Chapter 45 Savannah
Savannah
“Bring her diary.”
The words hit like fingers around my throat, and I freeze beside the SUV. Cold air bites my cheeks. Gravel grinds under boots. Engines idle like patient animals. Men move with purpose like this is routine, like a message demanding my diary is not the most violating thing in the world.
My diary is not just paper. It is where I put the truth when speaking feels impossible. It is private. It is mine.
My fingers clamp around it so hard my knuckles sting, protective and instinctive, like if I loosen even a little it gets taken.
Gabriel’s hand tightens around mine. He doesn’t look at Luca. He looks at me. His voice is low, gentle, dangerous in the calm.
“Eyes,” he says.
I blink like I forgot how. Then I force my gaze up. His pupils are steady. He doesn’t let my fear flood the space. He holds it like it is information he can use, not a weakness he is annoyed by.
My throat is dry. “What did he say,” I whisper, even though I heard it, even though it is echoing in my skull like a hammer.
Gabriel’s jaw tightens. He answers without giving me the name. “A courier,” he says. “Bratva handler.”
My stomach flips like the road dropped out from under us.
“He wants my diary,” I whisper.
“He doesn’t get it,” he says.
My hands shake. I hate that they shake. I hate how my body betrays me with visible evidence. I swallow hard, and the swallow hurts.
“Why would he,” I start, but the answer is already crawling up my throat. He wants proof. He wants to know which parts of me still bleed. He wants to take the only place I have ever been allowed to tell the truth.
“He wants to see if I’m breaking,” I whisper.
Gabriel’s gaze sharpens. “Yes,” he says simply.
The simplicity makes it worse. No comforting story. No soft lie.
I stare down at the diary in my lap. The cover is plain, unremarkable, but my pulse is in it. My shame is in it. My survival is in it. The words I cannot say out loud because the wrong ears turn them into weapons.
My voice shakes. “So what do we do?”
Gabriel turns his head slightly toward Luca. His tone goes cold. “Reply.”
Luca’s eyes flicker. “What?”
Gabriel doesn’t hesitate. “Tell him she wrote last night,” he says. “Tell him it is messy. Tell him she is afraid.”
My stomach drops straight through the ground.
Afraid. That word is a trigger, even when it is a lie, even when it is strategy. My nervous system hears it like a label burned onto my skin. My breath stutters.
“Gabriel,” I start.
He cuts in gently. “Look at me.”
I do. His voice lowers, softer for me, not for them. “This is strategy,” he says. “Not truth.”
My throat tightens. Even when it is fake, it still feels like they are using me, like they are reaching into my body and pulling out a reaction for display.
“It feels like truth,” I whisper.
His gaze softens. “I know.”
No argument. No lecture. Just understanding.
Then he asks the question that rewires my chest. “Are you okay with me using it to pull him in,” he says quietly.
I go still. Because no one asked me that when I was nine. No one asked me that when I learned silence keeps you breathing. No one asked me that when this marriage started and everyone treated me like a clause on a contract.
Are you okay.
I stare at him. My body wants to say no. My body wants to run. My body wants to crawl out of my skin and leave the diary behind like bait so I do not have to feel the violation.
But running got noticed. Running brought a man to my window. Running is what they expect.
My fingers squeeze the diary again. I swallow, and I do something I have never done before. I choose with my mouth.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Gabriel doesn’t move. He holds my gaze like he is making sure it is real. “Say it again,” he says.
My throat tightens like it is trying to protect my voice from coming out. But I do it anyway.
“Yes,” I say.
His eyes flash with something like pride. Not ownership. Respect. He nods once.
“Good,” he says. “Then we do it on your terms.”
My chest loosens by a fraction, like my lungs found a tiny pocket of air.
My voice trembles. “What are my terms?”
Gabriel answers immediately. “You keep the diary,” he says. “No one touches it. No one reads it. It stays on your body.”
My breath catches. Because that means he is not just protecting me. He is protecting my words.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“And you do not go to church,” he adds, voice lower.
My stomach flips again. “But he said noon.”
“He wants a stage,” Gabriel says. “I’m giving him a trap.”
“And the diary,” I whisper.
Gabriel’s eyes turn lethal. “I’m giving him a lie that makes him move.”
Luca clears his throat quietly. “Message sent.”
The convoy door opens. Juan gestures once. “Move.”
I climb into the SUV. Gabriel gets in beside me immediately, close. His hand finds my thigh. Rafa drives. Juan takes front passenger. Two cars ahead, two behind.
The convoy rolls out, but my heart is pounding like we are fleeing.
Because the diary is in my lap. Because the diary is suddenly a target. Because when men want your words, they usually want your body too.
Gabriel’s voice is quiet beside me. “Breathe.”
I try. In. Out. In again. My fingers keep gripping the diary like if I let go, it will disappear, like my voice will get ripped out of my hands and used against me.
“You did good,” he says.
My throat tightens. “I feel sick.”
He nods once. “Normal. Your body hates being exposed.”
Outside the window, America looks normal. Trees. Roads. Sky. A gas station sign in the distance. A world that has no idea my diary might get someone killed.
“Will they come for it,” I whisper.
“They’ll try,” he says.
“And if they take it,” I whisper, but my voice cracks because I cannot finish the thought without tasting metal.
Gabriel keeps his eyes forward. “They won’t.”
I swallow hard. “You can’t promise that.”
He doesn’t look at me yet. He just speaks like an oath. “I can promise this. If anyone touches that diary, I break them.”
