Page 19

I’ve just settled under the covers with a novel, something light and far away from this world, when a knock sounds at my door.

I sigh, already assuming it’s one of the twins, restless with nerves about their first day of school. I set the book aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but the door opens before I can stand.

And it’s not Lucia or Alessio… It’s Dante.

He steps inside like he owns the floor beneath his feet because, technically, he does. But it’s not the authority that makes me pause.

It’s the fact that he’s barefoot. Shirtless. Dressed in nothing but drawstring pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips.

I shouldn’t stare, but I do.

Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Lean muscle wrapped in sun-warmed skin and a faint dusting of dark hair. Not the kind of man you’d expect to run empires or sign death orders with the same hand that could break someone in two.

The devil made his monsters appealing , I think bitterly, recalling something my mother once said with haunted eyes and a hollow smile.

And now I understand what she meant.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just lingers near the door, eyes skimming the room like he’s trying to decide whether he’s welcome.

“You’re still awake,” he says finally, sounding like gravel smoothed by silk.

I nod but don’t stand. “Barely.”

A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “But you can help.”

I narrow my eyes at his flirty tone.

He stops at the edge of the bed, arms loose at his sides, gaze dipping briefly to the book beside me. “You used to smile when you talked to me.”

“I used to be someone else.” The words come out flat. True.

His jaw tightens for a second. Then he exhales through his nose and crouches a little, his hand finding the edge of the duvet.

“I’m trying.” Slowly, he peels it back, eyes catching on the thin strap of my tank top, the soft hem of my shorts, too little fabric, too much skin.

I feel exposed. Not only in a sexual way, but in a human way. Vulnerable, stripped of dignity. But I don’t move. I don’t take the bait. I don’t ask what he’s trying to do.

I just wait for meaning, for an apology, for a purpose that never comes.

Instead, he leans in.

The heat of his bare chest hits me first. Then the ghost of his lips against my jaw.

Not a kiss and not quite a caress but a touch too tender for the battlefield we’ve become.

“I miss the way you used to look at me,” he murmurs.

My whole body stiffens.

Then his hand slips beneath my shirt, trailing up until it cups my breast. His hand is broad, warm, and loving in the worst way, and the jolt it sends through me is instant. Hot. Sharp. Unwanted.

But not unresponsive. My body betrays me, and I hate it.

I hate that somewhere in me, the memory of him still lingers. The hallway kiss. That morning in the kitchen. The way I used to believe he might not be the monster everyone warned me about.

I want that part of me dead and buried. So I close my eyes, and I go to The Lake.

The cool surface closes over me like glass. Still. Quiet. Untouchable. I float there, drifting further from the room, from my skin, from him.

His voice becomes muffled, his touch mechanical. The scent of cedar no longer reaches me.

I am not here.

I don’t know how long I stay gone, only that when I return, Dante is standing by the bed, still dressed, chest heaving. His face is flushed with rage, the vein in his neck thick and corded, his jaw clenched so tight I think he might crack a molar.

He looks like he’s about to combust.

“Where do you go, Francesca Forzi,” he says, his voice low and trembling with fury, “to escape the disgusting touch of your husband?”

I sit up slowly, pulling the duvet up with me. I should be afraid, but I’m not. Not really. I just feel… tired.

“I’m not Francesca Forzi,” I say quietly, meeting his eyes. “And you’re not my husband. Not in any way that matters.”

His eyes flare, but I press on, my words flat and void of emotion.

“Why even bother with soft touches and whispered words? That’s not what you want.

I’m not here for tenderness. I’m here for utility.

So if you came for sex, then get on with it.

I won’t stop you. I won’t scream. Just… do your business and go. ”

For a second, I think he might actually hit me—not because he’s ever raised a hand, but because he looks that unhinged, that consumed.

But then he laughs. A short, sharp sound filled with venom. “If I wanted to fuck a corpse,” he bites out, “I’d go to the morgue.”

I flinch, but he’s not finished.

“A whore tries , Francesca. Even if it’s fake.” The words land like blows, and I swallow hard, staring past him because I can’t let him see what that does to me.

