Chapter 11
Katarina
I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel too heavy, almost like they’re glued together. I try to move my limbs, but a throbbing ache pins me to the mattress.
Where am I?
I squint, trying to focus my eyes so I can see my surroundings.
As it slowly clears, I see a very tall white ceiling, decorated with intricate carvings, and a huge chandelier hanging in the center.
The walls are covered with Bordeaux Victorian wallpaper; its intricate patterns match the ceiling carvings.
On my left are two arched windows, their velvet curtains pulled, letting in light that hurts my eyes.
Across the bed, a massive stone fireplace dominates the wall, its hearth dark and empty, flanked by two small Chesterfield armchairs and a coffee table.
The room is cool, and the chill makes me shiver.
As my senses come to life, I draw the thick duvet higher as the panic begins to twist my stomach. I push myself up, but a stabbing pain assaults my right shoulder.
“Ah!” I gasp, collapsing back against the pillows.
I look down and realize that I’m wearing a hospital gown with no markings. My right arm is strapped to my chest in a sling, while my left hand has an IV line taped to the vein.
Did I get shot? Is this a hospital?
Memories flash in my mind like disjointed movie scenes. Mateo is on the floor. The gun in my hand. Lux.
“Hello?!” I try to say, but nothing comes out.
I clear my throat and try again. “HELLO?!”
Footsteps approach the door from outside. I scoot backward to the bed until my back hits the padded headboard. When the door opens, a tall man walks in.
He’s wearing a gray suit, the inner white shirt unbuttoned, revealing his tatted chest. His dark hair is long and wavy, some of it tucked behind his right ear. When his eyes catch mine, I freeze.
Damiano.
That’s right, he helped me after I pointed a gun at him.
“Dolcezza,” he says softly, his long strides closing the distance between us in a few steps. He sits on an armchair that seems to have been placed on the side of the bed specifically for this moment. Or has he been sitting here when I was sleeping?
I offer a faint smile in response.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
He extends a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from my face. The gesture is so intimate and tender that it sends a weird zap of electricity down my spine. I straighten my posture, and immediately regret it as pain flares in my shoulder.
“Ouch, did I get shot?” I whisper as my throat burns.
He seems to notice and reaches for the pitcher on the nightstand and pours water into a glass beside it. When I raise my arm to take it, he shakes his head slightly and holds the glass near my mouth so I can drink. He tips it over slightly as I finish the whole glass. God, I was thirsty.
“Want more?” he asks, and I notice his accent is thicker than usual. I shake my head and lean back against the headboard, feeling dizzy.
“You didn’t get shot,” he says, setting the glass down. “You dislocated your shoulder.”
I wince, as if hearing the diagnosis makes the pain real.
“I’ve never dislocated anything before,” I whisper mindlessly.
“How did you do it?” he asks. I swallow the lump in my throat and nod as I remember.
“To get out of the zip ties,” I answer.
When I look at him, his face is unreadable, but his eyes are soft. Familiar. And somehow, having him here makes the panic I felt earlier recede. I close my eyes and lean my cheek into his large palm when he reaches for my face.
“I’m sorry about Mateo.” His words hang in the air for a long second. I swallow the lump in my throat as I remember the gaping hole in my chest from the death of my brother. Damiano wipes my tears with his thumb.
“I have no one now. No family left.” I look at him when I say.
The pain is unbearable, and it feels like I am drowning. I close my eyes, and I see Mateo’s body jerking back as the bullet hits him. I hear his last breath. Suddenly, my breathing becomes labored, and my hands start to shake.
“Where is he?” I ask, my voice trembling. “His body?”
“We didn’t find his body. Someone cleaned it before your brother’s men got there.”
God, I don’t even get to bury him. Where could he be? Probably dumped in the middle of nowhere. I can’t control the pain in my chest, and before I knew it, I was having a panic attack in front of Damiano.
“Kat, look at me.” Damiano’s voice starts to sound like he’s so far away.
I can’t breathe. My chest feels like it turned into a rock, and I start to hyperventilate.
Suddenly, warmth crashes against my lips, and everything stops.
Damiano is kissing me. His lips engulf mine, and his tongue brushes mine gently. I whimper when I inhale through my nose, my breathing leveling out.
When he breaks away, he stares into my eyes as if searching for something before kissing me again.
This time, he deepens the kiss, and the pain in my chest alleviates as my mind focuses on kissing him back.
I feel tears fall down my temples as I squeeze my eyes shut, but Damiano wipes them away with his thumbs.
“Don’t disappear on me like that, Dolcezza. Look at me.” He whispers, his warm breath brushing my swollen lips. He examines my face while his thumb continues to wipe away tears that escape my eyes.
“What am I going to do?” I ask, hoping he has answers. But he shakes his head and keeps scanning my worried face.
“Just hold onto me.” He says before pressing another kiss on my lips, then my cheeks, and down my neck. He pulls me in, rubbing my back, and I melt into the warmth of his embrace. We stay like that for a while.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here. You have me.”
I look up at him and trace the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He catches my hand and kisses my palm.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“You need to eat. You’ve been sleeping for almost two days.”
My eyes go wide. “Two days? Why didn't you wake me?!”
“The doctor said you need all the rest you can get,” he says. I think about the long hours I’ve been asleep. How did I even get here? What did Damiano do while I was sleeping? Where am I?
“Don’t worry. You have to regain your strength, okay?” he whispers.
“Who would do this to us?” I ask.
“Alfonso Cruz was working for someone in the Mafia.” I freeze.
