Chapter 34 Renato
I can't remember the last time I slept.
My study feels like a cage, every familiar object a reminder of the control I've built my life around.
The expensive scotch tastes like shit. The leather chair where I've made a thousand calculated decisions feels foreign.
Even the view of the lake that usually centers me now seems like a mockery.
All that beauty and peace just beyond reach.
She's been upstairs for six hours. Six hours of silence while I slowly lose my mind in the space below.
I reach for my phone, open the security app, and stare at the blank screen where her room used to appear. I had the cameras removed this morning—all of them. No more surveillance, no more watching her sleep, no more monitoring her every move.
It was the right thing to do. The necessary thing.
But now I have no way of knowing if she's alright.
I pour a scotch and force myself to sit, but my leg bounces involuntarily. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something. Go upstairs, check on her, make sure she's safe, convince her to forgive me, find some way to fix what I've broken.
But that's exactly what got us here in the first place. My need to dominate everything, to manipulate every outcome, to ensure I got what I wanted regardless of the cost to her.
The irony is suffocating. For weeks, I had complete authority over her life, and I used it to destroy the thing I wanted most. Now, when she's finally free to choose, I'm the one trapped—by my own conscience, by her very reasonable need for space, by the terrifying possibility that she might choose to walk away forever.
My phone buzzes. Matteo.
"Boss? Everything alright?"
"Fine. What's the status on Torretti's network?"
"We're rolling up his entire operation. Client lists, safe house locations, other victims. His operation was bigger than we thought. At least fifteen women currently in his facilities across Italy."
"Get them out. All of them. Arrange safe transport, medical care, whatever they need."
"Already in progress. Some will want to go home, some have nowhere to go. We're coordinating with a couple of groups."
"I don't care what it costs. Just handle it."
A pause. "This isn't like you, boss."
"A lot of things aren't like me anymore." I set down my glass. "What about Lorenzo Rossi?"
"He's at the family estate. Hasn't left since news of his father's death broke. Seems to be handling funeral arrangements and business transitions."
Lorenzo.
The bastard who stepped aside and watched his bride get kidnapped. Who chose family reputation over protecting the woman he was supposed to marry. Who probably thinks he's safe now that his father is dead and Torretti is out of the picture.
He's wrong.
"I want surveillance on him. Full detail. I want to know every move he makes, every conversation he has, every breath he takes."
"Planning something specific?"
"Planning to keep my promise to Camilla." I stand up, needing movement. "She wants him to pay for what he did. I intend to make sure he does."
"What kind of payment are we talking about?"
"The kind that destroys everything he values without making her into a killer. Financial ruin, social humiliation, professional destruction. I want him to lose everything the way she lost her sense of self, her ability to trust."
"That's unusually restrained for you, boss."
"Camilla doesn't want blood on her hands. So, we find other ways to make him suffer."
"Understood. How long do we have?"
"However long it takes. This isn't about timelines anymore."
"And what does she need?"
"I don't know. And that's the problem."
"Boss?"
"Nothing. Just handle the Lorenzo surveillance. I'll call you tomorrow with specific instructions."
I hang up and try to distract myself. Business reports. Security protocols. Legitimate investments. Nothing works because nothing matters except the question I can't answer: what is she thinking?
For the first time in my adult life, I'm completely powerless.
I can't buy what I want, can't threaten anyone into giving it to me, can't manipulate circumstances to ensure my preferred outcome. I can only wait.
And waiting is the one thing I've never learned how to do.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes midnight. Seven hours now. Seven hours of silence from upstairs, seven hours of not knowing if she's alright.
At two AM, I find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs.
I tell myself I'm just getting some air. Just checking the security of the upper floors.
But I'm lying to myself. I know exactly where I'm going.
Her door is closed. No light visible underneath. Either she's asleep or sitting in darkness. I raise my hand to knock, then freeze.
What would I even say? What right do I have to disturb her, to intrude on the space I promised her?
My hand drops to my side.
I should go back downstairs. Give her the privacy she asked for.
Instead, I sink down against the wall beside her door.
Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just long enough to know she's safe.
The floor is hard and cold. My back against the wall, knees drawn up, head tilted back. I can't hear anything from inside her room. No crying, no movement, no sound at all.
The silence is worse than screaming would be.
Minutes crawl past. Then an hour. Two hours.
My body aches. My eyes burn from exhaustion. But I can't make myself leave.
This is pathetic. I know it's pathetic.
A grown man sitting on the floor outside a woman's room. But I need to know she's alive, that she's breathing, that she hasn't done something desperate while I was downstairs pretending to respect her space.
Three AM. Four AM.
My head nods forward and jerks back up. I can't sleep. Won't sleep. If she needs something, if she calls out, if anything happens, I need to be here.
The exhaustion makes everything blur. My thoughts spiral in circles. What if she's already decided to leave? What if she's lying in there hating me? What if I've destroyed any chance we ever had?
What if I sit here all night and when she opens that door tomorrow, she looks at me with disgust instead of understanding?
Five AM. Six AM.
Dawn light starts creeping through the hallway windows. My body is stiff, my back screaming in protest. I should move, should go back downstairs before she finds me here, should maintain some shred of dignity.
But I can't make myself leave.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Soft, quiet, but definitely movement inside her room.
Relief crashes through me so violently I have to close my eyes. She's awake. She's alive. She made it through the night. It’ll get easier from here.
The footsteps move toward the bathroom. Water runs. The shower starts.
She's okay.
I push myself to my feet, every muscle protesting. My legs are numb from sitting in one position for hours. I have to grip the wall to stay upright.
Before she finishes her shower, before she opens that door and finds me standing here like some pathetic stalker, I need to go.
I force my legs to move, stumbling toward the stairs. Each step sends pins and needles shooting through my feet. I look like a drunk man, barely keeping my balance.
By the time I reach my study, the shower has shut off upstairs.
I sink into my chair and close my eyes, waiting for whatever comes next, knowing for the first time in my life that I have absolutely no influence over my own fate.
And somehow, terrifyingly, that feels like the most honest thing I've ever done.