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13

ROMIRO

T he apartment is dark, the only light spilling in from the vast floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. The skyline is a mosaic of distant lights, skyscrapers that reach up like jagged teeth against the black sky. I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring out into the void, waiting for Nicolo. My fingers tap restlessly on my knee, an anxious rhythm I can’t seem to break.

I hear the elevator doors slide open down the hall. Nicolo’s footsteps are quiet but firm, and I know it’s him before he even steps inside. He moves like a shadow, always has, the kind of presence that fills a room without a word. When he finally appears, he looks almost out of place in the sleek, modern expanse of my apartment, his tailored black suit making him seem even more formidable. His face is carved in stone, unreadable.

He doesn’t waste any time. “Romiro,” he greets me, his tone clipped, business-like. He walks over to the bar, pouring himself a drink without asking, and then one for me. Scotch. Neat. He knows I hate the taste, but I take the glass anyway.

"Nicolo," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, casual, but there’s tension there. I know he hears it, too. If someone from the outside saw us, they’d think we’re merely acquaintances and not brothers. But Nicolo has always veered on the cold, stoic side.

He takes a seat across from me, his eyes never leaving mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. I’m not sure where to start, or if I should start at all. It’s Nicolo who breaks the silence.

"Italy was… productive," he says, swirling his glass. “I was able to close a deal with the Marchese family. They agreed to my terms, and I’ll be able to expand through Naples.”

I nod, trying to focus, trying to keep my mind on the business. "Good," I say, taking a sip of the scotch and forcing myself not to wince at the burn.

Nicolo’s eyes narrow slightly. His eyes are a forest green shade, but they’re so dark they almost look black. I shift in my seat, feeling the tension between us thickening like smoke. I know where this is going, but I’m not sure I want to go there. Not tonight. Not with everything else swirling in my head.

"So," Nicolo continues, "this woman. She resembled Helen? Or are you sure it was Helen? She just shows up out of nowhere after all these years of us thinking she was dead. And you think it’s just a coincidence?"

I swallow, my throat dry. I don’t want to talk about her, but there’s no avoiding it. Not with Nicolo. “It’s not someone who looks like her Nico. It was her,” I tell him. “And no,” I say, my voice low, “It’s not a coincidence. She’s here for a reason. But I don’t know what it is yet.”

Nicolo nods, his gaze still locked on me. “And what do you think that reason is?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the memories are clawing at the edges of my mind. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not good. It’s never good with her.”

There’s a long pause, the air between us heavy. Nicolo sets his glass down on the table, leaning forward, his expression softening just a fraction. “Tell me, Romiro,” he says quietly. “What happened… back then?” I never told him—or anyone—about what happened when I was in that hellhole.

I flinch at the question, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t want to go back there. Not now. Not ever. But he’s looking at me, waiting, and I know he won’t let it go.

“After she sold me off—” I start, but my voice catches in my throat. I look away, staring out the window at the dark city below. “I was drugged out of my mind and made to do things no living thing should be subjected to,” I say finally, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “Let alone a thirteen-year-old child.”

Nicolo’s face remains expressionless, but his eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. “Made you do things,” he repeats, his voice flat. “What things?”

I shake my head, trying to push the memories back, but they keep flooding in—dirty rooms, the smell of sweat and fear, hands grabbing, pulling, tearing. “Fuck Nico…. I was trafficked, forced to have sex with grown men and women,” I say, my throat closing up. “With… whoever would pay. They… used me. Hurt me. And she just… let it happen. I was thirteen, man.”

Nicolo’s hand tightens around his glass, his knuckles turning white. “ Bastardos ,” he mutters under his breath in Italian, but I barely register the word. My mind is miles away, back in those dark places I swore I’d never go again.

“She didn’t care,” I continue, my voice hollow, my hands trembling. “She didn’t… she didn’t care about me. I was just… something to sell, something to use. I was nothing to her.”

Nicolo leans back, his expression still cold, but there’s something else there now—something almost like pain. “Helen never cared about anyone but herself. She was a junkie that didn’t want kids. Our sperm donor raped her. We were born out of rape,” he tells me. My brother was and has always been the only person who cares about me; I might not hear it from him but his actions are enough for me to know. After all, he’s the one who rescued me. “Why do you think she’s back? To build that organization again?” Helen wasn’t just some junkie; she ran with a crowd known for human trafficking.

I shake my head, not wanting to think about it. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know what she wants. But I’m not a kid anymore. She can’t do this to me again. And I won’t allow her to do this to other kids.”

Nicolo nods, but he’s still watching me, still studying me like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “You’re not a kid, and you have me,” he says. “But she’s not just any enemy, Romiro. She knows you. Knows us. Knows our weaknesses.”

