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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AURELIA

A drian avoids me like I’m carrying the plague.

It’s been four days since I arrived at Lorenzo’s estate—four days of polite nods when we pass in hallways, four days of him leaving rooms the moment I enter, four days of wondering what the hell happened to the man who held me while I sobbed in his office.

I’ve tried cornering him twice. Both times he managed to slip away with some vague excuse about “urgent business.”

God, men are infuriating. At least Julian never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a possessive, volatile storm. Adrian, or “Dante”, is just… a ghost. Present but untouchable.

And I thought he’d changed.

Still, not everything about my new life is disappointing.

I’m sitting in the garden with Lorenzo, watching Roby chase butterflies through the late morning sunshine.

The way his small legs pump as he races across the lawn, his delighted squeals each time he nearly catches one, fills an emptiness in me.

Especially since he’s family.

“You’re smiling,” Lorenzo observes. He leans back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease in designer jeans and a simple white shirt. “It suits you.”

“Hard not to smile around him,” I say, nodding toward Roby. “He’s… innocent. Untouched by all of this.”

“That’s my greatest accomplishment—keeping him that way.” He takes a sip of his espresso. “You know, he reminds me so much of your cousins back in Italy. Same energy, same joy.”

I turn to face him fully. “I have more cousins?”

“Of course.” He laughs. “The Italian side of your family is huge. Your mother had three siblings including my mother. Those siblings had children, who now have children… you have at least a dozen second cousins around Roby’s age.”

My smile widens into a grin. A family. A real, extended family with connections and history and holidays spent together. People who share my blood, who might have my mother’s smile or her laugh.

“Tell me about them,” I say, leaning forward and resting my chin on my hands.

Lorenzo sets his cup down on the table, his eyes distant with fond memories. “There’s Sophia and Marco—they’re twins, about sixteen now. Absolute terrors. Always plotting some mischief.” He grins. “Then there’s Lucia, she just turned twenty. Studies art in Florence. Very talented.”

He continues, painting portraits of people I’ve never met but who suddenly feel essential to my existence. Aunts who make the best limoncello, uncles who argue politics at every gathering, older relatives who tell the same stories over and over.

“The villa in Tuscany is where most gatherings happen now. It’s been in the family for generations.

” Lorenzo’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You should see it in the summer. The vineyards stretching for miles, the stone paths worn smooth from footsteps, the kitchen always smelling of basil and tomatoes…”

I close my eyes, letting myself imagine it. Me, there, surrounded by people who claim me as their own. No Consortium. No revenge plots. Just family and food and sunlight.

“Once this is over,” Lorenzo says, “you can come to Italy with me. I’d love to move back when I can, and I’ll be married to your friend, so you’ll have plenty of company.”

My eyes snap open. “Eleanora.”

“Yes. Eleanora.”

The way he says her name is different from how I say it. There’s some deeper affection behind it, similar to how Emeric says ‘Eleanora’ like he’s breathing her in.

It makes my suspicion about this arrangement grow. Does Eleanora actually know about the engagement? She’s never mentioned it, not once. Wouldn’t that be something important to tell your best friend?

We used to tell each other everything.

Used to.

Well, it’s still possible she may not know .

I groan to myself. God, this is so confusing. Who’s telling the truth and who’s keeping secrets?

I guess I could ask Lorenzo right now— Has Eleanora been told about this arrangement? But asking means potentially hearing an answer that will shatter another relationship I thought I understood.

Right now, I need the illusion of stability more than I need the truth. I need to believe in the bubble Lorenzo has created for me—this safe haven where family means something good rather than something toxic.

I’ll worry about Eleanora some other time.

“Italy,” I say instead, tasting the word. “Far away from Seattle.”

Far away from Julian. From Valentine’s betrayal. From Lady Harrow’s manipulations.

Far away from Adrian too.

My chest is back to aching. I don’t want to leave him, not after finding him again, but right now, with his walls firmly in place, he’s not giving me much reason to stay.

“You don’t have to decide anything yet,” Lorenzo says, reading my expression. “Just know you have options. A future beyond all this.”

A future. The concept feels mythical after spending so long consumed by the past and my hit list.

I haven’t even thought about the names on my list in days. The remaining assholes swim through my mind—Francis DeMarco, Olivia Marlowe, Gregory Whitman, Sergio Castellano, DeSean Smith.

