Chapter 43 Savannah
Savannah
Iwake up to the sound of nothing.
No birds. No city hum. No distant sirens. Just quiet. Real quiet.
My eyes open slowly. The lamp is still on low.
The door is still locked. The blanket is still tight around my shoulders, like it stayed where I told it to.
I sit up and my chest tightens automatically as I check the room.
Everything looks the same, but my body still scans like it’s hunting for proof that safety is temporary.
Then I hear it. Breathing outside my door.
Gabriel.
I swallow hard. My throat feels dry. My tongue tastes like sleep and fear. My hands find my pendant without thinking, and I press my feet into the floor. Wood under my soles. I whisper my sentence in my head.
I chose this.
The house smells like coffee now, faint and warm.
It floats under the door like a promise.
I stare at the lock, my fingers hovering over it.
I don’t want to open it. I want to open it.
Both at once. I hate that. I hate how one simple twist of a lock can feel like the difference between a marriage and a cage.
I take a breath. In. Out. Then I unlock the door.
Click.
The sound is too loud in my head.
I pull it open a few inches. Gabriel is sitting against the wall exactly where he said he would be. Same posture. Knees bent. Weapon near him. Eyes open. He looks up immediately, not startled.
He reads my face in one second like he can see the last eight years written behind my eyes.
“Morning,” he says, voice low.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His gaze stays steady. “You okay?”
The question feels dangerous, because if I answer honestly, the answer is always not fully. But I promised myself I would stop lying with my face, so I do something small. I nod once.
“Better,” I say.
Gabriel’s eyes soften slightly. Not in a weak way. In a way that makes my ribs ache. He stands slowly, then steps back, giving me space.
“Coffee or tea,” he says.
“Tea,” I answer.
He nods. “Okay.”
* * *
He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t push. He just turns and walks toward the kitchen like my preference is normal.
I follow a few steps behind him. Bare feet on wood. The floor is cold, and it keeps me here.
The kitchen is simple. A kettle on the stove. A mug already out. Honey on the counter. Gabriel does things in a quiet, purposeful way that makes the room feel structured. Structure makes my body breathe easier.
Luca sits near the table, phone in his hand, eyes sharp but posture controlled. He looks up when he sees me, then lowers his gaze immediately. Respectful. I exhale without meaning to.
Juan stands at the window, watching outside like the trees owe him money. He doesn’t look at me. Not ignoring me. Protecting me from feeling watched.
Gabriel pours hot water into my mug and slides it toward me. “Drink,” he says gently.
I wrap my hands around the mug. Heat sinks into my palms. I take a sip. Warm. Sweet. My stomach still resists, but it accepts more than it did last night. Gabriel watches me drink like it matters. Like my body matters. I hate how much that affects me. I hate how comfort makes my eyes sting.
I set the mug down carefully. “Did you sleep?” I ask, voice small.
Gabriel doesn’t lie. “No.”
My throat tightens. “Why?” I whisper, like I don’t already know.
His gaze holds mine. “Because someone came to the window.”
My skin goes cold. My fingers tighten around the mug. “It wasn’t a raccoon.”
Gabriel pauses for a beat, then speaks carefully. “No.”
The truth lands in my ribs. My breath catches. My chest tightens. I press my feet into the floor harder.
“Who,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “No names.”
My stomach twists. “It was him.”
Gabriel doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t confirm with a name. He only says what matters. “It was handled.”
Handled means blood.
My throat burns. “Did you kill someone,” I whisper.
Luca’s hand stills on his phone. Juan’s posture tightens slightly. The house goes very quiet.
“Not dead,” Gabriel says, voice low. “Not yet.”
Not yet.
My stomach flips hard. Not yet means questions. It means a man in a chair. It means pain. My skin crawls with guilt.
“I don’t want that,” I whisper.
Gabriel steps closer without touching me, his voice soft. “You don’t want people dying.”
I nod quickly. “Yes.”
He watches my face, then says the truth I don’t want to hear. “You didn’t start this. But it started when you were nine.”
My breath shakes. My eyes sting instantly.
Nine.
The number is a knife.
He continues, low and steady. “And I refuse to let it come back to your window.”
My chest tightens. “But if you hurt them,” I whisper, “they’ll hurt me back.”
Gabriel’s gaze turns lethal. “They’ll try.”
“I don’t want to be the reason.”
“You’re not the reason,” he corrects. “You’re the target.”