I feel a sharp stab of anger at his words, but it’s drowned out by a wave of shame. “I don’t have any weaknesses,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intend.

Nicolo’s eyes harden. “Don’t lie to yourself, little brother,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “We all have weaknesses. You think I don’t know that?”

I glare at him, my chest tight with anger and something else, something I can’t name. “And what are yours, Nicolo?” I challenge, my voice low.

He doesn’t answer, just looks at me for a long moment. And then his eyes flicker to the side. I follow his gaze, and that’s when I see her.

Alessia.

He must’ve noticed her movement; I’ve been so tense that I’m bent out of shape. She’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, wearing nothing but my shirt, her red hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, a little startled, but then she smiles softly. “Hi, Nicolo,” she says, her voice light, but I can see the curiosity in her gaze.

Nicolo’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flick back to me, and I know he’s making a thousand calculations in his head. “Ms.Visconti,” he replies smoothly, giving her a polite nod. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

She blushes slightly, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Yeah, I—I’ll just give you two a minute,” she mumbles, quickly turning and disappearing back into the bedroom.

The door clicks shut, and the silence in the room feels deafening. Nicolo turns back to me, his expression unreadable. “So,” he says slowly, “you and her?”

I shrug, trying to play it off, but I know he sees right through me. “It’s… nothing,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.

Nicolo’s eyes narrow slightly. “Be careful, Romiro,” he warns, his voice low, almost a growl. “Helen isn’t someone who will let you be happy. Or me. Or anyone else who gets in her way.”

I stiffen, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “I know that,” I snap. “I know who she is, what she’s capable of. But I’m not going to let her control my life. Or the fear of her control my life. Not anymore.”

Nicolo leans forward, his gaze intense, his voice soft but dangerous. “If she’s back, like you said, then she wants to destroy everything, Romiro,” he says. “She wants to burn everything to the ground. Our past… it’s a weapon she can use against us. Against you .”

I feel a flash of anger, hot and sharp. “I know what I’m doing,” I insist, my voice tight. “I don’t need you to tell me how to handle my own life.”

Nicolo holds my gaze for a long moment, his eyes cold, and calculating. “I hope you’re right,” he says quietly. “For both our sakes.”

The tension between us is thick, almost suffocating, but I refuse to back down. I won’t let him see my fear, my uncertainty. Not now. Not ever.

“I can handle this,” I say again, my voice firm, unyielding. “I’m not a kid anymore, Nicolo. I’m not weak. I’m thirty years old, not thirteen.”

Nicolo nods slowly, but I see the doubt in his eyes and the worry he’s trying to hide. “Just… be careful,” he says finally, his voice softer. “She’s not done with us. Not by a long shot.”

I swallow, my throat tight, but I nod. “I will be,” I promise, though I’m not sure if I’m saying it to him or to myself.

He stands up, finishing his drink in one quick swallow. “I need to go,” he says, turning toward the door. “But I’ll be in touch. And Romiro… keep your eyes open. She’ll come at you when you least expect it.”

I nod again, watching as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The silence settles around me, thick and heavy, wrapping itself around my chest like a vice.

Taking a deep breath, I try to steady myself, but my hands are still shaking. My heart is pounding, my mind spinning with everything Nicolo said, everything he didn't say. He’s right—I know he’s right—but I can’t let him see how much it rattles me. How much it scares me.

I turn toward the bedroom, my gaze lingering on the closed door. Alessia is in there, probably trying to make sense of what she overheard, maybe wondering what the hell is going on between my brother and me. She doesn’t know any of it. She doesn’t know about the dark cloud that looms over our family, the secrets we keep buried, the scars we don’t show.

But she will. She’s smart, and she’s already started to ask questions, questions I’m not sure I can answer.

I run a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble on my jaw, and sigh. I should go in there, reassure her, tell her something, anything, to put her at ease. But what would I even say? What could I say that wouldn’t sound like a lie?

I take a step toward the door, hesitating. I don’t want to drag her into this mess. She’s too good, too kind, too pure, too… everything I don’t deserve. But she’s already involved, whether I like it or not. And it’s all my fucking fault.

I push the door open slowly, finding her sitting on the edge of the bed, my shirt hanging loose on her slender frame. Her eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s a mix of curiosity and concern in her gaze.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, her voice tentative as if she’s afraid to push too hard.

I nod, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"Yeah," I lie, stepping into the room. "Just… family stuff."

She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t buy it. She’s too sharp for that, too intuitive. "You and Nicolo… you’re close, but there’s a lot of tension there," she observes, her eyes searching mine.

I chuckle softly, but there’s no humor in it. "That’s one way to put it," I mutter, crossing the room to sit beside her. I can feel the warmth of her body next to mine, the softness of her skin where our arms brush. It’s grounding, calming, and I need that right now.

