Chapter 13
Bea couldn’t sleep, she’d tried. She’d laid in the massive bed with its silk duvet and expensive pillows, staring at the ornate ceiling molding until the shadows shifted from black to gray to the pale gold of early morning.
Her body was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the car ride.
The handholding. The tears. The way Dimitri had looked at her like she was something precious and broken all at once. She hated it.
She hated that she’d let him see her like that.
Hated that she’d cracked open and spilled her guts in the back of a car like some tragic heroine in a bad romance novel.
Hated that part of her, the part she’d spent years burying, had felt relief when his fingers curled around hers.
By the time the sun rose, she’d already showered, dressed in black jeans and a soft gray sweater, and applied her makeup with the precision of someone preparing for battle.
The mask was back in place. The performance, ready to resume.
She just had to get through breakfast without anyone asking questions.
The kitchen was empty when she arrived. Bea poured herself coffee, black and scalding, and leaned against the marble counter.
The compound was quiet, too quiet. No Killian’s booming laughter, no Nico’s clipped irritation, no Dimitri’s cold commands.
Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of birds outside the windows.
“You’re up early.” Bea turned. Isabella Marchetti stood in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe the color of deep wine, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders. She looked softer in the morning light, less like the steel-spined matriarch and more like someone’s mother.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Bea said, forcing a smile. “Too much excitement yesterday.”
Isabella’s eyes, sharp, knowing, studied her for a long moment. “Excitement? Is that what we’re calling it?”
Bea’s smile didn’t waver. “What else would you call it?”
“Reliving trauma.” The word hung in the air like smoke.
Bea’s fingers tightened around her coffee mug. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Isabella crossed the kitchen slowly, her bare feet silent on the tile. She poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the stove, added honey with deliberate care, and turned to face Bea fully.
“My son came home last night,” Isabella said quietly, “and destroyed the back seat of one of our cars with his bare hands.”
Bea’s throat tightened.
“He hasn’t done that since his youth,” Isabella continued, her voice soft but unyielding.
“The last time was when his father beat one of the younger guards so badly the boy lost an eye. Dimitri couldn’t stop it. So he went to the garage and tore apart his father’s favorite Bentley until his knuckles bled.”
Bea stared into her coffee. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize.” Isabella’s tone sharpened. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you this because I need you to understand something.”
Bea looked up.
Isabella’s gaze was fierce, maternal, and utterly uncompromising. “My son does not break for just anyone. He does not lose control. He does not rage unless something, or someone, has reached past every wall he’s built and grabbed his attention.”
Bea’s breath caught.
“Whatever happened in that car,” Isabella said gently, “whatever you told him… it mattered. And I think you need to talk about it with someone who won’t break furniture afterward.”
They ended up in Isabella’s sitting room. It was a smaller, more intimate space than the formal dining room. cream-colored walls, soft lighting from antique lamps, and a plush sofa facing a fireplace that crackled with low flames. The kind of room is designed for comfort, not intimidation.
Isabella settled into an armchair, cradling her tea. Bea sat on the edge of the sofa, her coffee untouched on the side table, her hands folded in her lap.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Isabella said. “But if you want to… I’m listening.”
Bea’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“Beatrice.”
The use of her full name, gentle, not scolding, made something crack in Bea’s chest.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, but her voice wavered.
Isabella didn’t push. She just waited, sipping her tea, her expression patient and kind.
The silence stretched.
Bea stared at the fire, watching the flames dance and curl. She could feel the mask slipping, the performance crumbling. She was so tired. So damn tired of holding it all together.
“My father died when I was seven,” she said finally, her voice flat.
Isabella didn’t react. Didn’t gasp or offer empty platitudes. She just nodded, encouraging Bea to continue.
“He was in this life. The same life your sons are in. It got him killed.” Bea’s hands curled into fists.
“After that, my mother… she stopped being a mother. She drank. She let men come and go. Some men who looked at me like I was a problem they didn’t want to deal with, and others looked at me like-” She cut her own words off.
Isabella’s expression darkened, but she stayed silent.
“When I was fourteen, she married one of them. Carl.” Bea’s voice turned bitter. “He moved into our house, and when my mother was too drunk to notice, he’d come into my room and just watch me.”
She stopped. Swallowed hard.
“He beat on me a lot,” she said quietly. “Not every day. Just… when he felt like it. When I talked back or didn’t clean the kitchen fast enough or looked at him wrong. He’d use his belt, but most of the time it was with his fists, I think he loved to hear me cry.”
Isabella’s teacup rattled slightly as she set it down. Her hands were shaking.
“I learned how to hide the bruises,” Bea continued, her voice detached, clinical. “How to lie to teachers. How to make myself small and quiet so he wouldn’t notice me. But it didn’t matter. Because when I turned eighteen…” Her breath hitched.
“He came into my room that night, like he always did. My mother was passed out downstairs, and he-” Her voice cracked. “He tried to—” She couldn’t say it.
Isabella stood abruptly, crossed the room, and sat beside Bea on the sofa. She didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. She just sat close enough that Bea could feel her presence, solid and warm.
