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Chapter Eleven

Francesca

I wake up more tired than when I went to sleep. My body aches all over, especially between my legs.

Dante fucked me.

I flinch at the thought. At the word. At the sharp pulse of pain that reminds me it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.

There’s no softer way to say it. No dressing it up. There was no tenderness, no care. Just anger. Possession. Punishment .

At least, I think so.

The truth is, I don’t remember all of it. The moment he pushed me down on the bed, I went under. Slipped into the place I’ve relied on since I was a child. The place I call The Lake .

It’s what I do when I need to survive something too brutal to face. My mind drifts to that still, quiet place, where nothing hurts. Where nothing touches me. Where I float and wait for the storm to pass.

I perfected it over the years, ever since I was a little girl. It started around my sixth birthday, the first time I heard my mother scream beneath my father’s fists. That was the night The Lake was born. And ever since, it’s been my sanctuary. My shield. My escape.

Until last night when Dante's mouth brushed my neck. A single, too-soft touch that pulled me out too soon. Ripped me from my peace and dragged me back into a body I didn’t want to be in.

Now I sit on the edge of the bed, sore, hollow, and wearing a shame I never asked for.

He came inside me. That alone makes my skin crawl. I told myself it didn’t matter last night, that I could deal with it later, but now, in the silence of the early morning, it’s all I can think about.

He said he’d never give me a child. Like it would be a punishment.

As if I would ever want to carry a child with his blood.

The thought twists my stomach, but so does the guilt that follows. Because I love his children, God help me, they are the only reason I didn’t genuinely consider ending my own life.

Lucia’s sweetness. Alessio’s mischief. They kept me breathing.

I check my phone. A few missed messages. Bruno.

Are you okay?

Please text back.

Just say something so I know you’re safe.

His worry settles like a balm over the hollowness in my chest. My protector is near, even if his protection can’t extend to the places I need it most. Not here. Not now.

I think of Dante again. Of the way I rushed into the bathroom the moment he finished. Of how I tried to scrub him off me, to erase every trace of what happened, but when I stepped out, he was still there. Silent. Watching. And I had no choice but to retreat. Back to The Lake. Back to survival.

I’ve been awake for over an hour, far earlier than I need to be. But that’s good. I need time. I need control.

I’m fine. Don’t worry, I text Bruno quickly, fingers trembling slightly over the keys. Can you go to the pharmacy for me, please? I need Plan B. Sorry.

His reply is instant.

I’m going now. I want to kill him, you know.

I stare at the words, the truth of them, the fury in them. But I just shake my head.

He’s not the one to blame , I type back.

And I mean it.

Because the world we live in, the men who raised us, the families who weaponized us, the contracts and blood debts and chains disguised as rings, they’re the real monsters. And I was born into their den .

I step into the shower again, for the second time in less than twelve hours. The water is hot, almost scalding, and I welcome the sting. I scrub hard, hoping this time it will work—hoping that maybe now, finally, the feel of his skin will be gone for good.

I don’t cry. I haven’t in years. Not for this.

When I step out, I avoid the mirror. I always do. I’ve learned that looking at myself too long is a mistake.

My reflection judges me.

For surviving.

For enduring.

For being apathetic when I should have screamed. For being complacent in the life I was born into.

Sometimes, I swear she glares at me. This pale, tired girl with hollow eyes and silent rage. She asks questions I can’t afford to answer.

So I keep my head down. I towel off. I dress like the nanny I’m supposed to be.

Because the only way out of this is forward.

I’m just about to step out and wake the twins when a soft knock lands on my door.

I freeze, heartbeat skipping.

Probably Bruno with the pill. The reminder alone makes me wince. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I can still feel Dante inside me. The soreness. The stretch. The heat of him and the way his cum keeps leaking out of me, an echo of something I never asked for.

I open the door.

“Hey—” The word is barely out before my voice falters .

It’s not Bruno. It’s him . Dante.

He stands in front of me in the hallway, already impeccably dressed, broad shoulders stiff, eyes unreadable.

My body tenses, and wariness slides in like a second skin.

“Are the children up?” I ask quickly, hoping, praying, that’s why he’s here.

“The children?” he echoes, glancing vaguely down the corridor. “I don’t know.”

The knot in my stomach tightens.

If he’s here for sex again, I’ll have to endure it. Submit. That’s what the contract says. That’s what he said.

