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She isn’t someone to be treated lightly.
And there areyearsof history binding us Russians and Italians together.
But my sons, my own flesh and blood, have made her their prisoner, a captive in our home.
And for what?
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
A misplaced sense of ownership?
A twisted form of control?
The idea of them treating her so badly makes something inside of mesnap.
If they can be so cruel to this girl, so delicate and so caught up in a situation beyond her control, then what is stopping others from doing the same to my daughter? To the little sister of my two sons?
I force myself to release a heavy breath, trying my best to remain calm.
If I get angry now…that won’t be good.
This girl—Chiara—doesn’t belong here.
She shouldn't have been caught in the crossfire.
She shouldn't have been brought under my roof.
But now that she’s here, I’ll protect her with everything that I have.
I waste no time as I step into the small room.
Immediately spotting her, I find her curled into herself on the bed.
When she notices me standing by her doorway, her eyes widen, and she gasps, almost crying out. Fear flashes in her eyes, and she tugs the duvet cover closer to her chin.
She’s panicked, scared, and I can't help but feel like I am partially to blame for this too.
I should have realised it right from the very beginning.
Not moving into the room any further, I try to make myself smaller, so she’s not as afraid.
“Chiara.” I say softly. “How are you?”
I don’t ask the question just for the sake of asking—Ineedto know.
There’s something paternal in the way that I address her, something fatherly that takes root although she’s not mine.
If anything like this was to happen to my daughter…
No.
I won’t let my mind go there.
Chiara hesitates to say anything, and even after I press her for an answer, she remains silent.
It’s only after that I take a step forward that she speaks, her voice small and quiet, as she becomes desperate for me to leave.
“I-I’m fine.” She barely manages to whisper. “Please, leave me alone here.”