Target is worse than reason. Target means it doesn’t stop. Target means no matter what I do, it continues.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
Gabriel exhales slowly. He looks at Luca, then Juan, then back to me. “We go home.”
Home. The compound. The gates. The routines that smell like power.
My throat tightens. “Home.”
“Yes,” he says. “Because running gave them patterns. The convoy got noticed. This place got tracked.”
Tracked. So they did follow us. So last night was not over.
Gabriel’s voice lowers. “And because I’m done letting other men decide where you sleep.”
That doesn’t feel like a title. It feels like a promise. A boundary.
I swallow hard. “What about Cassio?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightens. “He’ll be handled.”
“That means violence.”
“It means boundaries,” he says.
A boundary. A weapon. A man who can be gentle while holding a knife.
I stare at my tea, hands shaking again, and force them still. “I don’t want to go to church.”
“You won’t.”
“What if they make me?”
Gabriel leans in slightly, not too close, just enough that his voice feels like it reaches my bones. “They can’t make you. Not anymore.”
Not anymore should feel empowering. It feels terrifying, because if I believe him, I have to stop living like a hostage, and my body doesn’t know how to do that yet.
Luca speaks quietly from the table. “Savannah.”
I look at him. His eyes are serious. “Cassio called last night.”
My stomach drops. Gabriel’s jaw tightens.
“He asked for you,” Luca adds, careful.
Asked for me means claimed. It means pressure.
“And?” I whisper.
Gabriel answers for him. “I said no.”
My breath catches. “You said no to Cassio.”
Gabriel nods once. “Yes. Because you were asleep.”
My throat tightens. Being asleep is when I feel the least powerful. He protected that. He protected my sleep like it mattered.
“What did Cassio say?” I whisper.
Gabriel’s eyes harden. “He said Romano is dead if the recording is true.”
Dead. A word that should feel like justice, but death has ripples, and ripples always reach wives.
“Recording?” I ask, voice shaking.
Luca’s phone is still in his hand. “We got a confession,” he says quietly.
* * *
Confession means someone begged. Someone broke. Someone said words to survive. My chest tightens with nausea.
“I don’t want to know,” I whisper.
Gabriel watches me and nods once. “Then you don’t .”
He reaches toward me and rests his hand on my wrist. “You’re going to eat,” he says softly.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to be hungry,” he replies. “You have to stay alive.”
Alive. That is the core.
He slides a small plate toward me. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Simple. Normal. I stare at it like it’s a test.
His thumb presses once against my wrist. “Small bites.”
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow. My stomach protests, then accepts. I take another bite, then another. Gabriel doesn’t praise. He doesn’t make it a big deal. He just stays close, a steady presence while I do something my body wants to reject.
Then he shifts, voice lower. “We leave in one hour.”
“One hour,” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says. “We pack. We move. We reset security.”
Reset security means they are planning for battle.
“Will you stay close,” I whisper.
His gaze holds mine. “Always.”
Always is a dangerous word. No one ever promised always without eventually leaving. I want to believe him, and I am terrified to believe him.
My eyes flick toward the hallway, back to the door, back to the lock, back to last night. “Did he touch the window,” I whisper.
Gabriel’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“I feel like it’s still on me.”
His voice goes quiet. “It’s not. But if you need it, we’ll wash it off anyway.”
Wash it off. A simple solution for something that feels unwashable.
He stands and holds his hand out. I take it. His palm is warm and solid.
* * *
He leads me to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. Warm water fills the sink. He pumps soap into my palms.
“You get to have safe things,” he tells me quietly. “Even after dirty men try to touch your world.”
My throat tightens. Tears blur my vision. I wash my hands over and over. Warm water. Soap. Rinse. Again. Again. Until my shaking slows. Until my breathing settles. Until my body remembers it can be clean.
Gabriel hands me a towel. I dry my hands slowly, then look up at him.
My voice is small but clear. “I don’t feel like letting men use me as leverage today.”
Gabriel’s eyes hold mine. “Then you won’t be.”
And for the first time since the lock test, I believe a sentence without flinching.
* * *
Dear Diary,
I can hear his breathing outside my door, like my fear deserves protection.
He admitted it was not a raccoon.
He admitted it was real.
And then he said I get to have safe things.
Safe sheets. Fresh air. Hands that ask.
Days that don’t punish me.
Today I don’t feel like letting men use me as leverage.
He said I will not be.