“What?”
“That motherfucker wanted to sell you as part of his other illegal shipment to a man called Nicolo Guidicelli.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“He’s part of the mafia.” He rubs his nape before answering.
I stare at him. Surely, he’s joking. I snort and roll my eyes, and wait for him to deliver the punchline. Only he doesn’t laugh. He frowns even, as if my reaction was wrong.
I swallow.
And as if hearing my thoughts, he shakes his head.
What the hell?
“W-why would he want to sell me?” I shiver as the words leave my mouth.
“I’m finding out. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore because you’re safe here.” He promises.
A cold wave washes over me, and my palms begin to sweat.
"How did you know?" I manage to whisper.
“That day, at my pub. Your politician friend, I overheard him talking to another man about shipping goods and a specific model requested by an Italian client. I wasn’t 100% sure it was you they were talking about, but when he called you right after his meeting, I got suspicious.
That’s why I invited you to Lux, so you don’t meet him.
When you came pointing a gun at me, I knew I should have done more to warn you and Mateo.
” He explains, the guilt in his tone is apparent.
“Who is Nicolo, and why does he want me?” This time, Damiano pulls away and rests his back against the chair. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs.
“Nicolo, he is part of the Sicilian Mafia.” He says after a long, agonizing silence. “And so am I.” He adds.
I blink a few times, trying to make sense of what I just heard.
“So are you?” I frown.
“Yes,” he says, with a finality that lets me know he is not kidding in any way.
My mouth goes dry, and I feel the hair all over my body stand.
“How?” I find the courage to ask after a few seconds.
“I was born into it.” He replies, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“The only difference is that I will never fucking hurt you.” He adds, his eyebrows knitting together as his eyes pleaded for me to understand.
Then he takes a deep breath before saying, “I am Damiano Cotrini, son of Don Cotrini of the Sicilian Mafia called La Famiglia.” He adds.
Cotrini? I always knew him as Damiano Collarini. The realization that he lied about his true identity is a jab straight to my gut. His words send a paralyzing cold through my veins. A feeling that is more painful than my broken shoulder. I blink a few times, tasting the lingering fear on my tongue.
“Cotrini,” I whisper. I look away, and the room suddenly feels suffocating.
Memories of the first time I met him and how he told me he’s in Argentina to live a peaceful life rewind in my mind. Was he running from his old life? I never saw him be rude, violent, or an asshole to anybody, except when he once hit a guy who was harassing me.
How could it be? How could he be who he says he is?
When I look back at him, his expression is different. His eyes, always so sharp and alive, are now weighed down and clouded. I feel tears rising. I look at the window instead and press my thumbnail into my palm until it hurts.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“My home… in Sicily,” he says.
I close my eyes. So not only was my brother killed, but the Mafia is after me, and the man I love is a criminal. He took me to Sicily without my consent, too.
“I want to sleep.” That’s all I could come up with. I turn my back on him, lying on the bed.
He doesn’t say another word, but I feel him leave after a minute. When I hear the door click behind him, I cry.
For Mateo.
For all the innocence in me that's been lost.
For Damiano, and everything that just changed between us.
∞∞∞
The next day, all I could do was sleep. It rained a couple of times since last night, and the room feels perpetually cold despite the heat coming from the fireplace.
A maid comes in and out of the room bringing food, but I don’t touch it.
She never speaks to me, even when I thank her.
She’s probably tired of bringing me trays of food that I don’t touch.
A doctor also checks up on me multiple times a day, but he refuses to give me stronger medicines for the pain, saying I have had enough. It’s so strange being taken care of by so many strangers in a stranger’s home. In a criminal’s home.
All I want to do is sleep and make everything disappear. But every time I do, a horrible nightmare terrorizes me. I dream of Mateo dying again and again, and the pain becomes stronger and stronger.
I dream of Damiano too. I dream of the times we shared when he was pretending to be a boyfriend for the media.
Then the night would end, and then he would break up with me again and again.
Just like he did when he told me it was all pretend to him.
That I shouldn’t love him because I don’t know who he really is.
I’m mourning the death of Mateo, but at the same time, I feel as if I’ve lost Damiano too. That somehow the Damiano I fell in love with was also taken away from me.
How could he even be who he says he is? He’s just the playboy at Lux that women fall in line for. He’s the man who tried to save me from so many bad things. He was my brother’s friend. How is he the criminal he says he is, and are also all those things to me?
I clutch the duvet to my chest as fresh tears come out.
I can’t even feel my swollen eyes anymore, and I’m surprised there are still tears coming out.
I had hoped that after a few cries, the pain would be less excruciating.
But it stays the same. There’s not a single thought that makes it go away, even when I think about Mateo’s laugh or puppies.
Puppy, shit.
I wonder what happened to Pedro. I sit up and consider calling someone to ask. But the thought of talking to Damiano after I pushed him away seems contradictory.
Besides, why would he even care about a puppy? He probably has people to kill or things to steal. Isn’t that what the Mafia does? It makes me wonder whether he's done any of those since I’ve met him. The thought sends fear down my spine.
Will he kill me, too? No, he said he won’t hurt me.
But why would I be an exception?
If all the things I’ve heard about the mafia are true, men like him do not care about others, except maybe their families or lovers. I’m neither of those to him.
Why did Mateo even ask him to protect me? He probably has no idea. If he knew, I’m sure he wouldn’t have.
I need to leave this place.
I can’t stay here knowing he’s capable of doing all those things.
I’m not safe here.