Chapter 13 #2
The heavy front door slams and rips me from my reminiscing, making me freeze.
A moment later, his footsteps echo through the marble hallway, louder than they need to be.
I retreat to the far corner of the living room and brace myself; my hand tightens around the edge of a velvet throw pillow as he storms in.
I notice his left hand is swathed in thick white gauze.
"Fucking Doc Brown," he snarls, kicking off his shoes. "Sadistic old bastard enjoyed it."
The sight of the bandaged hand should spark concern.
But all I can manage is a curl of satisfaction.
Doc Brown is the only person besides Cammie and my father who knows what Roberto is doing to me.
If he added a little pressure while resetting those knuckles?
If he didn’t numb the bone deep enough? Good. Roberto deserves so much worse.
I school my features and ask, "What happened?"
"Enrico fucking Sartori," he growls, collapsing onto the couch with a hiss of pain. "Stepped on my hand like I was a damn dog."
I raise my eyebrows, trying to appear shocked. "Why?"
Roberto glares at the bandage like he could will it to disappear. "Because he thinks he’s clever. Thinks he can take shots at me and walk away."
A thrill of fear twists through me, not for Roberto, but for what this might mean.
If Enrico did this—openly, at a meeting—then something is changing.
The rules are shifting. Maybe the alliances, too.
I stay quiet. I’ve learned my silence is safer than curiosity.
My opinion, my voice, even my gaze, any of it can earn me bruises.
So I nod, say nothing, and let him rant.
"Don't just stand there, you lazy bitch, get me a drink and some fucking painkillers," He grunts, while still cursing Enrico.
Glad to escape his presence, even if only for a moment, I rush into the kitchen, where one of the maids sneers at me.
They all know I don't have an iota of power in this house, and I know for a fact that Roberto has been fucking this one, Louisa, and several of the others, too. Their fear of Roberto is just as great as mine, but it comes with a smug layer of immunity I’ll never have.
They can serve him, please him, and be forgotten. I’m the one he always remembers.
Louisa doesn’t move to help as I open a cupboard for the first-aid kit. She stands by the sink, arms folded, eyes narrowed, while I pretend not to see her. Pretend I don’t hear the hissed insult under her breath in Italian, "Stronza inutile."—Useless bitch.
I grip the kit tighter than I need to.
It’s like this more and more now. The guards, the staff, even the new driver, they all act like I’m invisible.
Or worse, a joke. Like I’m nothing more than a doll draped on Roberto’s arm.
Pretty. Voiceless. Replaceable. The perfect accessory to a man who beats me.
He doesn't even bother to close the doors anymore.
I return to the living room, get the drink, find the pills in the kit, and head to Roberto like I’ve been taught. When I place the glass and bottle on the side table, Roberto doesn’t even look at me. Just mutters, "Finally," like I kept him waiting too long.
Then his eyes snap to mine.
"You talk to Cammie?"
I blink, startled. "No. She hasn’t—"
"She’s not answering my calls," he growls. "Little brat thinks she can ghost me now?"
I open my mouth, then close it again. There’s no right answer. If I agree, I’m criticizing his sister. If I defend her, I’m questioning him.
"She’s probably just lying low," I manage finally. "Everything’s been… tense."
He huffs, pops two painkillers into his mouth, and downs them with a gulp of whiskey. "Tense? That’s what you call it when your fucking father gets turned into vapor and Enrico decides he wants to play God?"
I flinch.
So, Giovanni really is gone. I still don’t know how. But judging by the way Roberto said it—vapor—that probably means… no body. Or worse. And he’s blaming Enrico. That’s dangerous. Enrico doesn’t strike me as someone who plays games without knowing how they’ll end.
I drift back toward the window while Roberto sinks deeper into the couch, seething. Outside, the sky is bruising to a deeper shade of twilight. The street is quiet, but my nerves aren’t.
Cammie, where are you?
Roberto is still muttering under his breath like a madman, cursing Enrico, the world, Cammie, and probably the weight of his own existence.
I don’t look at him. I’ve learned not to when he’s like this.
He’ll mistake it for defiance. Or pity. Or both.
Instead, I press my palm to the cold window and try to focus on the quiet outside.
One of the guards leans against a black SUV at the end of the driveway, tapping on his phone like this is just another Tuesday.
Like we’re not standing on the edge of something unraveling.
Two days. It has been two days since I saw him, and my head is a crooked house of rooms that want different things at once.
When I close my eyes, I go back to that alley—the way he moved, the sound of his boots, the smell of gunpowder and rain.
He was a clean line through chaos. He was the only thing that made sense.
That night carved a relief into me that I still run my fingers over when the world forgets how to be gentle.
But now that I know he’s alive, the relief and the knife sit side by side.
For a while, I told myself he was dead because that was tidy.
Death explains absence. Death doesn’t hurt as much as being ignored.
If he were dead, he would be beyond blame.
If he were dead, I could put my grief on a shelf and look at it as something noble.
The truth is messier. The truth is that he is walking somewhere out there, and I am here in a life that is nothing like what I want.
I don’t know what to call what I feel for him.
Love? Worship? Habit made of gratitude? A hunger that thinks heroism is a person and not a moment?
In the quietest parts of the night, I let myself be small and blame him for being heroic once and not always.
It is childish. It is selfish. It is the only language my heart seems to remember.
There’s a part of me that is grateful beyond words that he stepped into my nightmare and tore it open.
I owe him everything, and maybe that’s why I’m so angry.
Because what kind of debt is that, where the creditor is allowed to ignore the debtor for years?
Because I built him a pedestal out of blood and fear, and now the pedestal feels like a cell.
And then the practical, dull cruelty of truth: what could he realistically do? Walk into my life and sweep away husbands, laws, and arrangements? Perhaps I am romanticizing a man who learned to be useful and never learned to be tender.
