Chapter 8
THE THINGS WE BURY
Once you face the monsters, they lose their teeth
Della
I don’t remember leaving the fountain.
The next thing I know, I’m back in my hotel room—numb, cold, moving on autopilot.
I kick off my heels by the door and head straight to the shower. I watch the steam curl around me, washing away the scent of roasted garlic… and heartbreak.
Then I crawl under the sheets—exhausted, hollowed out by everything this day has dredged up.
The city glows outside the window, distant and indifferent. People laugh; cars rush by. Life moves on without a second thought.
But inside me?
It’s chaos.
Too many triggers. Too many feelings I’ve tried to bury.
Some small, fragile part of me—the one that somehow survived that night five years ago—wants to run straight into his arms. The only place that ever felt safe.
But the rest of me—the woman I’ve become—wants nothing more than to get as far away from Dorian Marshall as the ocean will allow it.
I close my eyes, my body aching.
And let the sleep take me under.
* * *
The dream starts quietly.
I’m back at the construction site—the one where Dorian was overseeing a new project, during our first month together.
The sun was fading slowly in late afternoon, casting golden streaks across the scaffolding and cement bags.
I remember stopping by to surprise him after class, just before we were supposed to head out for dinner.
I was wearing a dress with red flowers I loved, the fabric catching in the breeze as I walked past the metal frames.
The smell of fresh cement, dust, and paint clung to the air. The ground crunched under my heels.
And then—
“Frumoas? rochie.” (Nice dress.)
A voice behind me, smooth and familiar in its native cadence.
I turned, startled—and there he was.
One of the workers, clearly Romanian.
I forced a polite smile. “Mul?umesc.” (Thank you.)
He smiled back—friendly, maybe a little too friendly. There was something strange in his eyes. Something sharp beneath the charm.
But I remember the flicker of comfort I felt at hearing my native language.
A silly, homesick part of me had been glad. Grateful, even.
He asked if I was from Bucharest. I said no, smiling.
“I’m more western.”
He laughed. Said he could tell.
Then stepped a little closer.
“Andy Moldovan,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “Pleasure.”
I never got to answer.
The dream shifts.
Suddenly, it’s night. Everything’s cold. Muffled.
Off.
Flashing lights blur in my periphery.
Taxi door slamming. Footsteps on gravel.
A flickering lamp buzzes above an old, rusted fence.
A voice—too loud. A face—too close.
Words I can’t understand, or maybe I don’t want to.
The stench of gasoline, and sweat, and cheap cologne chokes the air.
I try to run but my legs won’t move.
I scream but no sound comes out.
Then the shadow falls over me.
And everything goes dark.
* * *
I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
The nightmare fades slowly, dissolving into the shadows of the room—but its grip lingers, cold and sharp, curling around my chest.
My sheets are tangled around me, twisted tight like a trap.
I sit up abruptly, pressing my palm hard against my mouth to keep from crying out.
It’s never over.
I force myself to breathe—in, out, in again—counting slowly until the panic recedes, just enough to function.
My whole body trembles. Every nerve feels raw.
It’s been a long time since the nightmares hit me like this.
I thought I buried it.
But now… everything’s resurfacing.
I wipe my face roughly, my hands still shaking.
Before I can think too hard, I grab my phone and call the only person who’s ever seen me at my worst. The only one who knows everything.
Alexandra. My little sister.
She picks up after two rings.
“Della?” Her voice is warm, but laced with worry. “What’s wrong? It must be, what—five a.m. back there.”
“They’re back.” I whisper, my voice breaking.
Her breath catches.
And just like that, I’m not alone anymore.
“The nightmares?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“How bad?”
I let out a shaky breath, wiping at my face.
“Bad,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I thought I was past this, Ale. I thought I was stronger.”
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She never has. Alexandra has always known how to hold space for pain.
“You are strong,” she says softly. “But strength doesn’t mean forgetting. Or locking memories away in a hidden drawer.”
Her words sink deep, cracking something in me.
I close my eyes.
“It must be noon there. Is Eleni napping?” I ask, desperate to shift the focus.
Alexandra lets out a soft, tired laugh. “Like an angel. Noon siesta.”
“And you, Ale? How are you?”
She lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Not having a siesta, for sure.”
I catch something in her voice—tired, maybe a little strained—but before I can ask, she continues.
“Same old. Javier’s away most of the day, working too much. I’m trying not to kill him—or anyone else—from the lack of sleep or social life.”
