9. Gilly
Gilly
It’s the morning after the visit to the Inferno Club and light filters through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching long golden beams across the polished marble floors. It should be beautiful. Should be peaceful.
But there’s nothing peaceful about this house.
I sit at the long mahogany dining table, my back straight, my hands clenched in my lap. Across from me, Luca sips his espresso, slow and unbothered.
I hate him.
Hate the way he’s acting like nothing happened last night.
Hate that my body still remembers the press of his hands, the way his breath skimmed my skin, the dark promise in his voice.
I shift in my seat, shoving the memory down.
I won’t let him win.
The wedding ring sits beside my plate, untouched. A glaring symbol of my imprisonment.
Luca’s emerald gaze flicks to it before meeting mine, amusement curling his lips. He hasn’t spoken yet.
He’s waiting.
Letting the silence stretch, letting it settle like chains around my throat.
But I won’t break first.
I won’t.
He finally sets his cup down, exhaling slowly. Then, in that smooth, knowing voice, he murmurs, “Silent treatment again? You’re getting predictable, baby.”
My pulse jumps.
I grit my teeth, pushing my plate away, untouched.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Luca tilts his head, watching me. His smirk deepens as he gestures lazily to the ring.
“Then put it on.”
A sharp laugh escapes me. Does he think I’ll just give in?
I pick up the ring—and throw it across the table.
It clatters against his plate, the sharp sound ringing through the cavernous dining room.
“Go to hell.”
Luca exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as if I’m an unruly child throwing a tantrum.
He doesn’t reach for the ring. Doesn’t react. He just watches me, his voice calm, smooth. Infuriating.
“You’ll give in eventually.” He leans back in his chair, stretching like a predator basking in the sun. Completely at ease. “You always do.”
I see red.
I shove back my chair and storm out of the dining room, my pulse hammering in my throat.
I don’t stop moving, don’t look back, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled I am.
I need air.
The second I step onto the balcony, the salty breeze hits me, warm and thick, but it does nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. My hands tremble as I grip the iron railing, my knuckles white.
I can’t keep doing this.
This constant battle. This push and pull. This war I never wanted to fight.
I suck in a slow breath, forcing my lungs to expand, forcing my body to relax.
And then—
I see them.
My stomach drops.
Below, in the garden, Luca and Rafa.
My fingers tighten around the railing as I watch.
Rafa is laughing.
Laughing with him.
Luca kneels beside him, his large hands carefully guiding Rafa’s grip on a wooden practice sword, adjusting his stance.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a sick twist forming in my gut.
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t hear what Luca is saying, but I don’t need to. The way Rafa is looking up at him—eager, trusting, hanging on to every word—it’s enough to break something inside me.
Luca nods approvingly as Rafa swings the wooden sword again. “That’s it, little man. Just like that.”
Rafa grins, his small face beaming with pride.
My chest seizes.
My son. My baby.
He shouldn’t be looking at Luca like that.
Like he admires him. Like he wants his approval.
Like he sees him as…
No.
I rip my gaze away, my breath coming too fast, my vision blurring.
Luca isn’t his father.
He never will be.
I can’t breathe.
My pulse slams against my ribs as I stalk through the mansion, my vision tunneling, my hands curled into fists.
I don’t remember walking here.
I don’t remember throwing open the door.
All I know is—
I need to hurt him.
Luca leans against the edge of his desk, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, movements slow, deliberate. Like he’s waiting for me. Like he’s been expecting this.
A glass of whiskey rests in his hand, half-drained. He doesn’t look up right away.
Because he knows.
He knows I came to fight.
And that? That amuses him.
I slam the door shut behind me.
“Stay away from my son.”
Luca still doesn’t look at me.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip.
And then—finally—his gaze flicks to mine.
Cool. Unbothered. Smirking.
“Our son,” he corrects smoothly.
Something inside me snaps.
“No.” My voice shakes with fury. “He’s not yours. He never will be.”
The smirk fades.
Slowly.
The room feels too small. Too hot.
Luca sets his drink down on the desk. Deliberate. Measured.
“Say that again.”
A warning.
A challenge.
My hands tremble at my sides, but I lift my chin.
Defiant. Reckless. Furious.
“You’re not his father,” I bite out. “You’re just a monster who forced your way into our lives.”
Silence.
It stretches too long.
The tension is thick, coiling around my throat, daring me to take it back.
But I don’t.
I won’t.
Luca exhales slowly, shaking his head like I’m something to be pitied. Like I’m losing a game I don’t even realize I’m playing.
Then, his lips curl into a slow, dark smirk.
“Say it again, baby.”
His voice is soft. Sinister.
A promise of something dangerous.
A promise of consequences.
A shiver rakes down my spine.
I need to get out of here.
I need to put distance between us.
Now.
I slam my bedroom door shut behind me, twisting the lock with shaking fingers.
The sharp click echoes in the silence.
Useless.
I know that.
But I need something—anything—to make me feel like I still have control.
My back presses against the door, my chest rising and falling too fast.
My fingers dig into the wood.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
I shouldn’t have pushed him.
But I meant every damn word.
I won’t let him take Rafa from me.
I won’t let him worm his way into my son’s heart.
The house is silent.
Too silent.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Heavy.
My stomach clenches.
My breath stalls.
He stops right outside my door.
I press my palm over my mouth, trying to slow my breathing. Trying not to let him hear how much he’s affecting me.
He doesn’t knock.
He doesn’t try the handle.
He just stands there.
Waiting.
Letting the weight of his presence seep into the room, seep into my bones.
And then—his voice.
Low. Smooth. Unshaken.
“Doors won’t keep me out forever, Gilly.”
A chill slithers down my spine.
Because we both know—
He’s right.