“You don’t have to say it,” Isabella said softly.
Bea shook her head. “No. I need to, I have never said it out loud and maybe that is what is stopping me from healing.”
She took a shuddering breath.
“He tried to rape me.”
The words fell like stones.
“But I fought back,” Bea whispered. “I kept a little pocketknife under my pillow because, I knew one day he’d try. And when he grabbed me, I-”
Her hands were shaking now, trembling so hard, Isabella placed her hands on Bea’s to help keep them still.
“I stabbed him.”
Isabella’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
“I stabbed him in the throat,” Bea said, her voice breaking. “…I watched him bleed out on my bedroom floor. I watched him choke on his own blood, and I didn’t call for help. I didn’t scream. I just… watched.”
Tears were streaming down her face now, hot and unstoppable.
“I waited until I knew he was really dead,” she whispered, “then I grabbed my packed bag, I had been planning to leave after I turned eighteen. I got my mother out of the house and dropped her off at one of her hangouts. She was barely conscious to understand what was going on. I knew she would be taken care of even though I shouldn’t have cared what would happen to her.
Then I went back to the house and took a few of our family albums, moms’ jewelry to pawn.
I had been saving up from working odd end jobs since I was 15.
I even took all the money out of Carl’s wallet; and I ran and never looked back. ”
The silence that followed was deafening. Bea waited for the horror. The judgment. The disgust. Instead, Isabella reached over and took Bea’s hand.
“I am so proud of you!” she said fiercely.
Bea’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I am proud of you,” Isabella repeated, her grip tightening. “I’m glad you killed him. I’m glad he’s dead. And I’m glad you survived.”
Bea stared at her, stunned.
Isabella’s eyes were blazing. “You were a child. A child who should have been protected. Instead, you were forced to protect yourself. That is not your shame to carry. That is his, and your mother’s, and every adult who failed you.”
Bea’s chest heaved. “I’m a murderer.”
“You’re a survivor.”
“I killed a man-”
“You killed a monster,” Isabella said sharply. “There is a difference.” Bea broke.
She collapsed forward, her face buried in her hands, sobs tearing out of her throat in ragged, ugly gasps. Isabella pulled her close, wrapping her arms around Bea’s shaking shoulders, holding her the way a mother should.
“You did what you had to do,” Isabella murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “And you have carried that weight, alone, for far too long.”
Bea clung to her, her fingers digging into the silk of Isabella’s robe, her body shaking with the force of her grief. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her like this.
Couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself be held.
“I’m so tired,” Bea whispered.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
They stayed like that for a long time, Bea crying into Isabella’s shoulder, Isabella stroking her hair and murmuring soft reassurances. The fire crackled. The morning light grew brighter. And for the first time in years, Bea let herself be small. Let herself be vulnerable. Let herself be held.
When the tears finally stopped, Bea pulled back, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were red and swollen, her makeup ruined. Her carefully constructed mask completely shattered.
“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Isabella said firmly. She reached over and grabbed a box of tissues from the side table, handing them to Bea. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Bea took the tissues, dabbing at her eyes. “I just… I don’t usually…”
“Let yourself fall apart in front of people?” Isabella finished gently. “I know. But sometimes, falling apart is the bravest thing you can do.”
Bea let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t feel very brave.”
“You are.” Isabella’s voice was fierce. “You survived hell. You built a life for yourself. You became strong and brilliant and terrifying. And you did it all alone.”
Bea’s throat tightened again.
“But you don’t have to be alone anymore,” Isabella said softly. “You have me. And whether you like it or not, you have my sons.”
Bea’s lips twitched. “Your sons are insane.”
“They are,” Isabella agreed with a small smile. “But they’re also loyal, and fiercely protective. And completely obsessed with you.”
Bea groaned. “That’s not a good thing.”
“Maybe not,” Isabella said. “But it’s the truth.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly.
“Does Dimitri know?” Isabella asked quietly. “About… what all happened?”
Bea shook her head. “Not really, but I believe he understood what I was saying.”
“Why not?”
Bea hesitated. “Because, I didn’t want him to look at me differently.”
Isabella’s expression softened. “Beatrice, my son destroyed a car with his bare hands because he couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering. Do you really think he would judge you for surviving?”
Bea didn’t answer.
“He wouldn’t,” Isabella said firmly. “None of them would. They’ve all done far worse, for far less noble reasons.”
Bea let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“Perhaps,” Isabella said with a small smile. “But it’s the truth.”
She reached over and squeezed Bea’s hand. “They might be powerful men, but they are good to those they care deeply for. They are not their father, I can promise you that.” Bea looked down at their joined hands. Isabella’s grip was warm, steady, grounding.
“Thank you,” Bea whispered.
“For what?”
“For not judging me, for letting me get all of that out.”
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, sweetheart. I could never judge you for that. I have heard and seen my husband do far worse. "
She pulled Bea into another hug, and this time, Bea didn’t resist. She let herself sink into the warmth, the safety, the unconditional acceptance she hadn’t felt since she was seven years old and her father was still alive.
For the first time in years, Beatrice Rossi felt like she could breathe.