Page 407 of Rosetti Family New York

I collapse against him, my naked body pressed against his soaked clothes, and let myself fall apart completely. The sobs come harder now, tearing from my chest in waves that feel endless. My knees buckle, but his arms tighten, holding me upright.

"Let it out," he murmurs against my hair. "All of it."

"He killed them," I sob against his chest. "He murdered my parents and then he held my hand at their funeral. He told me he loved me. He made me call him Uncle Chase."

Matteo's whole body goes rigid. When I look up at him, his jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His dark eyes are blazing with a fury so intense it takes my breath away.

"I'm going to kill him," he says, and his voice is deadly quiet. "I'm going to kill him for what he did to you."

The words should scare me. Instead, they feel like validation. Like someone finally understanding the magnitude of what was taken from me.

"I was nine," I whisper. "Just a little girl. And he looked me in the eye and lied about murdering my parents. Then he raised me. Made me grateful."

His arms tighten around me, and we slide down the shower wall together, the warm water cascading over us. He pulls me into his lap on the marble floor, creating a cocoon of heat and steam around us.

"The nightmares," he says suddenly, his voice rough with realization. "All those nightmares I've been holding you through. They weren't random, were they?"

I look up at him, water streaming down both our faces. "What do you mean?"

"Your mind was trying to remember," he says quietly. "Your body knew the truth even when your mind didn't. The nightmares were fragments, pieces of that night trying to surface."

The words hit me like a revelation. All those nights of terror, of waking up gasping with images I couldn't quite grasp. The feeling of being chased, of doors slamming, of voices whispering secrets I couldn't understand.

"I remember," I breathe, the words barely audible. "Oh God, I remember pieces. The sound of Chase's voice on the phone that night. The way he held me afterward, so tight I couldn't breathe. He kept saying it would be okay, that he'd take care of everything."

"He was covering his tracks," Matteo says, his voice vibrating with controlled rage. "Making sure you wouldn't remember anything that could expose him."

The water continues to pour over us, but Matteo reaches up to adjust the temperature again as it starts to cool. His movements are careful, efficient, like he's prepared to sit here on this marble floor for as long as it takes.

"I loved him," I whisper, the confession scraping my throat raw. "For fourteen years, I loved the man who killed my family. I wanted to make him proud."

"Look at me," he says, his hands framing my face. "That little girl who survived, who adapted, who found a way to keep going even when everything was taken from her? She's the strongest person I know."

I meet his eyes, and what I see there takes my breath away. Not pity or sympathy, but something deeper. Recognition. Like he's seeing all the broken pieces of me and finding them beautiful.

"I see you," he says quietly. "Not the woman Chase shaped you to be, but the woman you really are. The one who's been fighting to surface all these years."

The words hit something deep inside me, a place I didn't know existed. For the first time in my life, someone is seeing me—really seeing me—and not finding me lacking.

"I don't know who that woman is," I admit.

"Then let's find out together."

He stands slowly, pulling me up with him. The water continues to pour over us, but now it feels cleansing instead ofpunishing. My fingers are pruned from the heat, and steam has fogged the mirrors around us, creating a private world where nothing exists except truth.

He reaches past me to turn off the water, and the sudden quiet is profound. He grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it around my shoulders with gentle hands.

"I want to know everything," I say, surprised by the strength in my own voice. "About my parents, about what really happened that night. About who I was before Chase got his hands on me."

His smile is fierce and proud. "Then we start there."

He pulls another towel from the rack, running it through his wet hair. His soaked shirt clings to every line of muscle, and his jeans are heavy with water, but he seems completely unconcerned with his own comfort.

"Welcome to your real life, Isabella Callahan," he says, and the way he says my name makes it sound like armor instead of a burden.

For the first time since he took me, I don't flinch when I hear it. Because finally, finally, I'm ready to find out what it really means to be me.

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