Chapter 12 #2
That woman sees me in a way I never expected. She looks at me like I belong. Like I’m not a mistake in this house. Like I matter.
And sometimes, I let myself believe it.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine this version of life continuing.
Imagine the heat in Giovanni’s eyes never fading.
Imagine giving him the scarf I knitted, watching him wear it like something precious.
I imagine serving him something I made with my own hands, imagine the pride on his face when he tastes it.
I imagine love.
And maybe it isn’t smart. Maybe it’s reckless. Perhaps I am still that same foolish girl who's too desperate for affection, too starved for warmth, too willing to accept the barest flicker of kindness and build a world out of it.
But when you’ve been cold your whole life, you don’t turn away from the fire. You inch closer, even when it scorches. Even when it might consume you.
If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
If it’s borrowed time, I don’t want to give it back.
I want to let it settle into my bones, carve itself into my memory, become part of me.
I want to believe that this—whatever this is between us—was mine, even if just for a fleeting heartbeat. I want to believe he was mine.
Even if it ends. Even if it breaks me.
It’s noon now. The sun filters gently through the curtains, casting soft, yellowish light along the walls. The scarf I finished earlier lies folded neatly on the bed like a fragile thing waiting to be gifted, a quiet testament to time spent in longing and hope.
I smooth my dress. It's a soft yellow cotton, modest and easy. I run my hands down the sides, trying to steady myself. It's time for the garden.
I walk slowly toward the door, fingertips brushing the knob just as the knock comes. One sharp rap, a pause, then two more. It's familiar and predictable.
I know it's him. Giovanni. I tell myself not to get ahead of myself, but my heart stutters anyway.
I open the door and there he is.
He stands there, hand raised mid-air like he was about to knock again. His eyes meet mine, and something in his expression softens. It's like light falling on water. His mouth curves slightly, almost imperceptibly, but it’s there. That look that says he’s glad to see me. That I matter.
I drink him in.
He’s in a charcoal shirt today, open at the collar, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. The fabric clings in places, just enough to show the strength beneath it. Black slacks. The belt at his waist, the gleam of his watch beneath the cuff.
Everything about him exudes control, quiet dominance. He looks like power sculpted into flesh. Like danger and salvation wrapped into one devastating package.
I sign to him. You're back.
He nods, then signs, How are you?
I respond. I’m well.
Have you eaten?
I sign, Yes, my hands steady despite the flutter in my chest. Maria brought lunch earlier, a simple salad and bread.
He nods then steps closer. His palm cradles the back of my head, and he kisses my forehead softly. Then he ruffles my hair, fingers lingering longer than they need to. I’ve come to know this gesture. It’s his ritual, his love language, and it makes my heart skip every time.
I sign. How are you?
But he doesn’t answer.
His gaze has shifted, dropped. He’s staring at my mouth, and I can see the change in him, the slow unraveling of restraint, the tension building behind his eyes. That look. The one that turns my skin to fire and my pulse into thunder. That look that reminds my body of everything it craves.
I feel the heat rise up my spine, blooming low and fierce. His hand grazes my waist as he leans in, and I tilt my face up toward him. Our mouths are close, too close. My breath stumbles. The air between us thickens. I close my eyes, caught in the moment just before everything tips—
A throat clears. Tomasso.
Giovanni pulls back slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The reluctance is written all over his face. His jaw tightens. He turns to find Tomasso standing just beyond the door. He, of course, is amused.
Tomasso’s gaze darts to me, the smile fading. His face turns grim. I know what it means. He doesn’t want me to hear what’s coming.
Giovanni sees it too, because his gaze darts back to me, and the shift is immediate. The warmth fades, replaced by something harder. Something more guarded. His shoulders are square.
He starts to turn, already moving toward Tomasso, but I reach for him and touch his arm. I shake my head. I sign to Tomasso. Go ahead.
Tomasso hesitates. His eyes flick to Giovanni, waiting for permission. He gets it with a single, reluctant nod.
Then Tomasso signs, Your father’s here.
Giovanni's reaction is instant. He blurts out a curse, “Che cazzo!”
It's the kind of Italian that tastes like fury on the tongue. His whole body shifts. Tightens.
Tomasso lifts a hand, trying to calm him, but it’s useless. Giovanni is already storming toward the hall, the anger pouring off him like heat.