My stomach twists. I believe him, and believing him scares me. Because it means the war will spill more blood, and blood always finds wives.
The compound comes into view. High walls. Gates. Armed men. The sense of being watched crawls back onto my skin like a coat I hate wearing.
My stomach tightens. “I hate this place,” I whisper.
“You hate what it did,” Gabriel corrects.
“It represents me being owned,” I whisper.
“It represented that,” he says. “Not anymore.”
Not anymore. Again.
That sentence is becoming a pattern. My body still doesn’t trust it, but my mind wants to. My mind wants to believe the future can be different without punishing me for it.
The gates open. We roll through. The compound swallows us whole. Men nod. Men scan. Men carry rifles like groceries. Everyone acts normal, and I hate how normal it is.
Gabriel gets out first, then opens my door. He holds his hand out.
Choice.
I take it.
My feet hit the ground. Cold air bites. I clutch my diary to my chest without meaning to. Instinct.
A man across the courtyard looks a second too long. An Alliance man in a suit, sharp eyes, measuring. My skin crawls.
Gabriel’s head turns slightly. The man drops his gaze instantly.
Good.
But my body still trembles because I have been measured before. Appraised. Assigned value.
We move toward the main house. Inside smells like coffee and gun oil and cologne, Italian cologne. I feel it before I see it.
Then I see him.
Cassio.
Standing near the fireplace like he is waiting for a verdict. Rigid posture. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked on me. My chest tightens so hard it hurts. Little girl fear rises like nausea.
Cassio’s gaze flicks to my diary. Something sharp moves in his face. A flash of guilt, rage, both. He steps forward.
“Savannah,” he says.
His voice is not cruel, but it is heavy. It has history. It has possession. It has that tone that says he still thinks he gets to make decisions for me.
Gabriel’s hand tightens around mine, warm anchor.
Cassio looks at Gabriel, then back to me. “Are you alright,” he asks.
Loaded. Meaning, did you behave, did you make it easy.
My throat tightens. Old reflex rises. Say yes. Make it easier. Do not be a problem.
But I promised myself I would stop lying with my face. And Gabriel asked me.
So I choose again.
“I’m…” I swallow hard. “I’m alive.”
Cassio’s eyes flinch. He steps closer.
“Who came to the window,” he asks, voice low.
Gabriel’s posture shifts, subtle warning.
Cassio doesn’t look at him. He looks at me like Gabriel is not part of this.
He asks again, sharper. “Was it Bratva.”
My stomach flips. No names. No details. Gabriel said no names.
And Cassio is a trigger too.
My fingers find my pendant. My voice shakes. “I do not want to talk about it.”
Cassio’s jaw tightens. “You do not get to not talk about it.”
It hits like a slap.
My body recoils. Nine-year-old fear pours up my spine like cold water.
Gabriel’s voice turns cold and lethal. “She said no.”
Cassio’s eyes snap to him. “She’s my sister,” Cassio snaps.
“And she’s my wife,” Gabriel replies evenly.
The room goes still. Men shift. Air tightens. This is not family. This is power.
Cassio’s gaze cuts back into me. “I’m trying to protect you,” he says.
Protect. A word that has hurt me before. Protect is what men say when they tighten cages.
“I didn’t ask,” I whisper.
Cassio’s eyes widen slightly. He exhales. “You’re shaking,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
Honest. Small. Still mine.
His gaze flicks again to the diary. “What’s that,” he asks.
Heat floods my face. Gabriel’s hand slides to my back, light pressure.
Cassio reaches slightly, like it is automatic. “Give it to me,” he says.
My body wants to obey without thinking. Handing things over used to keep me alive.
But Gabriel asked. And I said yes on my terms. And my terms were, no one touches it.
So I do the hardest thing.
I step back.
Just one step. Small. But clear.
Cassio freezes.
My voice shakes, but it comes out anyway. “No.”
Silence slams down.
Cassio’s face shifts. Shock, then anger, then something like pain.
“Savannah,” he says, lower, “do not do this.”
Meaning, do not make me uncomfortable. Do not make me lose control. Do not show everyone you are separate.
My throat burns. “It is mine,” I whisper.
Cassio looks at Gabriel like Gabriel stole my obedience.
“She keeps it,” Gabriel says.
Cassio’s voice hardens. “You’re turning her against her own blood.”
Gabriel doesn’t blink. “I’m not letting you take what’s hers.”
My eyes sting. Because that sentence is the clearest thing anyone has ever said about me.
Cassio’s breathing turns heavy. He looks at me again.
“Do you know what Romano did,” he asks.
My stomach flips. Romano’s name feels sharp like broken glass.
Cassio’s eyes burn. “He coordinated with Bratva,” he says. “He used you.”
Used you.
I flinch.
Cassio steps closer, slower. “I am going to kill him,” he says.
The room holds its breath.
I swallow hard. “I do not want more death,” I whisper.
Cassio’s jaw flexes. “You do not get a vote on that,” he says.
My body goes cold.
Gabriel’s hand tightens on my back. A warning. A promise.
I stare at Cassio, and I realize something that twists my stomach.
Cassio thinks killing Romano fixes it. But Romano is not the only problem. The problem is men treating my fear like a tool.
My voice trembles, but I speak anyway.
“I do get a vote,” I whisper.
Silence.
Cassio’s eyes go wide. The room goes still again. And for the first time in my life, my brother looks at me like he doesn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him.
* * *
Dear Diary,
I am not your property.
My body shook so hard I felt nine again. But my mouth still worked.
I do not know what happens next.
But I know this.
My voice did not disappear.