Chapter 16
Katarina
I linger in the tub for a long while, soaking in the much-needed silence. I can still feel Damiano’s hands on my skin and smell his perfume in the air.
Suddenly, memories of the night I confessed I was in love with him come back to me. That night, he told me I couldn’t possibly love him because I didn’t know he was. I guess it all makes sense now. I, in fact, had no idea who he really was.
But now that I do, why do I still want him?
I sigh.
I don’t know how to trust him fully, but I can’t find a real reason to believe he would hurt me, not even the fact that he’s a criminal.
He’s always been good to me; he’s never done anything to hurt me. Well, except when he broke my heart—that hurt like hell. But it’s not his fault that he didn’t fall for me.
Even when I threatened his life with a gun for the second time, he never dared to hurt me.
Besides, Mateo trusted him. Of all the people he could have called, he chose him. Not Julian or any of the men in his company, the ones he usually relied on.
So right now, it’s him or that strange man who ordered me off of Alfonso—that fucking bastard. I wonder what he’s doing now. Now that he knows I escaped.
I suck in a breath through clenched teeth. The grief that’s been pooling in my chest for days is shifting into something harder. Something with teeth. Something that claws at my chest, driving me fuming.
Someone has to pay for Mateo’s death.
But I know I can’t do that alone. I need Damiano. I need him to help me take that man down. First, he will help me figure out why they targeted me, and then he will help me avenge Mateo’s death.
I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale deeply before pulling myself up. I grab the porcelain sides of the clawfoot bathtub and carefully rise, watching the water slowly drain. I take the telephone shower and rinse my body with cold water, the sensation giving me renewed energy.
When I’m done, I grab a towel and pat my skin dry, avoiding the bruises on my body and the wounds on my feet. When I wipe the condensation off the mirror, I gasp.
Dark circles form like pillows under my eyes. Black and blue bruises map my body. My face has a healing gash that splits my left brow, and there’s a fading yellow bruise that shadows my right jaw. My cheeks are gaunt, too. I lost so much weight.
I look like I aged ten years in the past 4 days.
I banish the urge to cry when I start feeling sorry for myself.
I brush my teeth, dry my hair, and when I’m done, I wrap a bathrobe around my body and look for something to wear.
I walk over to Damiano's enormous walk-in closet, where I had grabbed one of his shirts earlier, and sigh when I realize I might have to wear his underwear too.
I debated calling him for help, but decided against it. I’m not ready to face him yet after that shameful tub incident.
I scan each section of the clothes rack hanging on the wall, illuminated by elegant lights. I see rows and rows of designer clothing. In the middle of the room is a big glass countertop that holds expensive watches and jewelry.
He has expensive taste; some of these designers are not even known to me. Damn, his closet is even bigger than what I had at home. When I come to the last section of the wall rack, I freeze.
Dresses. Pants. Blouses.
These are mine.
I pull out the drawer unit underneath. My underwear is there, neatly folded. I sigh in relief, but quickly wonder who took these from my closet at my house and feel a rush of blood to my face.
Shit, I hope it wasn’t him.
I pick the most comfortable choice—a white sundress with thin straps. When I’m dressed, I go back to the bedroom.
The clock on the nightstand reads 12:00 AM.
The house is quiet, and the room is chill with the autumn air. I go to the balcony and close the door to keep the cold wind out, but when I look up, the sight takes my breath away. The black velvet sky is peppered with thousands of stars. As my gaze drifts down, my jaw drops in awe.
I hadn’t noticed the beauty of this place before, too focused on adrenaline and running to see it.
It’s a fortress carved into a magnificent piece of nature, the manicured gardens spread across the land.
Tall trees encircled the property, forming a living wall offering absolute privacy.
The enormous villa is perched on a mountain, boasting panoramic views.
There were no surrounding neighbors, only the dark, silent forest below.
From this vantage point, in the far distance, I could see the sparkling line of the sea, shining under moonlight.
I grip the balcony railing and let out a slow breath through my nose.
God, I wasn’t gonna make it out there on foot.
This secluded palace seems to defy the world. It suddenly makes so much sense: the expensive taste, the inherent air of entitlement, the effortless charm. Damiano was raised in a world of power and money.
Is this why Mateo trusted him? My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden growl in my stomach. For the first time since coming here, I feel the hunger.
I limp toward the door, steadying myself against the furniture as I go. When I open it, I find the hallway dimly lit by a few wall lamps. To my right, an armchair sits with a newspaper draped over it—like someone had been keeping watch there.
Did he really put a guard at the door? I roll my eyes, push down my irritation, and move on.
As I make my way down the hall, I pass through a long gallery lined with oil paintings that look like they belong in the Louvre. Silent, judgmental stares from solemn ancestors, whose eyes carry the same cold green as Damiano's, follow my every step.
To call this a house is laughable. This place is a castle—a monument of stolen power and blood.
I make my way downstairs, past what looks like two massive living areas, until I finally find a kitchen. It dazzles with soaring ceilings, a grand marble island, custom wood cabinetry, and gleaming top-of-the-line appliances, all bathed in the moonlight spilling from the skylight.
