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“I know and we’re doing everything we can for her, mio cara,” Enzo says, his frustration bleeding through his usual calm. “We’re planning the funeral, arranging everything in London. She’ll go back?—”

“No!” Bianca’s voice is sharp, final. “She’s not staying in London.”

Enzo exhales roughly, like he’s been expecting this fight. “Bianca, that’s her home. Her friends, her life?—”

“Her home is gone,” Bianca bites out. “Her parents are gone. There’s nothing left for her there, Enzo. It’s just the two of us, we’re all we have.”

“I get that amore, but do you think keeping her here will fix that?”

“I’m not trying to fix it!” Bianca practically shouts, then drops her voice into a broken whisper. “I’m trying to keep her safe. I’m her big sister, and already I’m failing. She’s been gone for hours, and I don’t know where she is. What if something happened to her?”

Silence thick and painful stretches between them.

“Bianca, she’s nineteen, not twelve,” Enzo states finally, quieter but no less firm. “She has a life to go back to. You can’t force her to stay here with you if she doesn’t want to stay.”

“She doesn’t have anyone else,” Bianca snaps back. “She has me. That’s it. And I’m not sending her halfway across the world to rot in that empty house all alone.”

Enzo doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, reluctant. “And what about here, Bianca? You think she’ll be safe here? She watched your parents get killed. The further she gets from Sicily, the better it will be for her. The faster she will heal, honey.”

Enzo’s words hang in the air like a loaded gun, and Bianca doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t have to.

Because deep down, they both know the truth. I don’t belong in Sicily, the island that took my parents. I was never supposed to be a permanent guest in this manor, or their lives for that matter. They’re newlyweds. They should be basking in their marital bliss, not arguing over what to do with me.

With a resigned sigh, I pull the sleeves of the hoodie tighter, the feeling of not belonging anywhere suffocating me.

Before anyone notices me, I slip down another hallway, my heart pounding in my ears.

I don’t want to listen to them talk about me like I’m some problem they don’t know how to solve.

I just want—hell, I don’t even know what I want anymore.

Maybe to disappear. Maybe to go back to Ares’s kitchen and sit in silence where things made sense for half a second.

Grief is supposed to get easier with time. That’s what people say.

They’re fucking liars.

Because every day feels heavier. Every minute stretches longer.

Every breath carves another hollow into my chest. The funeral is over.

The flowers are dead. The condolences have stopped pouring in.

And I’m still here. Stuck in this giant, cold, echoing house that feels like anything but a home.

That will probably never feel like home.

I’m officially a permanent guest at the Russo Manor now. A problem everyone’s too polite to say out loud. An orphan girl too broken to fix.

Bianca tries. She hovers like a storm cloud, full of good intentions and desperate smiles that never quite reach her eyes. Enzo avoids me. Too busy. Too careful. Like he’s afraid, if he says the wrong thing, I’ll fall apart. And me? I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Some days I barely get out of bed. Other days, I drink too much coffee, too much wine, too much anything just to drown out the roaring in my head. Some days, I sit at the edge of the pool up on the terrace with my legs dangling in the water, daring myself to slip under and stay there.

I don’t, though. Even when I’m desperate to, the promise I made Ares stops me every time.

But the thought lingers. It clings to me like a second skin I can’t peel off.

I snap at people for no reason. I disappear for hours, wandering the grounds like some half-dead entity, pretending I can still breathe. I lie when Bianca asks if I’m okay. I lie when Matteo teases me, and I force a brittle smile. I lie every time I look in the mirror and tell myself that I’m fine.

Because the truth is...I’m not fine. I’m so far from fine, I don’t even know if there’s a road back to it anymore.

I’m angry. I’m lost. I’m broken in a way that feels very permanent.

And no one here knows what to do with me.

Least of all me.

I’m still desperately trying to find the point. Still searching for why it happened to us. Of all the cars on the road that day, why did that lunatic driver target ours?

Why them? When that black car came up behind us, it looked like it was gunning for Matteo’s car. Like it wasn’t random. Like it was deliberate .

Matteo swerved at the last second, I remember that. The tires screeching, the whole car lurching sideways. And then, impact. Shattering glass. Screams.

But the car didn’t hit us. It clipped the one in front, the one my parents were in.

The memory plays on a never-ending loop inside my head, over and over, until it feels like I’m losing my mind. Like I’m clawing at something just out of reach.

Fuck, listen to me. I sound like a damn loon.

With a sigh, I sit up in the bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, and wander toward the window overlooking the manor gardens.

There are people everywhere. Event planners. Caterers. Decorators. All moving in a carefully choreographed chaos that makes my head spin.

I’m told that today is Matteo’s twenty-first birthday. He’s throwing a huge bash here at the house first, and then later, the party’s moving to a club downtown.

The Russo estate is buzzing like a hive, pulsing with life and noise and colour. And I’m just watching it all from behind glass. That is, until a knock comes around six.

Sharp, loud and very impatient.

I ignore it, pulling Ares’ hoodie–that I have yet to give back—tighter around myself, burrowing deeper into the corner of the bed like maybe the world will forget about me if I stay quiet long enough.

No such luck, though.

The door creaks open, and Matteo’s voice fills the room.

“Up and at it, Fossette,” he calls. “You’re coming to my party.” I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I absolutely am not.

“Matteo,” I croak, my voice scratchy from disuse. “Happy Birthday, but I’m really not in the mood to party.”

“Tough,” he says, breezing into the room like he owns it. “You can be miserable later. Right now, you’re putting on a dress and pretending to have fun.”

I drag my head up enough to glare at him. He’s already dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hazel eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of cockiness and stubbornness.