“What the hell is he doing here?” His voice is a growl now, controlled but close to snapping. “I told him. I told him never to come near her again.”
He stops, whips around to face Tomasso fully. “Tell the guards to send him away. Now.”
But before Tomasso can respond, I move again. I step closer. I reach for Giovanni’s arm and grab it, firm and pleading.
I sign to him. Please. I want to see him.
Maybe he's sorry for everything. Maybe he wants to apologize. A small part of me hopes, even when logic dictates that I shouldn't. He's been cruel too long to suddenly change.
Giovanni's eyes flash. He turns fully to me, signs back, sharp and fast. Over my dead body.
Then he speaks, voice hoarse with rage. “Did you forget what I promised you? Did you forget what I swore?” His hands are clenched now, his breath ragged. “I said he would never come within an inch of you. I meant it, cara.”
He’s trembling. Not from fear, but from fury. From the sheer force of trying to keep himself contained. He spins back to Tomasso. “Go. Now.”
Tomasso nods, then disappears down the corridor. And then, it's just the two of us.
The silence stretches, but it’s not empty. My hand is still resting on his arm, and his hand moves to cover it. He grips me, firmly but carefully, like I’m something fragile and precious at once.
I look up at him and feel it, everything he hasn’t said, all the things he’s holding back. The fire. The fear. The unspoken vow threading itself through the quiet.
And in that moment, I realize something else. It isn’t just anger that drives him. It’s terror.
Terror of letting me near the man who broke me. Terror of watching history repeat itself. Terror that he might lose me, either to harm, or worse, to forgiveness.
He would burn the world down to keep me safe. He would carry the weight of my silence, my grief, my past. But he would never let me return to it. And in his grip, in the quiet storm of his presence, I feel the promise again.
Not just protection. But possession. Love, in its most brutal, most feral form.
His grip on my hand loosens, but only enough for his thumb to brush the curve of my wrist, a touch so reverent it makes my chest tighten. He looks down at me, eyes molten with fury, yes, but also something else. Something I’ve never seen in a man’s eyes when looking at me.
Not tenderness, not pity. Possession. A kind of fierce devotion that terrifies me, because I don’t know what to do with it.
Not until now.
I move without thinking, my body surging toward him.
I seize his collar as an arm goes around to circle his neck, and I rise on my toes, pressing my mouth to his.
The kiss is hard, almost clumsy, but urgent.
His body stills, stunned, then melts into mine.
He groans low in his throat, wrapping his arms around my waist and hauling me against him like he’s been waiting centuries for this.
I pour everything into it. The fear, the confusion, the ache that’s taken root in my chest. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he deepens the kiss, his mouth hot and insistent, his hands roaming my back like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
His mouth is hot, tasting of the Vecchio Amaro he likes, and the sharp edge of his anger.
I nip his lower lip, the sting drawing a low hiss.
My nails dig into his neck, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me with a ferocity that makes my core ache, wet and pulsing.
I press closer, my body molding to his, feeling the hard length of him through his trousers, pressing against my hip, sending heat flooding through me, soaking my panties.
He breaks away just enough to murmur, “Liliana,” but I don’t let him speak. I kiss him again, harder, fiercer. I want him to feel it. I want him to know.
His hands slide down, gripping the backs of my thighs.
Without warning, he lifts me. I gasp against his mouth, and he carries me across the room, never breaking the kiss, until my back hits the wall with a soft thud.
The contact sends a jolt through me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring myself to him.
He pulls back to look at me. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gravelly.
I nod breathlessly, my fingers framing his face. I sign it, slow and clear. Yes. I want you.
His eyes glower and something in me snaps. I grab his shirt and tear it open, buttons scattering across the floor. His chest is bare, the raven tattoo stark against his skin, muscles taut and gleaming in the dim light. My fingers trace his pecs, leaving faint red lines, and he groans.
His hands slide under my dress. I gasp as his palms find bare skin.
My breath catches when he grabs my yellow dress and yanks it up and over my head in one swift pull.
The fabric rips softly, and I’m left in lace panties, my breasts heavy, nipples tight under his gaze. The sudden exposure makes me flush.
His eyes roam over me. They're possessive, hungry. They linger on the dampness between my thighs, and I feel bare, alive, trembling with want.