Chapter 9
Dante
Five days have passed. She’s improving, but still hasn’t regained consciousness. I beg her to open those beautiful grey eyes, but she never does. It feels intentional, like she’s choosing not to come back just yet.
The bruises have begun to fade, but they’re still there, marring her skin, and every time I see them, something primal ignites in me. A fury that doesn’t burn out, no matter how tightly I grip the reins. It takes everything I have not to leave this room and start carving a path through the world until I find him.
Piero is still missing. No trace. My men, along with Ricci’s and Moretti’s, are scouring every inch of the map, day and night. It won’t be long before he slips, they always do. He’ll have to crawl out of whatever hole he’s buried himself in eventually.
And when he does, we’ll be waiting.
Prepared.
And entirely without mercy. He no longer has his relative to help cover his tracks. And once I have him, he’ll wish he’d never drawn breath.
Mattia spends his days in an armchair beside Harlow’s bed. It’s where he eats, reads, plays his video games, only leaving when it’s time to sleep. Her disappearance cut something out of him, changed him in ways I don’t think he’ll ever fully recover from. He barely speaks, maybe two words a day, if that. And even those feel like a victory. He keeps it all buried, locked away behind silent eyes. He’s even more withdrawn now than when he was as a boy, asking questions about a mother who was never there, trying to understand the absence, trying to make sense of a void no child should ever have to name.
Mario and Leonardo have taken over the business, the Camorra, while I remain here. I haven’t stepped beyond these walls since she was brought back to me.
I refuse to leave her side. Nothing takes precedence over her.
As I sit in bed, laptop resting on my legs while I catch up on some work, Mattia occupies the chair beside her, quietly absorbed in a book. Harlow lies still between us, her beautiful face serene, eyes closed, untouched by the noise of the world around her.
A knock breaks the silence. The door opens to reveal Bianca, a tray of food and drinks in her hands. The doctor follows closely behind. Bianca casts a glance toward the bed, then sets the tray down on the table before fixing her gaze on Mattia.
“Mangia.”
She says sternly.
Then she turns that same look on me.
“I brought your coffee Sir, and some food.”
I give her a nod. But this will be left untouched and she knows it, there’s no point in trying to eat. Everything tastes hollow. Empty. And right now, I simply can’t.
The doctor checks Harlow’s vitals before turning to me.
“She’s stabilizing. I’ll be removing the oxygen, she’s breathing steadily on her own now. The IV can come out as well.”
I offer a silent acknowledgment, eyes fixed on every movement he makes as he tends to her. I watch each contact, every adjustment, as though my gaze alone might guard her. When he finishes, he excuses himself and slips out without another word.
Bianca follows, leaving the room in silence. It’s the same rhythm we’ve lived in for days now, it feels suffocating.
The day drags in that familiar, drawn out way, each hour indistinguishable from the last, until another knock breaks through the quiet. I already know who it is. Harlow’s family checks in constantly, none of them seem capable of staying away for long.
Her father and brothers have been living under my roof since the moment she was brought home, and not once have they so much as suggested leaving. They’ve also spent more time here than in Palermo over the past month, a silent testament to their devotion.
When she vanished, unreachable and gone without a trace, they unravelled, just as I did. We were all losing our minds, tearing through every lead, searching for her day and night.
I understand it’s no small concession, for men like them, born into power, accustomed to authority, to remain under another man’s territory. Especially mine.
But they do.
For Harlow.
Because she’s family. And I can see it in their expressions how they would burn the world down for her.
The door opens, revealing Enzo. His gaze goes straight to Harlow, as it always does. His hair is longer now, unruly and pulled back into a careless knot at the nape of his neck. We’ve all let something slip, appearance, sleep, reason, in pursuit of one singular objective, vengeance.
He steps inside without a sound, his expression dark. Before he can shut the door behind him, another figure slips through, Niccolò, his usual smirk in place, but void. The life, stripped from it. If I had to guess, this is his armour, he hides behind the humour to keep himself from spiralling.
We all have our demons. We just dress them differently.
