CHAPTER 10
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Ariana's POV
The sort of tranquility I’ve felt is something I always thought was underrated, because up until three years ago, I had never known peace like this. No one really talks about it the way they should. People don’t appreciate peace or kindness as much as they should — and I used to hate that.
To say that my life has been a mess would be an understatement. But I’ve never wanted anything more than a normal, simple life.
Mafia-free.
Dad-free.
Stress-free.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, taking in the silence.
Mornings are my favorite; they’re the only moments I have completely to myself.
I get out of bed at my own pace, draw the curtains open, and let the early light pour in before heading to the bathroom to freshen up.
When I look into the mirror, I barely recognize myself — I’ve never looked or felt this happy in years. It’s almost too good to be true.
Three years of happiness. Three years without mafia men, guns, or — thank God — Nicola and D’Angelo. Even saying that aloud feels surreal. I spent five long years trapped under their control, suffocating in their world. To finally be free of it still overwhelms me sometimes. It’s unbelievable.
Even so, I remain cautious — wary of who we talk to and what we tell them about where we live.
A lot has changed in three years. The day I was discharged from the hospital after a long recovery, I made the decision to move to New York.
I needed a fresh start. Of course, Mom came with me.
I couldn’t leave her behind — not after everything she sacrificed for me.
She nearly gave up her life just to give me a chance at a normal one.
In those three years, I’ve learned so much.
Mom taught me more about her culture and her native tongue.
I even started studying midwifery — something I had always dreamed of before D’Angelo stole that dream from me.
I’ve grown independent again. I’ve started to recognize the woman I was before Nicola.
Still, I can’t deny the scars. I’m not okay — not completely. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, and I’ve been in therapy ever since. At first, I saw my therapist every day. Now, it’s three times a week. His name is Matt.
Matt helps me a lot — he walks me through my emotions, helps me understand the patterns, reminds me that I’m going to be okay. I believe him. But deep down, I can’t silence the fear that one day, Nicola might appear behind me again.
Nicola was arrested the same day he tried to kill me.
He went to trial later that year and was found guilty on multiple counts — attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, abuse, sexual assault, and more.
He was sentenced on so many charges that there was no chance he’d ever get out.
When I heard the verdict, I felt like I was dreaming.
For so long, Nicola had seemed untouchable — a man who always got away with his crimes. Mom and I were relieved beyond words when he finally ended up behind bars.
That relief lasted until last year — when he escaped.
I still remember the day the investigators came to our home to deliver the news.
The air left my lungs; it was as if I’d been dragged back into his captivity all over again.
Since that day, paranoia has lived with me — fear, tension, constant prayer that he never finds us.
Nicola was now a criminal on the loose — my ex-fiancé, the man who had once tried to end my life. Anything felt possible after that.
As for D’Angelo... there was nothing left to fear. He was long gone. Mom’s bullet ended it that day in the church, instantly. I’ll never forget the wave of relief that washed over me when I realized he was dead.
I shake the thoughts away and step out of my room to join Mom downstairs, where she’s setting the breakfast table.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she greets.
“Morning, Mom.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
She studies me quietly for a moment, placing the last of the utensils on the table before walking over. Her hands rest gently on my arms, and she offers a faint, weary smile.
“Cara, I want to come along with you when you see Matt today,” she says.
I look up at her, frowning. “Why? You don’t need to come. I can go on my own.”
“Ariana, sweetie, you’re not getting enough help because you’re not being completely honest with your therapist.” Her voice is calm but firm — and she’s right. She always knows. “You’ve become so pale and thin. I’m worried for you, cara.”
I sigh and sink into the chair, rubbing my forehead. “Mom... I can’t do it. I just can’t. I need a break.”
“Ariana,” she says gently, kneeling beside me, her hand resting on my knee. “You can tell me anything.”
I look down at her and feel myself begin to unravel. I should be smiling for her, showing her I’m healing. But instead, I fall apart right there.
“Come on, baby. You can trust me.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Mom... I don’t want to live anymore.”
“Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling today, Ariana?”
“No.”
I shake my head, slouching in the chair. Mom wanted to come with me — insisted, even — but I convinced her to let me go in alone.
Matt sits across from me, clipboard and pen in hand. When I answer, he looks at me for a moment, then quietly sets them aside and moves a little closer.
He’s young — early thirties, maybe — good-looking, calm, patient. I’ve known him for three years now. I can admit it freely: I wouldn’t be here without him. He’s the one who’s helped me hold myself together.
He once told me he was single. He’s about seven years older than me. Somehow, it feels safe that way.
“Oh?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes search my face, quietly studying every flicker of expression. I meet his gaze for a moment, biting my lip before looking away.
