Chapter 21
Harlow
As I make my way toward our bedroom, I try not to look back. My steps are slower than they should be, weighted by exhaustion that reaches somewhere deeper than just my muscles. I’m not sure if it’s the conversation we just had with Luka or the therapy session earlier, maybe both, but I feel more drained than I have in days. The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and presses into your spine.
Underneath it, there’s a trace of lightness, not much, but enough to feel. I suppose that counts as progress. Even if I’m reluctant to hope.
The warmth against my skin has nothing to do with the air, the house remains temperate, well insulated from the oppressive Neapolitan summer beyond its walls.
No, this heat stems from within, from the sudden, disorienting bursts of memory that strike without rhythm or mercy. Footsteps echo in my mind, followed by the crushing stillness that once accompanied them.
Panic resurfaces, hot, suffocating, dragging with it the sound of voices, the presence of blood, the unbearable weight of recollection. It presses inward, relentless in its pursuit.
Perhaps a shower will temper it, if only briefly.
Inside the bedroom, I make my way directly to the en suite, easing the door open without a sound.
The mirror above the sink has changed. Not merely removed, but replaced entirely. Its new frame is matte steel, minimalist, unadorned, contemporary. If I had to guess, the glass is reinforced, some variation of unbreakable safety material, engineered to resist shattering, to offer no sharp edge, no means of harm. Just like the one now installed in the closet. And the vanity mirror, too.
Dante has left nothing to chance.
I glance away quickly, but not before catching my reflection, the skin near my hairline still red and slightly swollen, the stitches having come out only two days ago. The wound is healing, but the fresh line it left behind is stark against my skin. Not angry, just visible. The doctor said it would scar, though not badly.
My head still doesn’t feel entirely clear. The dull pressure from the concussion lingers, like a haze I can’t quite shake.
My palm tightens, nails pressing lightly into skin, just enough to anchor me before the thoughts have a chance to spiral. I exhale through my nose, steadying myself, and cross to the shower.
The clothes fall away easily. I step beneath the spray, the water already running hot, calibrated to perfection. It scorches on contact. I don’t flinch. I stand there and let it burn.
The bandage on my hand is waterproof. The doctor made sure of that. I still have to change it after every shower, to keep the area clean and protected.
It started itching a few days ago. A dull, constant irritation beneath the surface. The skin must be starting to heal, knitting itself back together.
Progress, I suppose.
The doctor checked it when he removed the stitches from my forehead, but didn’t clear the hand yet.
Apparently, I was a little too thorough.
I can’t wait to take it off.
Someone always changes the dressing for me, I haven’t yet found the strength to look at the scar myself. I’m not certain whether it’s because I’m unable to... or because it simply hurts too much to try.
And whether that pain comes from what I did… or from what I failed to do…
I genuinely couldn’t say.
How the hell do you carry both?
Guilt for surviving… and guilt for wanting not to.
I wash slowly, fingers working through my hair, massaging the shampoo into the roots until it lathers thick between my hands. I scrub until my arms start to ache. Then I tip my head back and close my eyes as the water pours over me, sliding down my scalp, my face, my neck. The stream rinses through the strands, pulling the suds away.
The faces of each girl return, one by one, then all at once, crowding my mind until I can’t breathe. My chest tightens, air catching in short, uneven bursts. I close my eyes and count.
One.
Two.
Three.
I imagine the water rinsing it all away, the blood on my hands, the weight of what I’ve done.
It doesn’t.
But I pretend.
Afterward, I dry off with care and make my way back to the bedroom.
I dress first, a light linen dress, soft against the skin, falling just below the knee. The colour is neutral, understated, but crisp. Then the stilettos, nude, clean lines.
I apply my makeup at the vanity, a bit of concealer, light mascara, a muted touch of colour on my lips, just enough to bring a trace of light back to my face. Something to soften the pallor, to make me look a little less like a ghost.
I dry my hair partially, work oil through the ends, and brush it straight. It falls clean and smooth down my back, longer than I remember it being.
I’m nearly done when I glance down at my arm. The bandage is damp from the shower, now beginning to peel at the edges. It needs to be changed.
I cross to the drawer where the supplies are kept, pausing for a moment before opening it. I suppose today is as good a day as any to face what I’ve been avoiding. To stop pretending I can’t look.
I could call the doctor. Or Dante.
But I won’t.
There’s no dignity in relying on someone else to do what I should be able to manage myself. No reason to keep avoiding it, other than fear.
And I’m tired of being afraid of my own skin.
Just as I take out what I need and lay it on the bed, I hear the door open and close with a quiet click.
I turn, and meet my husband’s eyes. His gaze drops to the dressing laid out beside me.
In two quick strides, Dante crosses the room. Without a word, he guides me to sit at the edge of the bed.
“I’ll do it,”
he says firmly.