Our bedroom has become a constant gathering place. Everyone comes to see my wife, to reassure themselves that she’s here, that she’s safe. It wears on me, but I don’t say a word. She needs this, to know she’s surrounded. To know she’s loved.
Because she never had that before. Not under Carmela, that cold, manipulative cunt, who made damn sure love was something she went without. And also not from the father she was told, her entire life, didn’t want her. A man she believed had rejected her before she ever had a chance to be his.
“How is she?”
Enzo asks.
“Still unconscious,”
I reply.
“But the doctor expects signs of waking soon.”
Enzo nods, his jaw tense.
Niccolò steps to the bed and takes Harlow’s hand gently in his own.
“Hey there, sorella,”
he says, his tone light and forced.
“You picked a hell of a way to take a break from us. Not dramatic at all.”
His smile flickers, but it doesn’t hold. He exhales, eyes locked on her like he’s trying to will her to move.
“She looks better.”
He adds, quieter now.
Mattia sits in the chair, watching everything unfold. His book lies forgotten in his lap. Enzo turns slightly toward him.
“You holding up, piccolo?”
Mattia says nothing, just a subtle tilt of his head before his attention returns to Harlow.
“He hasn’t said much.” I murmur.
Enzo glances at me, then at Harlow.
“I imagine he’s waiting just as anxiously for her to wake as the rest of us are,”
he says quietly.
“And she will, she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known. But when she does… we’ll need to be stronger.”
“We will be,”
I answer.
“Starting with dismantling the bastard who did this, piece by piece. Nothing less will suffice.”
Niccolò looks up, his grin fades completely now.
“I can’t wait to get my hands on the fucker. I’ll bring my knives.”
The room falls still again. The only sound is her soft, steady breathing. They linger a few more minutes, but eventually, they drift out, offering quiet nods on their way.
Some time passes before the door opens again. This time, it’s Giovanni and Darion. They enter quietly, eyes going straight to Harlow’s unconscious form. One of them asks how she’s doing, and I offer a brief update, just what the doctor said.
Neither speaks after that. They stand by her side in silence, the weight of their presence solemn. When they finally leave, it’s a quiet retreat, no words, just the soft hush of the door closing behind them.
“It’s getting late,”
I say to Mattia.
He looks at me, then stands from the armchair without protest. With care, he steps to the bed and presses a soft kiss to Harlow’s forehead.
“I’ll come by to say goodnight,” I add.
“I don’t need to be tucked in.”
He mutters, stubborn as ever.
“I know,”
I say evenly.
“But I will anyway.”
He doesn’t argue further. Simply turns and leaves, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
After I’ve taken the time to shower and change, I make my way to my son’s room, just as I said I would. He’s already asleep, his breathing steady and peaceful. I stand there for a moment, just watching him, then pull the covers up a little higher and press a kiss to his forehead.
Back in the master bedroom, I settle in beside my wife. She hasn’t moved, not so much as an inch. I lie there in the dark, watching her, counting her every breath. And eventually, without intending to, I drift into the dark.
***
I’m ripped from sleep by a scream so sharp, so guttural, it feels like it splits the air in half. The walls seem to reverberate with it. My hand flies instinctively to the gun on the nightstand. I scan the room, the door is shut, undisturbed. The only light filters in from the bathroom, where I’d left the door slightly ajar in case Harlow woke during the night.
I glance toward the bed, and there she is. Sitting upright, knees drawn to her chest, her body rocking back and forth like she’s trying to escape something only she can see. Her breath comes in frantic bursts. A second scream tears from her throat—raw, broken, and then she starts thrashing, arms flailing against unseen restraints, legs kicking out wildly beneath the blankets.
She’s trapped in it.
Her eyes are open but vacant, unseeing, wide and wild, fixed on something that doesn’t exist in this room. She screams again. A sound that carves straight through me. I call out her name, not loudly, not sharply, but with the kind of quiet power I hope can cut through the nightmare.
But she doesn’t hear me.
And in that moment, I fucking die.
My soul fractures watching my wife unravel before my eyes, utterly powerless to ease her torment.
The agony in my chest is so sharp, so consuming, it steals the breath from my lungs. A blade to the heart would be mercy compared to this. Watching her suffer like this, it’s the cruellest kind of punishment.
