CHAPTER 45
Roxanne
Sicily felt different. It felt as though everything had changed, yet it hadn’t. Because I had changed. The thought settled beneath everything else, present in a way I couldn’t ignore.
I had survived worse. Darius. The silence. The years of pretending I was whole when I wasn’t. I had survived breaking. Rebuilding. Learning how to exist in pieces.
But Marcello—I didn’t know how to survive him.
He said he didn’t hate me. He brought me home. He stood beside me like nothing had shifted. And still—I kept waiting for the moment it would. For the day he would wake up, look at me, and finally see what I had become.
Fractured. Capable of betraying him. Someone he would eventually have to let go.
Nothing had changed. The walls, the light, the sound of the sea rolling endlessly beyond the terrace—it was all the same. And yet, none of it felt the same. I moved through it carefully, aware of every step, every glance, every silence that stretched just a little too long.
What unsettled me most was that Marcello didn’t avoid me.
He behaved as though none of it happened.
On the surface, life moved the same way.
His attitude didn’t change toward me, nor the kids.
He was exactly as he had always been—controlled, steady, present.
With the children, with the house, with everything.
I didn’t touch him. Not when we returned. Not when he stood close enough for me to feel his presence behind me. Not when his hand brushed mine once, accidentally—or maybe not.
Because I didn’t know how to exist in his space anymore without feeling like I was taking something I no longer deserved.It was easier to stay just out of reach.
In his world, betrayal had consequences. Permanent ones. Men had disappeared for less. And yet—I was still here.And I didn’t understand any of it.
And still—my traitorous mind searched for Santino. In the sound of a bike. In the spaces he used to occupy without asking.And every time I realised he wasn’t there, a familiar ache lodged beneath my ribs.
Santino was never just an affair. He was a beautiful disaster waiting to happen, and I just crashed into it. We changed each other. I put my mark on him as deep as he put his mark in me.
And worse—I never got to tell him how I actually felt. Not when he was bleeding in my arms. Not before they took him away. And if he was gone… Then those words would stay unfinished forever.
I caught a stray tear that slipped out at the thought of that.
I knew one thing, though. If he survived the bullet from Darius, he wouldn’t survive Marcello’s. And that knocked the air out of my lungs.
That night, the villa felt quieter than it had in weeks.The children were asleep. The house had settled. And for the first time since everything had broken open, there was nothing demanding my attention. Nothing to hide behind.
I stood at the balcony of the bedroom, my hands resting lightly against the railing, watching the sea stretch endlessly into the dark, trying to steady the ache inside me that refused to settle.The air outside was colder than I expected. Or maybe it was just me.
I didn’t hear him approach. I only felt him when his hand came to my waist, steady, familiar—like nothing had changed.
For a second, I closed my eyes. Because I didn’t trust myself to turn.
My breath caught, and I went still. Not because I wanted to pull away, but because some part of me had already surrendered.
His grip tightened just slightly, pulling me back into him until my back met his chest.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed. “I don’t know how not to.”
“Look at me.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
His hand moved, turning me toward him before I could answer. And just like that—I was facing him. There was no distance left. No space to hide in.
“Look at me, Roxanne.”
His fingers curled beneath my chin, lifting my face. His gaze held mine, dark, steady, searching—not for answers, but for me.
I did. And I broke.
“Why? —” I whimpered. “How can you still want me?”
The words came out raw, stripped of everything I had been holding in.
“How can you look at me and not see… everything I’ve done?”
His eyes darkened. His hand moved—fingers closing briefly around my throat, tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me exactly who he was.
“I wanted to kill you,” he said.
The words hit like a slap. A tear slipped free before I could stop it. He saw it. And just like that—his grip loosened. His forehead dropped to mine, voice dropping an octave.
“I thought about it,” he admitted quietly. “What it would take. What it would fix.”
He took a deep breath in. “It wouldn’t fix anything.”
His thumb brushed the tear away before it fell further.
“I wouldn’t survive it,” he said against my lips.
The air stuttered out of me, uneven and fragile.
“Losing you,” he continued. “Becoming the man I would have to be to do it.”
His forehead rested briefly against mine, his breath steady, controlled—as though he was holding back. His hand tightened at my jaw, just enough to tilt my face toward his—and then his mouth was on mine. Not gentle. Not careful.
The kiss hit me like an impact—deep, consuming, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t testing. It was knowing. Claiming. Like he was reminding both of us that whatever had happened, I was still his.
My hands found his shirt, gripping. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he deepened it, tongue claiming, swiping against mine, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, until the world narrowed to nothing but him.
His breath. His hands. The way he held me like I wasn’t something fragile—but someone he had already chosen, never to let go.
My body responded to him, leaning into him, giving in to the familiarity of it, the heat, the pull, the way he always made everything else disappear.
“I’m not leaving you,” he murmured against my mouth, his voice rough now. “Understand that.”
My breath broke. He trailed kisses from my jaw down to my neck.
“I choose you,” he said.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just the truth.
“Even now,” he said. “Especially now.”
And that was what undid me. My lips found his again, instinctive this time, because I couldn’t not, because everything in me was pulling back toward him, toward the only place that had ever felt like home.
“Me too,” I gasped.
He paused and held his gaze with mine.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said.
For the first time, uncertainty entered his eyes. The shift was subtle—but I felt it.
“If you chose me…” he continued, his voice lower now, steadier, “then why did it happen?”
There was no accusation in it. That made it worse. Because it wasn’t anger. It was truth. I swallowed the lump in my throat before speaking.
“I did choose you,” I whispered. “I always do.”
I blew out a breath.
“But there are parts of me…” my voice faltered slightly, “that don’t feel whole.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I didn’t go looking for him,” I continued. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even understand it. But with him… it felt like something I had buried didn’t have to stay buried anymore.”
My eyes lifted back to his.
“That doesn’t take anything away from you. It just means I’m… not as simple as I thought I was.”
And in that stillness, I felt it—the weight of everything I had just said, everything I hadn’t been able to say before.
For a second, I thought I had lost him. And then—his forehead dropped to mine again, slower this time.
“I know,” he said. “And I’m still here.”
He said it in absolution, without argument or punishment. His hand tightened at my jaw slightly.
“Loving you was never about control,” he said.
His thumb brushed slowly along my jaw. Grounding.
“It was about knowing you were mine… even when I wasn’t in the room. That hasn’t changed.”
Then his expression softened.
“But I’ve learned something since then. You don’t love in straight lines, Roxanne. And I’m not going to pretend you do. Or punish you for loving differently than I do, just so I can feel in control.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“I’m not sharing you,” he added, quieter now.
That made me still.
“I’m choosing not to cage you.”
The distinction hit deeper than anything else he had said. His jaw tightened slightly.
“Because if loving you means I have to make you smaller to keep you…”
He exhaled slowly.
“Then that isn’t love. That’s possession. And I don’t need to own you to know you’re mine.”
My breath broke, and something in me finally gave way completely. I leaned into him, closing the last space that had existed between us, my hands tightening around his neck as though I needed to feel him, anchor myself to the reality of him.
He kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, like he wasn’t trying to prove anything anymore. Like he already had. And I let myself fall into it. Into the certainty of him when everything inside me still felt fractured.
Because for the first time since everything had shattered—I didn’t feel like I was standing outside my own life. I felt pulled back into it. Held inside it. Exactly where I belonged.And I believed it might finally not break again.