He crouches in front of me, he finds himself in this position often, lately.
As the thought crosses my mind, I smile. It doesn’t escape him, and he answers with a faint smirk of his own, as if reading my mind.
Gently, he begins to unwrap the bandage. His movements are careful. When the final layer lifts, I take a deep breath and look down.
The skin is inflamed, slightly raised. Healing, but still raw. Still ugly.
I stare.
And the voices return, rapid, cruel, unmistakably familiar.
Weak. Pathetic. Undeserving.
It should have been you.
The pressure beneath my ribs rises too quickly, a tightening I can’t outrun. I draw a breath. Then another. And another, each one sharper than the last.
Just like Dr. Verdi taught me. Her words resurface, clear, calm, cutting through the noise.
Healing isn’t linear, Harlow. Some days you’ll hate yourself. Some days you’ll think you’ve conquered it. Both are normal. Both are human. You survived, and that means something, even when it feels like nothing.
I don’t know if I believe her yet. But her words… they ground me somehow. Just enough.
Dante says nothing, but I can feel his eyes on me.
He’s giving me space, letting me manage the panic on my own, not interfering, but ready to step in if I start to lose the fight. Ready to catch it if I can’t.
When my breathing finally evens out, I see the quiet exhale he lets go, relief written in the smallest shift of his shoulders.
Then he gives me one of those nods, the kind that says I see you. The kind that looks a little like pride.
He finishes wrapping the fresh bandage. Once he’s done, he straightens and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“You take my breath away,”
he says, his gaze moving over me.
I meet his eyes and offer the faintest smile. It barely lifts one corner of my mouth, but it’s real and his own mouth curves in quiet reply.
“Shall we go downstairs?” he asks.
I give a single nod.
He extends his hand. I place mine in his, and the moment our palms touch, something within me steadies, roots itself, exhales.
We step out of the bedroom together. As we reach the top of the stairs, I glance toward Mattia’s door.
Dante notices.
“He’s already there,”
he says quietly.
“Waiting for you. They all are.”
Another small nod. We descend together, our footsteps in sync, the house quiet except for the hum of faint conversation below.
The back terrace doors are open. As we walk through the hallway and step outside, the heat slams into us, dense and unmoving. August in Naples feels like the world’s on fire. But there’s a breeze from the sea, cool and briny, threading through the thick air and brushing against my skin. The fans hum from the terrace beams, blowing ribbons of cold air just enough to make the heat tolerable.
As I glance around, I see that everyone is here.
Giovanni stands with Michael and Darion, their expressions serious, heads tilted in conversation. Niccolò laughs at something Leonardo says across the table. Enzo and Mario are off to the side, drinks in hand, speaking in low voices near one of the tall planters.
Elena and Sofia hover near the refreshments table, refilling their glasses, picking through bowls of olives and marinated cherries, their laughter soft and feminine.
I smile at the scene in front of me.
Who would have imagined these men could conduct themselves so impeccably in one place, no arguments, no threats, not even a single shot fired.
Unexpected development.
As the thought barely finishes forming, a sudden commotion pulls my attention.
Leonardo has Niccolò pinned to the grass, a pistol pressed to his chest, while Niccolò’s blade gleams against Leo’s ribs, poised and unbothered. Niccolò’s mouth curves into a taunting smile, all teeth and menace. Leonardo meets it with a dark smirk of his own, eyes narrowed, amused and entirely unbothered.
Dante turns his head, expression flat.
“Try not to fucking bleed on the hydrangeas. They were imported,”
he says in a dry tone.
Before I can blink, my attention is pulled away by a familiar voice. “Harlow!”
Mattia comes sprinting toward me, barefoot and grinning, his arms already halfway open. But just before he reaches me, he stops short. His eyes lift to mine, hesitant, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to embrace me, as if seeking permission.
“Come here.”
I whisper.
I catch the flicker of shock on his face. For a moment, he just stares, motionless, as if unsure he heard me correctly. Then his entire face lights up with a grin, and in a heartbeat, he closes the distance, flinging himself into my embrace.
I hold him tightly, anchoring both of us in the moment.
Behind me, I sense Dante move, drawing closer, instinctively protective.
“Careful,”
he murmurs.
“Not too hard, piccolino.”
Mattia relaxes his grip at once, though he doesn’t let go. He looks up at me, his expression suspended between joy and the threat of tears.
“I missed you so much, Harlow.”
His words hit me square in the chest.
I brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss him there.
“I missed you too, piccolo.”
And as we hold each other, my own eyes begin to sting, vision blurring. And once again—damn it—that guilt ignites.
That cruel, familiar voice stirs in the back of my mind, whispering that he should never have had to bear this much pain, not because of me.
But I don’t allow it to speak louder than this moment. I just hold him tighter.