I set my gun down on the nightstand and reach for her, hoping that touch might anchor her. But the moment my hand grazes her shoulder, I realize I’ve made a grave mistake—she recoils instantly, then lets out another raw, piercing scream.
She’s trapped inside her own mind, lost in a nightmare so vivid, so consuming, she can’t see me. Can’t hear me. And I’m left standing there, motionless. Useless. Powerless. Because I have no idea how to reach her.
I failed her.
Again.
I don’t know how to pull her back, how to ease the agony clawing at her from the inside.
Mattia bursts through the door, his small frame outlined by the light coming from the bathroom. His face looks so heartbreakingly innocent, but his eyes, wide and alert, hold a maturity far beyond his eight years.
“She’s having a night terror,”
I say, hoarsely.
“Go get the doctor.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods once and turns on his heel, sprinting down the hall.
Beside me, Harlow thrashes against invisible hands, her knees still pulled to her chest as her body rocks. The scream that tears from her throat is animalistic and strangled, like something being ripped from her soul. She claws at the air, murmuring fragmented pleas I can’t understand. Eyes open but unseeing.
She’s not here.
She’s still there.
Trapped in whatever hell he locked her in.
I can’t reach her.
I’m right in front of her, and I can’t fucking reach her.
Minutes pass until the door swings open with enough force to hit the wall. The doctor steps in, still fastening the buttons of his shirt over his scrubs. Giovanni follows close behind, his expression grim, jaw clenched as he takes in the scene.
Mattia lingers in the doorway, small and still. His arms are wrapped tightly around himself, but his eyes never leave Harlow, not even for a second.
I don’t want him to see any more of this. And it’s as if Giovanni reads my thoughts. He turns to Mattia, his tone firm but gentle.
“We should let the doctor work.”
“Is she alright?”
Mattia asks, barely above a whisper.
“She will be,”
Giovanni declares.
“She’s just caught in a bad dream. A strong one.”
He guides Mattia out, a steady hand on his shoulder. But before closing the door behind them, Giovanni looks back at me.
“Take care of my daughter.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. He doesn’t need one. He knows I will. He knows I’d turn this world inside out before I failed her again.
The doctor moves efficiently, placing a small medical bag on the bedside table and slipping on his gloves.
“She’s in a full parasomnia episode,”
he states as he approaches her.
“A night terror, yes. Her brain is caught between deep sleep and waking. She doesn’t recognize you. Don’t try to restrain her, it’ll worsen the panic.”
“What do we do?”
My voice is sharper than I intend, but I can’t control it.
He retrieves a pre filled syringe from his bag and checks the label.
“We ease her out. This is a mild sedative, just enough to pull her from the cycle without causing disorientation.”
“She’s already disoriented,”
I snap, then exhale sharply.
“Just… aid her.”
The doctor inclines his head and carefully administers the injection into her upper arm.
“Talk to her,”
he instructs quietly.
“Use her name. Gentle tone. Anchor her voice to yours.”
My hand hovers mere inches from hers, aching to touch, yet hesitant, afraid a single misstep might unravel her further. “Harlow,”
I murmur, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“It’s me. I’m here, leonessa. You’re safe.”
She doesn’t respond at first, but the tension in her limbs begins to ease. The violent rocking slows. Her breathing evens out by degrees, until finally her head lolls slightly to the side and her body slumps against the pillows.
She’s not awake, but the storm has passed. For now.
The doctor pulls the blanket higher over her and steps back.
“She’ll sleep deeply for a few hours. I’ll check on her again.”
I nod silently, watching him close the door behind him. I don’t trust myself to speak, there’s too much lodged in my throat.
My wife lies unconscious once again, but even in sleep, there’s no serenity in her features. Her brow remains furrowed, her mouth tense, like whatever haunts her refuses to release its grip, even now.
I stay beside her, unmoving. Eyes wide open in the dim light. To sleep feels wrong. Like a dereliction of duty. Like looking away for even a second might let something slip through the cracks and steal her from me all over again.
