fingers grazed those raised lines.
Even in our most intimate moments, when his hands would map every inch of my body, he would skirt around those damaged territories with careful reverence.
Four years of looking away when I turned my back from him while changing. Four years of questions caught behind his teeth, curiosity swallowed down with silent understanding. Four years of watching my face tighten whenever anyone mentioned childhood or family.
He hesitates, seeking my gaze, before asking the question I've been avoiding for as long as we've known each other.
"These marks..." Dante's fingers trace the raised lines that map my back, his touch feather-light against the scarred tissue. The mattress dips as he shifts closer, his chest warm against my skin. "Tell me, Donna Fera, who did this to you? You're my wife now; I want to know who hurt you."
There's a quiet desperation in his voice that I've never heard before. Not just curiosity, but necessity—like he can't move forward without this piece of me. Like something inside him needs to know who to hate for marking his Queen.
The question pierces through my post-sleep haze like an ice shard. The silk sheets suddenly feel abrasive against my skin, the room too warm yet somehow freezing. My throat constricts as memories I've spent years burying claw their way to the surface.
I sigh.
Is this it? Is it time?
I don't want to keep living in fear of that question...
Not from my own husband.
"Promise you won't hurt them." The words come out barely above a whisper.
I'm not actually going to tell him, am I?
But I think I am...
What is the point of keeping secrets from Dante? He already knows everything else—my darkest desires, my greatest fears, my cruelest impulses. He's seen me at my worst and loved me anyway. This is the last wall between us, the final door I've kept locked.
Might as well get it all out.
I turn to meet Dante's gaze, searching those emerald eyes for mercy I already know I won't find. In the dim light of the bedroom, my husband's features are cast in shadow, but I can see the muscles working in his jaw.
"Tell me." His voice has shifted—no longer my tender submissive but Don Dante Fera, the man who makes grown men tremble. His body becomes rigid against mine, muscles coiling like a predator preparing to strike. The change in him is palpable, electric.
"Dante, please promise me." I hate how my voice wavers, how vulnerable I sound.
"I can't." Two simple words, delivered with the weight of a death sentence.
The silence between us feels thick enough to cut with a knife.
I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. My heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it. This moment feels a hundred times scarier than taking on the Russian mob...
"It was my brothers." The words I've held back for so long taste like ash in my mouth. "It was long ago," I quickly add like it would absolve them their sins.
Dante’s fists clench beside me, knuckles bleaching white against tanned skin. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees as fury radiates off him in waves. I can feel the tension vibrating through his body where it touches mine.
"Go on." The words come through gritted teeth.
I lean back against his chest, needing his warmth even as I dread his reaction. My fingers work to uncurl his, threading through until our hands are intertwined. His pulse races against my palm as I speak.
"I was nine. They were almost seventeen..."
The memory writhes up like a serpent. How many years has it been since I've spoken of this? The last time, they called me a liar. Said I was seeking attention. Blamed me for my own torture. Even now, decades later, their voices echo in my head, mocking and cruel.
"My parents were very strict…" My voice sounds distant, hollow. "Always working, never around. Raising kids is expensive, you know, especially when a third one shows up unplanned." A bitter laugh escapes me. "Moi. The mistake. The financial burden. The one who ruined everything."
Dante's free hand moves to my hair, stroking gently. The tenderness in his touch nearly breaks me.
A tear escapes, rolling down my cheek. I don’t try to wipe it away.
"Before me, everything was perfect. At least, that's the story they all cling to.
Two golden-haired twins, Marko and Filip.
" Their names feel like poison on my tongue, and I feel Dante tense at the mention of them.
"They excelled at everything—academics, sports, life.
Marko especially...God, he could sell ice to an Eskimo.
So smart. So conniving. Always planning, always three steps ahead.
And Filip..." My voice catches. "Filip just wanted to be like his brother. Always following, always trying to impress. Together they were...they were monsters wearing angel masks, pretending to be exemplary.”
"Not so exemplary in reality?" Dante's question is soft, encouraging, but I can hear the lethal undertone, feel the barely contained rage in how his fingers tighten slightly in my hair.
“Angels in public. Devils at home." The words tumble out faster now, like a dam breaking.
"They'd torment me when our parents were out.
Make up games where I was always the victim.
Cut my hair, break my toys, lock me in closets...
And when I'd cry or fight back, they'd turn it around and gaslight me.
Poor troubled Danica, they'd say. Can't control her emotions. Making up stories for attention.”
Dante's breathing grows heavier, his chest rising and falling against my back in controlled fury. "Your parents never intervened?”
"They saw what they wanted to see. Two perfect sons and one problem daughter." My laugh comes out sharp, brittle. "Do you know how hard it is to keep up your grades when living in constant fear of your own family? When your brothers steal your homework or keep you up all night with their 'games'?"
“You were just a kid, Danica…”
“I don’t remember a time when it was different.
I was always their guinea pig, their slave, their prisoner—depending on what movie they watched that week.
Our parents didn’t allow us much TV; they were so strict.
But the boys did what they wanted when our parents were at work.