“Do I look like I’m in the mood to have fun?” I mutter. “Trust me, I will only kill the vibe.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “It’s not about you, Fossette.

It’s about me. And I want you there. Come on, it can be my birthday gift from you.

” I open my mouth to argue again, but the look on his face stops me cold.

For all the teasing and swagger, there’s something harder underneath tonight.

Something that says he’s not giving me a choice.

“You’ve locked yourself away for weeks now,” Matteo says, his voice dropping into something serious. “One night won’t kill you. It might even do you some good, eh? You can meet my friends. It will be fun, I promise.”

Maybe it will.

Maybe it already is. Lucky for him, I don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

I let out a heavy breath and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Fine,” I mutter. “One night and then I crawl straight back into my hole.”

Matteo grins like he’s won a battle, then tosses a garment bag onto the bed.

“I had Rosa pick something out for you,” he says. “Wear it. You’ll look hot.”

Before I can tell him exactly where to shove his fashion advice, he’s already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. I stare at the bag for a long time before I finally drag myself up to open it.

Inside the bag is a dress. Short. Black. Simple. Sleek enough to look effortless, expensive enough to scream Russo money. I mean, I would have to sell both my kidneys and liver to ever afford it—that kind of expensive.

I don’t think. I don't feel. I just move.

One step at a time.

Because maybe Matteo’s right about one thing. One night where I’m not drowning in my grief might actually do me some good. One night where the weight pressing down on my chest lessens just enough to let me breathe.

Anything that keeps my mind distracted right now, anything that stops the endless, aching loop in my head is very much needed.

Even if it’s fake...even if it’s for one night.

I’ll take it.

The party is already in full swing by the time I make it downstairs.

The manor doesn’t even look like the same place anymore.

Lights are strung from the balconies, tables are overflowing with food and free-flowing champagne, and the music thuds so hard it vibrates through the floors.

There are people everywhere, too many faces I don’t recognise, too many smiles stretched a little too tight.

Everyone is dressed to impress, draped in designer suits and glittering dresses, diamonds catching the light in sharp little flashes.

And me? I stand at the edge of it all, tucked into a sleek black dress Matteo had Rosa pick out for me, feeling like I’ve mistakenly wandered into the wrong life.

No one notices me at first. Or maybe they do and just don’t know what to say. I’m the outsider. The broken thing haunting the party like a ghost.

God, Jordyn, enough. You’re not the main character in a melodrama. You’re nineteen. Just… be normal. Or at least fake it better than this.

I move without thinking, drifting toward the bar, desperate for something, anything, that might drown out the roar building inside my head. I’m two steps away from grabbing a drink when Matteo finds me.

He moves through the crowd like gravity bends for him—effortless, magnetic, the kind of presence that makes people turn without knowing why.

That easy grin, the laugh that lands just a little too loud, the way people call out to him like he’s the headline act.

And tonight, he is. Twenty-one, golden boy, party royalty.

All charm, all spotlight. Like the world showed up just to orbit him.

When he reaches me, he doesn’t waste a second. He loops an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his orbit like gravity.

“There she is,” Matteo says, his voice warm and teasing in my ear. “My favourite little dimples.”

I let him guide me through the chaos, too tired and too numb to protest. Champagne glasses clink around us. Laughter rings too loudly. The sharp scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke clings to the heavy summer air.

Matteo plucks two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and shoves one into my hand.

“Drink,” he says, flashing a grin. “Smile. Pretend you’re having the time of your life and you might actually have fun, little one.”

I force something close to a smile, lift the glass to my lips, and take a long sip.

The champagne is sharp and cold, fizzing on my tongue like it’s trying to scrub something clean inside me. It doesn’t help. Nothing ever bloody does.

I glance up at the sky, where the stars are barely visible past the floodlights and haze, and wonder if my parents can see me from wherever they are now. If they would even recognise me anymore.

Another sip. And then another. Letting the bubbles numb the jagged edges of everything. Letting the music and the lights and the people blur into a faraway hum.

Maybe Matteo’s right. Maybe one night of pretending isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Before I know it, he’s steering me toward a sharply dressed group gathered near the bar, their laughter louder and looser than the rest.

“Ragazzi,” Matteo calls out, raising his glass. “Meet Jordyn Windslow.”

I stiffen slightly, every instinct screaming at me to disappear, but Matteo just keeps grinning like this is the most natural thing in the world. He pauses for effect, flashing a look at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Jordyn is my...” He trails off, tilting his head, pretending to think hard about it. “Now that my Dad and your sister are married, I suppose that makes you my Zia, right?” When I blink at him, confused, he elaborates with a smirk. “My auntie.”

The group bursts into laughter, some of it genuine, some of it the kind that feels like knives under my skin.

“Cristo, Matteo,” one of the guys chokes out between laughs, “Solo tu potresti avere una zia figa più giovane di te.” I don’t understand what he says, but whatever it is has someone else low whistling while another lifts a lazy toast in my direction.

Matteo just laughs it off, clinking his glass against mine before draining it in one gulp, like he hasn’t just dragged me into a spotlight I didn’t want.

I force a tight smile, lifting my champagne flute like I’m part of the joke. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not standing here feeling like the weird extra piece nobody really knows where to fit.

Matteo snakes his arm casually back around my shoulders, drawing me close again, turning back to his friends without missing a beat.

“Occhi a posto,” he says with a cocky grin. “Hands off, gentlemen. She’s family.”

The guys laugh, a few of them raising their glasses again in mock surrender, but Matteo’s arm stays firmly around me, light but sure, like he’s making a point.

Family.

The word feels foreign on my skin.