“Would you like to tell me why... you’re feeling that way?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know why.” I shrug, frowning as my throat tightens. “Matt, I’m sick and tired of this fear — this constant anxiety that he’s coming back. It’s been a whole year now, and I know what you’ll say: ‘look on the bright side.’ And I do. I always do.”
My voice trembles, but I push through. “I did that this morning, when I opened my curtains. I told myself it’s a new day.
But I can’t keep pretending that my crazy, psycho ex-fiancé isn’t out there somewhere, probably looking for me.
And when he finds me, I’ll be dead — and you’ll never see me again. ”
The words spill out in one breath before I finally sigh, exhausted.
“Ariana,” Matt says gently, “it’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to be scared. And it’s okay to breathe... so, breathe.”
He places his hand lightly on my trembling knee, his voice steady, grounding.
“Matt, you’re so nice — and so calm,” I mutter, shaking my head. “How do you stay that calm?”
He smiles faintly. “I focus on what’s good in life. Speaking of which — let’s talk about Alessandro. Any progress?”
I pout and shake my head. Since Matt has been my therapist for years, he’s also become one of the few people who truly knows me — next to Mom. I’d told him about Alessandro early on; it was the only way my story made sense.
He knew why finding Alessandro mattered.
He was the one who told me it might even help my healing — to search for the one person who once made me feel safe.
He encouraged me to look, even helped when he could.
But so far, there’d been nothing. I started my search in Italy, where we’d met, but soon realized Alessandro didn’t live there anymore.
“Not to worry!” Matt says brightly. “We have plenty of time. If you’d like, I can see you more than three times a week.” His cheerfulness coaxes a small smile out of me.
Then he tilts his head. “Ariana, can I ask you something?”
I raise a brow, lips twitching. “If you must, Matt.”
“Why did you seem so down when you came in today? Did something trigger that mood?”
“Matt, I don’t know. You’re the therapist — you should know why traumatized people have sudden mood swings.” I sigh heavily. “I just woke up feeling off. That’s all I’ve got.”
He watches me for a while, expression unreadable, before straightening and smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes.
“Ariana,” he says after a pause, “I want to show you something. And before I do — please don’t think I’m trying to force you to forget or suppress your feelings. You don’t have to react right now, or even say anything. Just... breathe in, and out. Alright?”
I frown, confused. His tone sounds almost like a warning.
Matt rolls his chair back, then returns with his iPad held close to his chest. When he hands it to me, I hesitate before taking it. My eyes scan the screen — and for a moment, I can’t process what I’m looking at.
The title, in bold black letters, hits me like a blow:
‘Prisoner on the Loose Found DEAD!’
And below it — his face.
Nicola.
My heart stops.
I stare at the photo, at the words, my mind blanking as though someone has pulled the plug on every thought I’ve ever had. I blink at the screen, frozen, completely numb. I can’t even feel my own body.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth — I’ve bitten my tongue without realizing it. I swallow hard, drag my gaze up to Matt. He’s watching me carefully, calm, composed, patient.
“M... Matt? Wh—when?” My voice breaks apart.
“Last night,” he says gently. “He was found last night.”
For a few seconds, I just sit there, breathing unevenly, feeling my pulse hammer against my ribs. And then it hits me — the slow, staggering realization that the man I’ve feared for so long is gone.
Finally, gone.
Relief crashes through me like a wave so strong I almost can’t breathe. My heart drops into my stomach. My body trembles uncontrollably as the silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of my unsteady breaths.
For the first time in years, the air doesn’t feel heavy.
For the first time in years, I’m free.
Matt’s voice gently pulls me back. “I’m going to ask you again, Ariana,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”
I look up at Matt — and the moment our eyes meet, I break. A sob bursts out of me, but there’s a smile on my lips.
“I’ve never felt so free in my life, Matt!” I choke out between tears. “I... I can live my life now, Matt. I can live my life.”
The words pour out of me as I set the iPad down and fall into his arms. I cry — really cry — but they’re not tears of grief.
They’re tears of release. Of peace. There was no room in me for mourning.
Nicola was a monster. He never deserved love or pity, because he never offered anyone anything except pain and grief.
I wasn’t going to mourn him. No.
I was going to celebrate — exactly the way he would have if our roles were reversed.
Matt’s voice comes softly above my trembling shoulder. “Does the news of his death make you feel happy?”
I nod against his arm, still crying.
“Does that make me a cruel person, Matt?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Absolutely not, Ariana. It’s psychology. You’re not alone in that reaction. Many people who’ve suffered like you have feel relief when their abuser dies. It’s not cruelty — it’s freedom.”
I manage a weak smile, nodding through the tears as my breathing steadies. The silence between us is calm now, almost weightless. For the first time in so long, I feel the tension leave my body.
Finally.
Finally..