“That’s not?—”

He cuts me off, not with words, but with movement. He paces, hands threading through his hair like he’s searching for something he can’t name. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing and just doesn’t want to face it.

Then he turns. “You’re moving to my room.”

That jolts me upright. “No. Absolutely not. That’s a wife thing. I’m not—” I shake my head, stumbling over the words. “It’ll confuse the kids.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How would it confuse them? You are my wife.”

I don’t bother correcting him. Legally, technically—yes. But I’m no wife.

“They already know it’s fake.”

He goes still. “Pardon me?”

I curse myself for saying it that bluntly. But the damage is done now, and the air between us sharpens to a blade.

“The twins,” I say quietly. “They’re not stupid, Dante. They know something’s off. They feel it. Kids always do.”

His jaw tics. “What exactly did you tell them? ”

I take a breath. “The truth. Or… as close as I could get without breaking their hearts. Lucia asked if she could call me Mom. And I couldn’t let her.

She already had a mother who loved her. And one day, whether you get bored or I disappear, they’ll lose me too.

I won’t let them think they’re losing a mother again. ”

He’s staring at me now, unreadable.

“So I told them,” I continue, “that you married me to save me. That you were protecting me. I made you the hero, Dante. I gave them a story where you’re not the monster.”

And for a long, unbearable moment, he says nothing at all.

His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens again, and for a second, I think he might yell. Rage is easier for him than anything else—easier than vulnerability or truth.

“You made me the hero ?” he says finally in a growl. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “Because they needed one. And I couldn’t be it.”

He takes a step closer, and I brace, instinctively leaning back. His voice drops even lower.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that after I humiliated you, put a gun to your head, and forced you into a marriage you didn’t want… you still told my children I saved you?”

I nod. “I did it for them. Not you.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Why?”

“Because they deserve kindness. Because they believe in fairy tales. Because they’re not mine, but I love them like they are.” My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “ Because I’d rather they believe in you than fear you.”

The silence after that is brutal, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken between us.

And then, his words, softer than I expected: “They love you, you know.”

“I know.” My voice cracks. “That’s the worst part.”

He looks at me then, really looks. For once, not like he’s trying to read me or control me or break me. Just… looks. Like a man seeing something he doesn’t know how to hold.

“Don’t make me move into your room,” I whisper. “Please. I’ll try harder.”

Something shifts in his face. The irritation fades, and for a flicker of a second, I see him, not the capo, not the executioner, but the Dante from the pirate charity night. The one who made me believe he wasn’t a monster.

“I don’t want you to—” He cuts himself off, his eyes flickering with something I can’t quite name. “Where do you go?”

I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my skin like I can warm the cold rising in my chest. “Nowhere,” I murmur. “Just… away, for a while. I don’t really control it.”

He takes a step closer, and I rest a trembling hand on his chest. “But I can try.”

He shakes his head, then gently lifts my hand from his chest—but doesn’t let it go. His fingers wrap around mine, firm and conflicted.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t want to listen.”

His eyes search mine. “You should’ve said it anyway.”

For a breath, I almost lean in. Almost forget .

But then I remember the man who held a gun to my head, the spit on my cheek, the bruises on my soul. The memory flares hot behind my eyes, and my jaw ticks.

He must see it, feel it, because he releases my hand.

“You can stay here,” he says stiffly.

I nod. “I’ll try to please you next time.” And I hate that a part of me meant it.

His groan is immediate and guttural. He scrubs a hand over his face, exasperated. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” I shoot back. “What is this, Dante? What game are you playing?”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “Maybe… I need to stop pretending I don’t give a damn whether you disappear for good.”

I blink at him, stunned. “Then let me go.”

“Let you go?” His gaze snaps back to mine, incredulous. “And what? Send you back to your father?”

I shiver at the thought. “No. He wouldn’t want me anymore. I’d be a shame to him now. A disgrace for letting you touch me.”

I lift my chin. “I’d be free. And I’d disappear. Far.”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he shakes his head, slow and final.

“That isn’t something I can grant you.”

“Someday,” I whisper.

His eyes harden.

“Never.” He says it almost like a command before leaving the room without a look back.

And with that single word, something inside me goes still. Not dead, just buried deeper.

For now.