Watched what they wanted. And then they always had to reenact their favorite scenes with their poor little sister as the star of the show. ”
"Tell me how you got these scars, Tesoro." Dante's fingers trace the raised lines on my back, and suddenly, I'm nine years old again, small and scared and so very alone.
The words stick in my throat. Four years he's waited for this story. Four years of patience, of gentle questions met with silence. I’ve been too scared to tell him. To relive it. But his touch grounds me to now, to him, to safety.
"Hide and seek," I whisper. "That's what they called it. Just another game." A bitter laugh escapes me.
I feel Dante go still behind me, but he doesn't interrupt. Just waits, his heartbeat steady against my back.
"I was so small then. So trusting, even after everything they'd done before. They tied my hands—rough rope that bit into my skin. Kingsly followed me into the shed..." My voice catches. "He was my only friend, that dog. Golden retriever. Used to sleep outside my door to guard me from them."
The memory crashes over me like a tsunami wave. "The shed was their favorite place. Dark. Private. Far enough from the house that no one could hear...They left a candle. Said I needed light to play their game properly. Kingsly was nervous—he always knew when they were planning something cruel."
My fingers dig into Dante's arm as the panic rises, decades old but still sharp as glass. "It happened so fast. Kingsly bumped the candle. It wasn’t his fault. They were banging on the walls; he got startled. The flame caught the old wood like it was waiting, hungry. I screamed...god, I screamed so loud. But they just laughed outside. 'Those are the rules,’ they kept saying. 'You have to stay inside.’”
Tears fall freely now, but I can't stop.
The story pours out like poison from an old wound.
"The smoke came first. Thick. Black. Couldn't breathe.
Kingsly was barking, panicking. I pulled at the ropes, but they were too tight.
Then the heat..." My hand moves unconsciously to the scars.
"The ropes started to melt. Into my skin.
The smell...burning rope, burning flesh. My flesh."
Dante makes a sound like he's been wounded, but I barely hear him. I'm back in that shed, nine years old and dying.
"I kept waiting. For my parents. For anyone. Kept thinking someone would save me. But nobody came. Kingsly was howling. The fire was everywhere. On my back, in my lungs. I couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Just felt the excruciating pain of my skin bubbling, melting..."
My breath comes in gasps now. "I remember thinking: this is it. This is how I die. Tied up in a shed while my brothers laugh outside. Nine years old, and this is all I get."
"Tesoro..." Dante's voice breaks on the word.
"I don't remember getting out. The ropes had melted enough...or maybe the wood was weak. Everything was fire and smoke and screaming. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. But Kingsly..." A sob tears free. "He didn't make it. My only friend, and they killed him."
"Tell me they paid," Dante's voice is deadly quiet. "Tell me someone made them suffer."
The laugh that tears from my throat is ugly, broken. "One weekend grounded. That's what they got for nearly killing their sister. Because what would people say if they knew? ‘Think of their futures,’ my parents said. ‘It was an accident,’ they said. ‘Don't ruin this for them, Danica.’”
"Your parents..." The rage in his voice is barely contained.
"Blamed me. For making a fuss. For ruining the perfect family image. The twins got to keep playing their games, just...differently after that. No more fire. But they made sure I never enjoyed another second of my childhood."
"You were nine..." Dante's arms tighten around me like he could shield me from the past.
"Poor Danica, making a fuss about a stupid dead dog," I mimic Marko's voice. "It never got easier. The scars healed, but the memories...they loved hiding my pain medication. Loved watching me suffer."
"And now?" His voice has gone deadly quiet.
"Now?" I wipe roughly at my tears. "Now Marko's an architect. Has a perfect wife, perfect kids. Filip's some hotshot engineer. And me? According to Marko, I deserve marrying a criminal because nobody else would want damaged goods."
I turn in Dante's arms, needing to see his face. "Now you know. Know why—”
The sob breaks free before I can stop it. This is it—the moment he sees how truly broken I am. How ugly. How worthless.
But instead of pushing me away, Dante wraps me tighter in his arms. His eyes burn with an intensity that steals my breath. "I am going to fucking end them," he hisses, the words vibrating with barely contained rage.
"No...please. This is why I didn't want to tell you." Part of why. The other part, the larger one, was the fear that he would see me differently, treat me like I’m fragile, treat me like a victim…
"They can't just get away with it, Tesoro." Dante’s voice breaks on the endearment. "The thought of you going through that...I wish I could have protected you."
"It wasn't your job; I had parents for that." My voice sounds small, even to my own ears. "But I guess I wasn't worth the trouble."
"Look at me." His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away my tears. Those emerald eyes bore into mine, fierce with love and fury and protection. "You are worth everything. You are a Queen. My Queen. And anyone who ever made you feel otherwise..."
He doesn't finish the threat, just presses his lips to my eyelids, kissing away the tears that won't stop flowing. I can feel him trembling with suppressed rage, even as his touch remains gentle on my skin.
The secret is finally out, hanging between us like smoke from a long-ago fire. But for the first time, the telling of it doesn't leave me feeling hollow. Instead, wrapped in Dante's arms, his heartbeat strong against my cheek, I feel something else entirely.
I feel free.
Raw, but free.