I hobble towards the refrigerator and pull the door open, the bright LED light blinding me for a painful second. The hum of the refrigerator motor suddenly feels too loud, so I grab a bottle of water, push the door shut, and turn around.
"Jesus!" I gasp, nearly dropping the bottle.
Damiano is standing right there, leaning against the central marble island, watching me in the dark. He is dressed only in black silk pajama pants, his feet bare, and his chest exposed.
The moonlight catches the angry line of the bullet scar on his right shoulder, highlighting the corded muscle and the intricate tattoos that cover his skin. He looks like a predator, waiting patiently for the right moment to attack his prey.
"Hungry?" he asks, his voice husky as if he just got out of bed. I clutch the water bottle to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You scared me. Do you always haunt your own hallways at midnight?"
"Only when my guests decide to go for a wander at the wee hours of the night," he says, his gaze scanning me from head to toe.
"Sit down, before you fall," he says after a beat.
I don't have the strength to argue, so I slide onto one of the barstools and watch him.
He doesn't call a maid or ring a silver bell for service. He moves toward the pantry with ease and pulls out a box of artisanal pasta, a carton of eggs, and a slab of guanciale.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Making you something worth the effort of walking down those stairs," he says, his back to me as he sets a pot of water to boil. "Carbonara. It was the only thing that made you eat when you were recovering from the accident."
The accident.
The memory of how we cared for me for weeks after pulling me out of that wreck hits me.
He didn’t need to be there, but every day he would show up at the hospital.
He would feed me and make me laugh to make sure I didn’t die of boredom or depression.
Then, when Sol suggested we pretend the accident was a love spat, he agreed without a second thought.
He did all that for me, and yet he would never admit he cared for me more than a friend.
Was it because he knew that if I found out about his true identity, he thought I’d run? Or am I just kidding myself, thinking he must feel something more?
I watch him in stunned silence. There is something profoundly surreal about seeing a man who apparently commands an army of bad people standing over a stove.
I watch as he handles the kitchen knife with terrifying precision, dicing the meat into perfect, uniform cubes, and try hard not to imagine him doing horrible things with those same hands.
When he moves on, the sound of the whisk against the bowl as he mixes the egg yolks and pecorino is loud but comforting. Soon, the smell begins to fill the kitchen—salty, rich, and intoxicatingly savory. It makes my stomach growl loudly.
He slides a warm porcelain bowl in front of me when he’s done. The pasta is glossy, coated in a rich, golden sauce, and flecked with freshly cracked black pepper. He pours a glass of white wine and sets it down beside the plate. Then he stands there, arms crossed over his tattooed chest.
I stare at him in confusion.
“Are you not gonna eat?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
I grab the fork and twirl it on the pasta before taking a bite. It’s perfect. It tastes so good, I could cry.
After I swallow the second bite, the quiet becomes uncomfortable. So I take a sip of the wine and look at him.
"Why?" I ask.
"Why what?" he asks, confused.
"Why help me? You said you’re a criminal. You run criminal activities, you—you kill people..." I set the fork down, the weight of the walls around us suddenly feeling suffocating.
"And why do they want me? Why would the Mafia care about a random woman from Argentina?"
My voice trembles, but I push the words out.
"I hate men like those, Damiano. Men like Alfonso Cruz."
His eyes narrow at me.
"Alfonso, he terrified me. People like him looked at me... like—like I was an object he could own if he paid enough. He thought his title gave him the right to buy me. He made me feel small. Like an object."
I look up at him, my eyes burning.
"Is that what this is? Am I just another transaction to you people? Just another toy to play with?"
His expression hardens. The domestic softness vanishes into a mask of cold calculation.
"Alfonso Cruz is a gnat," his voice rumbles. "A petty thief in a suit. But you are right to be afraid of men who view you as currency."
He leans forward, his large hands flat on the counter, face inches from mine.
"You’re here because I care about you. And because your brother knew exactly what was coming, Kat. Mateo wasn't a fool. He called me because he knew I was the only man capable of standing between you and those men.”
"I don't need you to do that," I say, my voice rising with desperate bravado. Challenging, wanting to see his true intentions. "I'll be fine. Mateo had men—a whole company of trained men. I can go back. They can protect me. I can tell the media what Alfonso did.”
Damiano lets out a harsh, bitter laugh that echoes off the room.
"You don't understand the world you have stumbled into, Kat. This isn't a business rivalry. Nicolo Guidicelli isn't just a corrupt politician like Aflonso. He is a monster who deals in the one commodity the rest of the mafia families refuse to trade: people."
He reaches out, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw. His touch is possessive. Terrifyingly firm.
"He is a trafficker. He moves people like they are cattle. And for some reason, he has fixed his sights on you."
He leans in closer that I can see the gold flecks in his irises.
"You have no choice, Dolcezza. If I let you walk out that front gate right now, you won't even make it to the airport. You will be in a crate in the back of a van before the sun comes up."
I find no emptiness in his warning.
"You are in my care now, under the shield of my family name. And that is the only thing on this earth that Nicolo fears. I am your only hope of surviving this, Katarina. Whether you like it or not."
I look into his eyes. I feel the sheer, magnetic power of the man standing before me.
And I realize the most terrifying truth of all.
I don't want to leave.