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But he had somethingmore;a presence heavier, and more commanding.
And the way he spoke to me…it was so fatherly. I felt it the moment he came closer to me, and the soft tone he used. And after he took me out of that room, and into this bigger, nicer one, it only made me miss my Papa even more.
Tears slide down my cheeks, thinking of my family, my heart heavy as it aches.
I wipe my face quickly, blinking away the tears.
I wonder how much longer it will take before my family is here with me.
Walking out of the bathroom—the new one—I make my way towards the communal area of this mansion.
Isaak, Nikolai and Mikhail’s father, specifically asked me to come here once I finished freshening up.
As soon as I step foot into the massive room, my heart rate immediately picks up, noticing the many men who are standing around the walls, their guns in clear view.
There’s a noise behind me, a door opening from somewhere in the hallway, and it makes my heart jump.
I freeze, my body immediately going rigid, as I try my best to calm down.
I hold my breath, listening closely.
Could this be Nikolai?
Or even Mikhail?
Or is this somebody else altogether?
My pulse races as I wait, my mind spinning with possibilities.
Now that I can see the sun once more, and I have access to a clock, I know that two days have passed since Isaak found me.
I’m not exactly sure how many days it’s been since they left, but I definitely know that it’s been more than two now. I just wonder how much longer it will be before they’re back.
Footsteps sound out, and I immediately spot Isaak stepping towards me. His expression is unreadable, the same commanding presence filling the space as the soldiers standing by the wall nod at him as he passes.
I also notice another man behind him.
The second man steps into view, and recognition creeps into my mind like a whisper. My heart stutters in my chest, and before I can help myself, I gasp.
The man standing before me is Italian. He’s a man I recognise from my childhood.
“Alessandro…”
I rasp, barely able to say his name aloud.
I was only six when I last saw him on the day of Mama’s funeral, but you don’t forget a man like Alessandro Santoro. According to Papa, Alessandro took the title of being Don at only nineteen, and he was a well respected man too. He was one of the youngest to ever take that title, but one of the very best too.
When he spots me, his eyes narrow. He takes a long moment to look me over—his gaze running over every inch of my body—assessing me. His eyes linger on my face, and my arms, obviously looking for any visible signs of injury, but he doesn’t find anything.
He won't find anything, because I’ve not been harmed.
His focus is intense as he steps closer towards me.
“Are you okay, Chiara?”
He asks me, his voice deep, as his accent wraps around each word.
His eyes are locked on mine now, his focus unwavering as if he’s trying to read me from the inside out. It feels like a weight pressing down on me, and I suddenly feel a wave of dizziness washing over me. My chest tightens as I swallow hard, feeling like I’m about to pass out.