Instead, I reach for my phone and begin searching everything I can find on night terrors and trauma induced sleep episodes. If there’s a next time, I won’t be caught unprepared again. I’ll know what to do. But she shouldn’t have to endure something like that. Not ever again. I won’t allow it. And yet, I’m powerless.
Hours pass. The first light of dawn creeps through the curtains. Harlow remains still, sedated, her breathing soft but steady.
I rise from the bed and make my way to the bathroom, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to jolt myself into clarity, but it does little to cut through the fog. I dress in silence, my body feels heavy. Beneath the fatigue, rage simmers, tight and coiled, waiting to erupt. It gnaws at the edges of my composure, begging for release.
The gym is downstairs. And for the first time since Harlow came home, I consider stepping away from her side—even if only briefly.
I have to wrestle with myself over it. The thought of leaving her feels wrong, disloyal even. But staying still, trapped in this room, in the wake of what I just witnessed, is enough to make me want to put my fist through a wall.
I need to let the rage bleed somewhere.
Reluctantly, I reach for my phone and text Enzo. The doctor said she’d remain unconscious for several more hours, but still, the idea of not being here to watch over her, clenches like a vice around my chest.
Not long after, a quiet knock sounds at the door. I open it to find Enzo standing there, his expression grim.
“I heard what happened,”
he says, voice low and weighted.
“It’s worse than any of us could’ve imagined.”
I force the words out.
He walks over to the bed and lowers himself into the armchair, eyes fixed on his sister, brows knit with concern.
“Go,”
he says quietly.
“I’ll stay with her.”
I nod once.
“Don’t leave her side, not even for a second. The slightest movement, you call me. Understood?”
“I said I’ve got her,”
he replies, meeting my gaze.
“Now stop being a pain in my ass and go hit something before you put your fist through a wall.”
I cast one final look toward my wife before quietly pulling the door shut behind me. The sound echoes down the hall, a weight in my chest pressing harder with each step I take away from her.
I make my way through the estate, the stillness of the early morning wrapping around me like a second skin, until I reach the gym.
Inside, Mario and Leonardo are mid spar, exchanging sharp blows. They pause when they notice me, Leonardo stepping out of the ring, towelling off as he reaches for his water. He doesn’t need to ask, he knows I need the space. I set my phone down on the bench and look directly at him.
“Keep an eye on my phone. If there’s a call, a message, anything at all, you tell me immediately.”
He starts to speak, no doubt ready with one of his usual quips, but then he sees my expression. The gravity settles in. He knows this is about Harlow.
He nods, all humour gone.
“Understood. I’ll watch it.”
I step into the ring, jaw tight, vision narrowed. Mario’s already glistening with sweat, his chest rising and falling steadily. He smirks.
“Decided you needed a proper beating?”
I don’t answer. I just swing. He’s the unlucky motherfucker I get to unleash all of this on. Every hit is a release, every punch a way to bleed off the rage coiled tight beneath my skin. He takes it, dodges some, absorbs others, grunting through the impact but never backing down.
He laughs after a particularly sharp jab to the ribs, stumbling back with a wince.
“Damn, my ego,”
he mutters, breathless.
“Don’t let that leave this room.”
I don’t so much as crack a smile. He sobers quickly, watching me more closely now.
“How is she?”
He asks. Real.
“She had a night terror. Violent. Screaming. Couldn’t wake her, she didn’t even realize where she was.”
His expression hardens, and he exhales slowly. “Shit.”
“Yeah,”
I murmur.
“The doctor had to sedate her.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us is thick with everything unsaid. Then Mario rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and steps forward again. “Alright,”
he says, breath steady.
“Let’s go another round.”
I don’t argue. I step forward, tension still coiled tight in every muscle. I’ve got too much rage left to burn.
***
After a few more brutal rounds with Mario, I trade places with Leonardo. He doesn’t hold back, none of us do, but the blows feel cleaner now. Something inside me starts to settle.
By the time we finish, my body aches in that familiar, earned way, and the storm that had been tearing through my chest feels just a little quieter. The tension that had lived in my spine like a loaded gun has started to ease.
I towel off my face, grab my phone, and make my way back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
I need to see her.
I need to see my wife.
