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I hear the door creak open behind me, and I flinch hard, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand.

A woman steps in. She is older. Her hair is wrapped in a loose scarf, and she moves with a quiet grace. She says nothing at first, just gestures toward the bathroom.

I force myself to stand.

Steam curls from the deep bathtub as she tests the water. The scent of lavender fills the air. She places a bar of pale soap on the rim, folds a dark towel over the edge, and then steps aside, nodding gently for me to enter.

I undress slowly. My blouse peels away from dried blood. The sight of my own skin—bruised and marked—makes me shudder. I avoid the mirror.

I ease into the warm water with a hiss. It wraps around me, soothing and stinging all at once. My arms float at my sides. I stare at the ceiling, blinking back fresh tears.

Nonna’s face rises in my mind—she would be sobbing, shaking, shouting at Sheriff Caladori to do something. Bea would be beside her, stone-faced, holding her up like she always did. My chest aches imagining it.

“I’m sorry…” I whisper into the water. “I’m so sorry, Nonna.”

I sink a little deeper, letting the warmth cradle me.

The older maid returns after some time. She still doesn’t speak. She helps me up with gentle hands. I’m trembling as she wraps the towel around me, then leads me back into the room.

I expect to be alone again, but she stays.

She sits me down on a small cushioned bench and begins to rub a soft cream into my skin. Her hands are cool and sure. She avoids the bruises, working in smooth, circular motions. My body is too tired to be embarrassed.

She helps me into the clothes—black T-shirt, soft cotton pajama trousers. I blink at the pants, a little stunned. I’ve never worn trousers, not even to sleep, never even imagined I would. But I don’t protest. There’s no fight left in me.

She leaves, and when she returns, she’s carrying a tray.

The smell hits me first—soup, bread, a cup of chamomile tea.

I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’m already eating. I swallow too fast, too greedily, and cough, then slow down, forcing myself to chew. I finish everything.

I tell myself I’ll just sit on the bed. Just for a second. The mattress is firm and soft at once, the blanket smooth beneath my fingers. Maybe I’ll just lie down, I think. Just for a moment.

The pillow smells like him. Like danger. Like safety. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

I close my eyes, then I drift away.

I’m standing in a room I don’t recognize. It’s empty, cold. Then he’s there.

Those grey eyes with flecks of fire. He walks toward me without speaking. When he reaches me, he cups my cheek, tilts my face up. I gasp—but I don’t pull away. He lowers his mouth to mine.

His lips brush softly, then press deeper. It burns. It tingles. And it doesn’t stop.

He pulls me into him, his hands on my waist. My knees buckle, and I fall into his chest. The kiss deepens, hot and searching. My heart pounds wildly as his mouth claims mine again and again.

I jolt awake in the pitch darkness with a cry. My body trembles, and I curl up under the blanket, pulling it to my chin.

Then I feel it. A damp warmth between my thighs. I look down to see that the middle of my trousers are soaked.

I stare at the ceiling, tears sliding down the sides of my face. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. My body feels strange, wrong, like it’s working against me.

“Please, God…” I whisper. “Save me.”

I drift away again and the light streaming through the window wakes me up. I blink up at the ceiling in confusion, disoriented for a moment. I sit up too quickly and groan as my head spins.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I whisper a soft prayer into the stillness.

“Madonna mia… guardali per me.”