She doesn’t push for more, and I’m grateful for it. I don’t have the words to explain it all to her—not yet. Maybe not ever.

We sit there in silence for a moment, and I can feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, but then she reaches out, her hand covering mine. Her touch is gentle and comforting, and some of the tension bleeds out of me. In the chaos of everything, she’s the only one who can calm me.

"Whatever it is," she says softly, "you don’t have to face it alone." Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I realize how much I’ve been carrying, how much I’ve been hiding, even from myself. I nod, swallow hard, and squeeze her hand.

"Thanks," I whisper, my voice rough. "But some things… some things you have to face alone."

She doesn’t argue, just nods, and I know that it’s hard for her to not ask questions, but I’m grateful for it. I don’t want her involved in this, not any deeper than she already is. I don’t want her caught in the crossfire.

I lean over, pressing a kiss to Alessia’s forehead, and she closes her eyes, leaning into me. For a moment, I let myself forget everything—Helen, Nicolo, the dark past that threatens to swallow me whole. I let myself just be here, with her, in this quiet moment, in this place where nothing else matters. But I know it can’t last. It never does.

Lying down I pull her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against mine. Alessia settles into my side, her head resting on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her, holding her there. She fits perfectly, like she was meant to be here all along, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the comfort of it, the simplicity of just being close to her.

I run my fingers through her hair, feeling the soft, fiery strands slip between them. Her hair is like silk, and I can’t help but lose myself in the sensation. It calms me, the repetitive motion, the feel of her so close, and I find myself relaxing, my heartbeat slowing, my thoughts quieting.

Alessia lets out a small sigh, nuzzling closer to me. “You always do that,” she murmurs, her voice soft, almost sleepy.

“Do what?” I ask, my voice low, as I continue to weave my fingers through her hair.

“Play with my hair,” she says, her lips curling into a faint smile. “You’ve done it ever since we were teens.”

I chuckle softly, the sound rumbling in my chest. “I guess I never grew out of the habit,” I admit, my fingers tracing gentle patterns against her scalp.

“I don’t mind,” she whispers, her eyes drifting shut. “It feels nice.”

Her words are so simple, so honest, and they hit me in a way I don’t expect. I feel a tightness in my chest, an ache I can’t quite name. It feels good to hold her like this, to touch her, to feel her heartbeat against mine. It feels right, in a way that nothing else in my life ever has. She feels right.

But I can’t forget what Nicolo said. I can’t forget what I saw tonight, or the threat that lingers like a cloud over us. I don’t want to pull her into this, into my darkness. But now, with her so close, it feels impossible to let go.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, my thumb grazing the curve of her cheek. She looks up at me, her green eyes half-lidded, soft and trusting, and I feel my resolve faltering.

“Alessia,” I murmur, my voice low, almost hoarse.

“Hmm?” she responds, her eyes fluttering open, searching my face.

I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her about Helen, about the past I’ve tried so hard to bury. I want to tell her that I’m afraid of what’s coming, that I don’t know if I can protect her from it. But the words catch in my throat, tangled with fear and doubt.

Instead, I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Thank you,” I whisper against her skin.

“For what?” she asks, her voice barely more than a breath.

“For being here,” I say simply, because it’s the only truth I know right now. “For… just being you.”

She smiles at that, a small, sleepy smile that makes my heart ache in a way I can’t explain. She snuggles closer, tucking her head under my chin, her breath warm against my neck.

“I’m not going anywhere, Romiro,” she whispers, her voice a soft promise in the dark. “Not unless you ask me to.”

I close my eyes, holding her tighter, my hand continuing to stroke her hair, feeling the silky strands slip between my fingers. I don’t answer, because I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t want her to go, but I don’t know if I can keep her safe if she stays.

We lie there in the quiet, our bodies entwined, the room dark and still around us. I listen to the sound of her breathing, steady and calm, and let it soothe the storm inside me. I feel her relax against me, her body growing heavy with sleep, and I keep my fingers moving through her hair, gentle and slow, afraid to wake her.

I should be thinking about what to do next. I should be planning, strategizing, figuring out how to handle Helen, how to protect Alessia, and how to keep everything from falling apart. But for now, in this moment, I just want to hold her. Just for a little longer.

I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo. It smells like something floral and sweet, something that reminds me of better times, of simpler times. Times before everything got so damn complicated.

She stirs slightly in her sleep, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, and I feel a strange sort of peace settle over me. I know it won’t last. I know the morning will bring new challenges, new threats, new battles to fight. But for now, in this quiet, dark room, with her in my arms, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

I let my eyes close, my hand still moving through her hair, and for the first time in what feels like years, I allow myself to just… breathe. To just be here, with her, in this moment.

Whatever comes next, whatever the future holds, I’ll face it.

We’ll face it. Together.