When I reach our room, I open the door quietly. My eyes find her immediately, like they always do. She’s exactly as I left her. Still. Unmoving.
Enzo sits in the armchair near the bed, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on her. When he hears the door, he glances back at me.
“She hasn’t moved. Not even a twitch,”
he answers my unspoken question.
“Appreciate it.”
He stands and heads toward the door, pausing beside me just long enough to say.
“Don’t even. She’s my sister.”
I close the door behind him. My eyes go back to the bed, to my wife.
I’m drenched in sweat and still carrying the grime of the fight. I can’t lie next to her like this. I step into the bathroom and turn the water on cold, letting it rush over me, biting. It grounds me. Keeps me from falling apart. The shower is quick. I dry off, wrap a towel around my waist, and step back into the room.
I glance instinctively at the bed, because that’s all I fucking do now, watch over my wife. But this time... this time, it’s different.
Because I’m met with the most beautiful eyes.
I freeze, my heart stuttering painfully in my chest.
Those eyes—those breathtaking grey eyes with the faintest hint of blue, the ones I missed so desperately I would’ve sold my soul to the devil for just one more glimpse, are staring right at me.
But they’re not hers. Not the way I remember.
These eyes are empty. Void. Dead.
She looks at me, but she doesn’t see me. She’s looking through me.
I approach her slowly, crouching beside the bed, lowering myself until I’m eye level with her.
She follows my every movement in silence, her gaze unwavering. I lift my hand toward her cheek, but it hesitates midair, suspended in the space between us. I don’t want to startle her. I don’t want her to recoil from my touch. The last thing I want is to add to her hurt.
But she remains still, simply watching me.
And so, with all the gentleness I can summon, I let my fingers graze her skin, a featherlight caress against her cheek, like a whisper of comfort I pray she can feel.
She doesn’t pull away, and I exhale, just a little easier. She watches me, though she isn’t really seeing. Not truly here. And so I remain, kneeling at her side, eyes fixed on hers as if anchoring us both.
“Leonessa…”
I whisper.
She flinches. It’s small, barely there. If I hadn’t studied her as closely as I do, I might’ve missed it.
But I didn’t.
My voice reached her, even if just barely. It stirred something inside her.
And then it’s gone again, buried so deep I wonder if I imagined it. Those lifeless eyes cut right through, and it fucking destroys what’s left of me.
The door creaks open, then clicks shut. When I glance up, Mattia stands frozen just inside the room. He’s staring at Harlow, lips parted in disbelief. And then—slowly, almost impossibly, his expression shifts. A grin spreads across his face, radiant and unrestrained. He hasn’t smiled since the day she was taken from us. Not once. Not even a flicker. But now, his joy is so blinding, it nearly guts me.
“Harlow,”
he says, voice full of wonder.
“you’re finally awake!”
I turn back to my wife and see her eyes locked on Mattia. She’s watching him intently. I can’t quite read her expression, but I know her. I see the war behind her gaze. She’s fighting the rush of feelings clawing their way to the surface. She swallows hard and wrenches her gaze from us, turning to the window instead. Her eyes shimmer, but not a single tear dares to break free.
Mattia notices how fragile she looks, but he doesn’t let it show. He’s too happy. Too relieved. He just takes his seat in the armchair beside her, like he never left.
As I watch my wife, the urge to punch through a wall, or put a bullet in someone’s skull, burns beneath my skin.
Helpless.
That’s what I am, sitting here while she suffers in silence.
“Do you think you could stomach a little something to eat?”
I ask her.
No answer.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the window, as if looking at us would cause her more pain than she can withstand, and I don’t yet know why.
“I’ll have Bianca bring something,”
I say, already reaching for my phone.
Still, nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
I send a message, unwilling to leave Harlow’s side.
We sit in a heavy, aching silence. Mattia and I watching her.
And her, staring blankly out the window, carefully avoiding our eyes.
If I could, I would break into her mind and tear her free from whatever prison still holds her captive. Because the woman sitting on our bed isn’t my wife, she’s a hollow echo of the woman I once knew.
But I vow, with everything I am, I’ll bring her back to us.