Behind us, the low murmur of conversation quiets. And I look up just in time to see a guard stepping out onto the terrace, with Luka trailing behind him.
He’s wearing a clean pair of jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. His blonde hair is too long, slightly overgrown, but it looks like he tried to style it, probably with nothing more than a splash of water and his fingers.
His shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s expecting a blow. Like something could come flying at him from any direction. His gaze flits across the terrace, scanning, dissecting every angle, every shadow, as if he’s memorizing escape routes or identifying threats.
There’s worry in his eyes, but also a depth that belies his age, a quiet wisdom, shaped by things he’s never spoken aloud.
I remember when I first saw him, the day everything fractured.
I had found him in our home, argued with my husband… and then I…
The memory cuts clean through my chest. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, no time at all.
He was so shy then. So unsure. But now, beneath the guarded posture, I see more of who he really is. Not a timid child. Not a mouse. There’s something fierce beneath the surface, a survivor. A boy learning not to flinch at the world.
He hesitates as he steps forward, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to be here. His eyes meet mine and I give him a reassuring nod. A small smile.
The guard glances between us, then steps back and disappears through the door he came from.
Luka walks toward me, his gait steady but cautious. The clothes may be simple, but they’re clean. Fitted. Decent. My husband may have kept him locked up, convinced he’s a threat, a spy, but Dante still made sure he was fed, clothed, taken care of. Even in punishment, he can’t help the instinct to protect, especially not when the threat is young and vulnerable.
As Luka approaches, my husband is suddenly nearer than before. He steps in behind me, his hand settling at the small of my back, guiding me toward him until I feel the solid weight of his body against mine.
I glance up at him, brows knitting in quiet confusion at this sudden, unmistakably protective stance.
His jaw is tight, the muscle there clenched hard. His eyes are locked on Luka like he’s calculating the precise second he’ll need to act.
I nudge him lightly in the ribs, breaking his fixed stare at the boy. He blinks, caught off guard.
“Did you just—”
I arch a single brow in reply.
A short breath huffs out of him, half a laugh, half disbelief. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Luka stops a few feet away now and I reach out my hand to him. He stares at it a beat too long. Then, cautiously, he steps forward and lets me take it.
I feel Dante shift behind me once more, a low rumble of displeasure rising from his chest.
When I glance up, his gaze is locked on our joined hands, sharp and unyielding.
I give a small shake of my head at his theatrics. If looks could kill, Luka would already be dead.
With a quiet breath, I gently guide the boy forward, turning him to face the veranda.
I speak softly.
“Everyone, meet Luka. He’s staying with us… for the foreseeable future.”
There’s a beat of silence. I can’t tell whether it’s because of what I said, or simply because I spoke at all.
But the stillness is broken by Mattia’s delighted squeal.
“Luka!”
His entire face lights up, sudden and bright.
Dante, already tense, goes utterly still.
“You’re here!”
Mattia exclaims, stepping forward with the pure, unfiltered joy.
The silence is deafening.
“Mattia,”
Dante’s voice slices cleanly through the stillness.
“How do you know Luka?”
The boy’s mouth curves into a subtle smirk.
He actually smirks.
As if he’s trying to provoke Dante.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This can’t be good.
Why do I get the sinking feeling I’ll be playing referee between these two, or more accurately, trying to stop my husband from murdering the teenager who so clearly has a death wish?
Still, I can’t help but feel a flicker of relief watching Luka act like himself, truly himself. No longer hiding behind the facade of a frightened child.
This doesn’t make me suspicious. On the contrary, it reassures me. I see myself in him with startling clarity.
He wasn’t spineless, he simply wasn’t allowed to have a spine. He wasn’t weak, he was silenced. In that house, in that family, there was no room for a voice like his. If I had to guess, they carved it out of him long before.
But here, now, he knows he’s safe. He knows he can speak his mind, and no one will kill his voice for it.
“For a man as ruthless and controlled as you are,”
Luka says casually.
“you let that one slip, didn’t you?”
Niccolò’s laugh slices through the tension, loud, unrestrained, completely unbothered.
Dante’s jaw tightens visibly. His entire body hums with warning. Without a word, he draws his gun and fires a single shot. The bullet lodges into the wall just inches from my brother’s head.
“So glad we’re keeping things civil.”
I mutter, exasperated.
Niccolò merely grins, entirely unfazed.
“You missed on purpose. I assume that means you’d prefer to stay married. My sister tends to take attempted fratricide rather personally.”
He throws me a wink, all mischief and audacity. “But,”
he adds, deadpan.
“I also know you’re not above aiming for non fatal areas, and I’m in no mood to stitch myself up today.”
No one really reacts.
Dante holsters his weapon, then takes a step toward Luka. I place a hand flat against his chest before he can move, anchoring him where he stands.