Lady Harrow.

I’m not really sure how I can finish off the names, given the situation. I don’t even know what happens when Julian expects me to return and I don’t. Maybe I should just fly to Italy now.

I could walk away from it all, walk away from Julian.

What would happen to him? Despite everything, despite the drugging and the selling and the imprisonment, some twisted part of me still cares and wonders if he could be saved from the darkness.

I drop my head, feeling Lorenzo’s gentle, concerned gaze on me.

It’s all too much. Too many questions without answers. Too many paths that all seem to lead back to pain.

“Aurelia?” My cousin’s voice cuts through the fog, and he leans forward, touching my arm softly. “Are you okay, cugina? You look distressed.”

I force a smile that feels brittle enough to crack my face. “Just thinking.” I stand, suddenly needing to be alone. “I should… I need a minute. Excuse me.”

The hallways of Lorenzo’s mansion blur as I flee back to my room. Inside, I shut the door and sink against it, sliding down until I hit the floor. The heavy oak against my back is the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control.

In my mind, I’m back in Julian’s penthouse. Back in the darkness where he held me down. His hands are around my throat.

“You’re still mine.”

I feel sick, but I swallow it down, forcing air through my constricted windpipe. Four days of safety hasn’t erased weeks of terror. It lives in my marrow now and resurfaces when I least expect it .

I just want to feel normal again for five goddamn minutes.

I push myself up and stumble toward the bathroom, flipping on lights as if the brightness can chase away Julian’s shadow.

I move to the marble counter and the row of products lined up below the mirror. My fingers hover over them, as I read product names. La Mer face cream. Fresh Sugar lip scrub. The exact Moroccan hair oil I’ve been using for years. Precisely what I’d have chosen myself.

I know Adrian is the one who put these here before I arrived because he knows my preferences.

A flicker of warmth ignites in the part of my heart I keep trying to ignore. Even as he keeps his distance, he’s thinking of me. Caring for me in his indirect way. The man is a contradiction wrapped in an enigma, sealed with a riddle.

But I can’t dwell on that now. I need this ritual of normalcy, just some reminder that my body is still mine despite everything the Consortium tried to take from me.

I twist open jars and unscrew bottles, breathing in familiar scents.

My fingers relearn the contours of my face as I massage creams into my skin.

For fifteen minutes, I exist purely in sensation.

The cool slip of serum, the gentle pressure of my fingertips along my jawline, the light sting of toner.

When I finish, I stare at my reflection. The deep bags beneath my eyes are still there, but at least I have color in my cheeks again. The woman looking back at me is someone I almost recognize.

My face feels so moisturized and fresh, that I want my entire body to feel that way. I strip down to my panties, grabbing a razor to shave my legs first.

I reach for some cream and lift my leg, propping my foot on the counter. It exposes the inside of my thighs and the underneath.

The areas where most of the marks are gathered.

The cigar burns.

There’s more than a dozen of them, scattered across my skin like perverse constellations. Each is a perfect circle branded into my flesh by Lady Harrow and her sadistic friends. Some have begun to heal, the raw red fading to angry pink, but others remain crusted and dark.

I’ve avoided looking at them directly as much as possible. But now, under the bright lights, there’s nowhere to hide from the truth.

My hand trembles as I trace the edge of one burn on my thigh, then another on my hip. The memory is a violent shudder in my body—the acrid smell of cigar smoke, the searing pain as they pressed burning tobacco to my flesh, the sound of laughter as I screamed.

I don’t know what it is about this moment of looking at the scars, but a dam breaks, releasing everything I’ve tried to keep in since I arrived here.

My knees buckle, but I manage to fall on the closed toilet lid.

My body folds in on itself as ragged sobs tear from my throat.

Grief, rage and terror pour out of me in wave after unstoppable wave.

I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps rushing toward me. It’s only when hands touch my shoulders that I realize I’m no longer alone .

“Aurelia—”

I jerk away, grabbing wildly for a towel, but it’s too late. He’s seen them. Seen the marks. Seen me broken and sobbing in a heap in this bathroom.

Adrian kneels in front of me, his blue eyes wide with something that looks like horror. The distant businessman who’s been avoiding me for days is gone, replaced by the man who held me in his office.