But god, I’m not ready. Not today.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

No. Please, no. “I need to wake them in ten minutes,” I say, clinging to the routine like a lifeline.

“It won’t take long,” he insists and then steps inside without waiting.

Of course not. This is his house, and I’m his property.

I take a few steps back, pretending to tidy the already neat room, trying not to show how my body tenses as he closes the door behind him. The quiet click of it sounds too final.

“Francesca.”

The way he says my name, sharp, commanding, freezes me in place. I turn slowly, folding my hands in front of me to hide the shake in my fingers.

“I really should get the kids up,” I murmur. “We have the uniform fitting today and?—”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.” His words land like a slap, stunning in their unexpected softness.

And yet, every instinct I have flares in alarm. Is it guilt? A trap? Pity?

I don’t answer. I wouldn’t know how to even if I tried.

Then salvation. A knock at the door.

I don’t wait. “Come in,” I say, my voice tight with relief.

“Busy,” Dante barks at the exact same time.

But the door is already opening.

Bruno steps inside, calm and steady, holding a familiar paper bag with a pharmacy’s green cross printed on the front.

Dante’s eyes zero in on it like a missile.

Before he can speak, I cross the room and take the bag from Bruno, my fingers trembling as I clutch it to my chest. Then I disappear into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

My breath shudders as I pull out the box with trembling hands. I open the foil, pop the pill into my mouth, and swallow it with a handful of cold tap water.

I stare down at the empty box in my palm. My first instinct is to toss it in the garbage, but no. I flatten it quickly and slip it into the inner belt lining of my skirt. I’ll dispose of it in town.

No evidence. No trace.

When I return, both men are exactly where I left them, locked in a silent standoff, like they’re one breath away from drawing blood.

“I was just talking to my wife , if you don’t mind leaving us,” Dante barks, eyes fixed on Bruno.

But there’s no point in pretending, not here, not with him. Bruno was in the room with us and the judge. He knows the truth.

“I’m your wife on paper only, Dante. Whore and nanny, remember?” I say, smoothing my skirt with deliberate calm.

“Don’t forget maid,” Bruno adds with a smirk.

I swear I hear Dante’s jaw crack.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping between them. “I have to wake the children. But if you need something, Dante, you’re welcome to follow me to the kitchen and say it while I make their breakfast.”

I know he won’t be cruel or crude in front of them.

And yes, I feel guilty using the twins as a shield. But right now, I need protection any way I can get it.

Dante straightens, adjusting his tie with sharp precision.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says coldly. “I’ve assigned a new guard to accompany you and the children. I don’t believe your family and I share the same definition of discipline.”

He throws the words at Bruno like knives.

Bruno grins, slow and deliberate. “And I don’t believe we share the same definition of manhood.”

I roll my eyes at him. Of course he’s provoking. Of course he’s enjoying this. And, of course, it’s about to get worse.

Dante’s voice cuts in, low and lethal. “Do you want to discuss manhood?”

Bruno opens his mouth, clearly about to say something reckless, but I step between them, glaring at both. “No, he doesn’t. And, of course, you’d assign your own guard. They’re your children, and you want them safe. I understand that.”

Dante’s eyes stay locked on mine. “As well as you.”

I laugh, sharp, bitter, disbelieving.

But then I see his face. The hard set of his jaw. The tension coiled in his shoulders. The quiet conviction in his eyes.

He’s not joking.

“Oh, please,” I murmur, the sound of my laughter fading like smoke. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Francesca…” His voice dips into a warning, but I don’t get a chance to reply, not when I hear a soft voice in the hallway.

“Where’s my mermaid?”

My heart stutters, and this time, my smile is real. I step past both men and out into the corridor to find Lucia standing in front of her bedroom door, blinking sleep from her eyes. Her curls are a wild halo on her head, her tiny fist rubbing at one cheek.

“Oh, little princess,” I breathe out, crouching down to open my arms. “Here I am.”

God, I love these kids.

It takes almost two hours to get them dressed, fed, and ready.

Lucia refuses two different pairs of socks, and Alessio insists on wearing his pirate eye patch until I bribe him with toast, but I don’t mind.

For those two hours, the weight of everything else lifts.

No marriage. No shame. No violence. Just breakfast and cartoons and laughter.

I can breathe again.

“You okay?” Bruno asks quietly as we head toward the car .