He looks at me, and stops. Then his gaze narrows, cutting toward the boy.
“If you must know,”
he says, eyes fixed on Luka before sweeping slowly across the terrace.
“I had more important matters to attend.”
His gaze returns to me.
“My wife was my only priority.”
Then his tone hardens. He no longer looks at Luka, his eyes go straight to Mario and Leonardo.
“That’s why I had men watching in my place. And if they missed this…”
he gestures toward Luka without breaking eye contac.
“what else have they overlooked, I wonder?”
Mario’s jaw flexes. He shakes his head once, slow, his expression unreadable. Leonardo, by contrast, lets out a quiet laugh, dark and clipped.
Dante turns back, his attention narrowing again, this time to Mattia.
“How did you know about Luka?”
He repeats the question.
Mattia hesitates, then lifts his chin a little, stubborn.
“I saw him at the window once, when I was out in the garden,”
he says proudly.
“After that, I went snooping.”
“Snooping?”
Dante echoes.
“How did you even get the key? That door was always guarded, and locked.”
Mattia shrugs one shoulder.
“Almost always.”
He says it so simply, it nearly makes me smile.
“And I knew where Bianca kept the spare.”
Dante stares at his son long and hard.
“We’re going to have a conversation about that later,”
he finally says.
Mattia shrugs again. “Okay.”
Of course, that’s his answer. Then he turns to Luka, his excitement bubbling up again.
“Come on, I want to show you something.”
Luka hesitates, glancing at me. His eyes question. I tilt my head ever so slightly, encouraging him.
“Wait,”
Dante cuts in, sharp and firm, halting Luka mid step.
“If something happens to Mattia—”
“I know,”
Luca interrupts, his voice calm but sure.
“I know I’ll be to blame.”
And then they’re off. Mattia leads, Luka following. I watch them cut across the grass toward the trees lining the edge of the garden, Mattia already talking a mile a minute.
Dante shifts beside me, his hand resting at the small of my back, guiding me.
“Come,”
he murmurs.
“You need to sit down, you’ve been standing too long. I’ll bring you a drink.”
He helps me ease into one of the chairs at the long table, then turns without another word and makes his way toward the bar.
I sit alone for only a few seconds before Sofia and Elena claim the seats beside me.
Sofia’s all soft curls, sunlight glinting off her already golden hair.
“You look so beautiful today,”
she says, squeezing my hand gently.
“I’m so happy you’re back with us.”
I smile warmly at her.
“Thank you.”
Elena doesn’t speak at first. She just sits back in her chair, arms folded, dark eyes taking in every movement. Her presence is quiet but solid. Comforting, in a way only she can be.
Sofia picks up again, beaming.
“I’ll have to leave later tonight with Michael,”
she says.
“I need to be in Paris in a couple of days.”
My brow lifts slightly.
“Fashion show?”
“Sort of,”
she answers, her eyes lighting.
“A private showcase. Just a few pieces, but still, Paris has my heart, you know that.”
I do.
I nod again, pride stirring quietly in my chest, just as Dante returns. He sets a chilled glass in front of me, a pale pink drink, garnished with a slice of lime at the rim.
“Thank you,”
I murmur, my fingers curling around the cool glass.
He’s about to speak when Leonardo calls out to him. Dante glances in his direction, then back at me.
He lowers himself slightly, just enough to meet my eyes.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine,”
I reply. “Go.”
He still looks as though he’s wrestling with himself, reluctant to leave my side. But at last, he relents, turning to join Leonardo, Giovanni, and Enzo at the far edge of the patio, already immersed in quiet conversation.
My brow draws in slightly as I scan the crowd, suddenly aware of an absence that hadn’t registered until now.
“Where’s nonno?”
I ask aloud.
“He was meant to arrive with Michael, wasn’t he?”
Beside me, Elena deadpans.
“He’s here. Likely resting. At his age, a change in time zones is practically a combat sport.”
A throat clears directly behind me.
I turn just in time to see nonno standing there, arms crossed, one brow arched in perfect reprimand.
“Young lady,”
he says to Elena.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
He steps closer, and I rise to embrace him. His arms wrap around me, firm, warm, steadying.
When we part, his gaze drops briefly to my wrist. The pain is there, quiet, carefully contained, but he says nothing.
He takes the empty seat beside Sofia and immediately reaches over to ruffle her hair.
“Nonno,”
she protests through a laugh, “stop.”
He smiles, his eyes drifting over the three of us with quiet fondness.
“You’re all here,”
he says as he settles comfortably into his chair.
“It does my heart good to have my girls gathered under one roof.”
We smile back at him, letting the conversation drift, soft, aimless, and safe. No one brings up what happened. No one mentions what I did. I’m grateful for that. For a moment, I just feel like myself again. Not the broken version. Just me. Even if only a little.