I also wonder if I am still capable of loving at all.
The bruises are more than skin-deep; they have educated me in fear.
I feel my body flinch when anyone reaches for me, and my mouth prepares apologies long before the hand does anything wrong.
Loving someone should not be a risk assessment, and yet it always is now.
Anger flares, quick and hot, at him, at myself, at fate.
It’s unfair that I should resent the man who saved me, but the resentment tastes like survival.
I am angry because I have learned to wait.
I am angry because I built him into a myth, and myths are brittle.
I am angry because he loves me imperfectly, or perhaps not at all, and I don’t know which is worse.
So I sit with the ache between hope and despair and pretend I’m brave.
I tell myself I will not beg. I tell myself I will not dismantle my life for someone who may only ever be able to rescue pieces.
But in the same breath, another truth crawls up my throat: if he walked through that door right now, if he took my hand and held it like he meant to never let go, a part of me would drop to its knees without thinking.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I jolt as my heart slams into my ribs, for one reckless, stupid moment, I think Raffael is calling me.
I glance over my shoulder. Roberto hasn’t noticed.
Not yet. Carefully, I slip it out with my palm, which is slick with sweat, and read the name, lighting up my screen.
Marcello. My brother. He returned a few months ago.
Angelo had a fatal boat accident just months before that, and Daddy Dearest decided to call in the spare heir.
Roberto and I picked Marcello up from the airport, but I haven't seen him since.
With Marcello back here, I'm hoping to catch him alone, to tell him what's happening to me.
Marcello is the only man I know who will get me out of here.
He hasn’t changed. He's still strong and sharp.
He's still the only person in this family who makes me feel safe. We’ve always hated the same men: Angelo, with his smug cruelty and glass ego.
And Carlos… our so-called father. The monsters in tailored suits.
The men who sold me to Roberto in the name of alliance.
If Marcello had been here when I was forced to marry Roberto, I know he would have stopped it. Now he’s back, and all I can think is, maybe this time, he can. I swallow hard.
Marcello:
Just tell me you're okay.
We've had a few phone conversations and texts. We made a few dates to get together, but Roberto always foiled them. He's taking demonic pleasure in keeping us from seeing each other. Now, it seems Marcello is starting to sense that something is off.
My fingers hover over the screen. I want to tell him everything. That I’m not okay; that I haven’t been okay in years. That I’m scared. That I’m disappearing by degrees in this house, and no one sees it but me.
But instead, I type:
Me:
I’m fine.
A lie so thin it might as well be glass. But it’s the only one I can tell safely. I don’t even get a chance to hit send.
"You texting him again?" Roberto's voice whips through the room like a leash. I turn slowly. To slowly.
My husband is already on his feet, his wounded hand clenched into a pitiful, useless fist. The gauze is stained pink now. Whiskey-slicked eyes lock on mine like he’s trying to read my mind and write the ending of the story at the same time.
"I asked you a question, Sophia."
My throat tightens. "It’s just Marcello. He asked if I was okay. That’s all."
His nostrils flare. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing."
He moves toward me, limping slightly. The kind of limp that’s all for show.
I grip the phone tighter, resisting the urge to hide it behind my back like a child caught cheating.
He snatches the phone from my hand, and my breath catches as he reads the screen.
Thank God I haven't said anything. He would kill me.
He hits send on the text I typed out. Seconds later, a new message appears.
Marcello:
I haven't seen you since I got back. Let's get together.
Roberto's eyes move over the message, and I try desperately to read over his shoulder. "He's been asking me every week. I can't keep putting him off, he'll get—"
He backhands me like a pesky fly, and my head whips to the side. I taste blood, but remain on my feet. Tears sting my eyes. "Please."
Roberto's eyes are glazed over from the alcohol and the painkillers. "Now you're nagging me? While I'm in mourning?"
My body begins to shake; I know that tone of voice too well. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Slap.
This time I fly against the couch. He holds his hand because he hit me with the one that's injured. "Fucking bitch," He curses.
I cower against the couch.
He throws the phone at me, and it lands with the corner against my forehead. I shrink back from the pain but manage to grab the phone before it falls to the floor.
"Tell him to come over for dinner Thursday night," Roberto demands.
My hands are shaking so badly that I have to erase and retype my words multiple times, which makes Roberto huff in impatience. Tears blind my vision, making it even harder to complete the simple task of sending a text.
Me:
How about Thursday night for dinner?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Marcello:
Perfect. Can't wait to see you.
Roberto begins to pace. "This might be a good thing. With the possibility of Carlos going to jail, Marcello will be the next capo." He turns to me, narrows his eyes, and says, "You better not say a word, do you hear me?"
With frightened eyes that I imagine are as big as saucers, I nod, while my heart is beating in wild staccato. Yes, Thursday. With any luck, this will be over then.
Roberto smiles as he pours himself another large drink.
That terrifying, wolfish smile I hate more than anything.
"Well, aren’t you just the perfect little actress?" he sneers, not making any sense as usual. "Lying to him. Lying to me. You know who else lied? My father. And look where that got him."
I freeze. I know this about him, too. He's talking himself into a rampage. One that usually ends with me black and blue.
"Dead men can’t lie," he adds, in a near sing-song voice.
There’s a long, weighted silence between us. My heartbeat is so loud, I swear he can hear it. Then, mercifully, he turns away. Limping back toward the liquor cart like nothing just happened. Like, he didn’t just threaten me with the corpse of his father.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
"I want that dinner perfect," he mutters, pouring himself another drink. "Marcello walks in here, I want him feeling like a goddamn king. Understand?"
I nod even though he’s not looking. Because that’s what I do, nod. Obey. Smile when I’m told. Wear the mask.
But inside? Inside, I’m screaming.