Then her voice shifts, softening. “But honestly, none of it matters when I see Eleni smiling and playing. It all feels… worth it. She’s learning new words every five minutes now. She’s got your stubbornness, by the way.”
That tugs a faint smile from me, even as something in my chest pulls tight.
“I wish there was something I could do to help,” I murmur, even though I know how far away I am—and how raw that topic still is for me.
Alexandra doesn’t miss a beat. “You just did. You called.”
I swallow hard, blinking up at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry it was about this.”
“You know you can call me anytime. For anything.”
She means it. She always has.
Alexandra was the golden girl growing up—the one who always had answers, perfect grades, perfect plans. But when everything crumbled and my life fell apart, she dropped everything and came home. She didn’t hesitate.
“I was fine,” I whisper, though we both know it’s a lie.
Her voice softens, sad and fond all at once.
“No, you weren’t. You barely made it out of that year standing.”
Silence falls between us—heavy, full of unsaid things.
“And just when you started breathing again,” she adds, even softer now, “Mom got worse. There wasn’t even time to fall apart. You went from one nightmare to another.”
I press a hand to my chest, like I can hold everything in place.
“You carried both of us, Ale. You took care of everything.”
She exhales, the sound sad but solid.
“We did what we had to do. For Mom. For each other.”
A pause, then my voice breaks again.
“Sometimes I wonder how you made it through.”
She lets out a small laugh—warm, tired, touched with grief.
“We both did.”
Her words settle deep. They sting. But they anchor me too.
I can’t speak.
We sit in silence for a moment—connected by everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve fought to keep.
Then, she asks gently: “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
Of course she knows. She has a sixth sense. She always knows.
I hesitate for a heartbeat, then let it out.
“It’s him.”
“Dorian,” she says, instantly understanding.
She only saw him once—on a video call. But even then, she used to say he was the match to my fire. The one who didn’t just light me up—he made me burn brighter.
“He’s here. He saw me at the club, the Excalibur… I was...”
But I stop myself before describing the exact scene.
My sister always believed I should talk to someone about “my defense system”—she pushed me toward therapy; said it could help untangle what I kept buried.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell anyone.
Back then, survival meant sealing it all away. Not thinking. Not feeling. Just… pushing forward. Pretending I was fine.
I just wanted to forget. To never speak of it again.
“Apparently, he bought it,” I say, my voice uneven. “Because it reminded him of me.”
I swallow, the words tasting like iron.
“And now he keeps showing up. First at the hotel… then yesterday, at lunch with Greg and Adriana.”
“And what does he want?” she asks gently.
“To know,” I admit, voice shaking. “The truth.”
“And what do you want?”
She always had a way of shedding light on things.
My breath catches.
“To turn back time,” I say bitterly. “To erase it all.”
“That’s an impossible want.” She replies, calm and unwavering.
“I know.” Emotion claws at my throat, but I keep it buried deep.
“I can’t tell him. I can’t open that door.”
She doesn’t push. She waits—still and present—until the words spill out.
“If he knew… everything that happened…” My voice trembles. “He wouldn’t—”
Her words cut through the fear—quiet, but solid as stone.
“Della… monsters only have power in the dark.”
A shiver runs through me, and my fingers tighten around the phone without meaning to.
“The longer you hide from them,” she continues, voice low but clear. “The more they control you. But once you face them… they lose their teeth.”
I close my eyes, every part of me aching.
“You’ve already survived the worst,” she adds, her voice thick with emotion. “There’s nothing he could do that would ever hurt you more than what you’ve already endured.”
She pauses, then adds,
“If the truth is what he’s really after… maybe it’s time he hears it. Maybe, telling him could set you free, Della. Do it for you. Not for him.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“You always make it sound so easy.”
She lets out a soft laugh, tinged with sadness.
“It’s not easy,” she admits. “But it’s the only way forward.”
Silence again—deep, raw, necessary.
“I am the eldest” I murmur “but you are the wisest. Always were.”
There’s a smile in her voice when she says: “That’s true.” Then softer,
“I love you, Sorella. No matter what.”
We’ve called each other Sorella and Sorellina since childhood—nicknames from a Italian fairytale movie we used to watch over and over again. The way they sounded—musical, magical—felt perfect. Ours. Like something stitched into our Latin roots.”
“I love you too, Sorellina” I whisper.
* * *