I buried my face in her shoulder, tears spilling silently down my cheeks. And for the first time in days, I let go. Quietly. Slowly. In the arms of the one person who didn’t ask why I was broken.
“Daisy, I can’t wrap my head around this. Why didn’t you tell me about Mason earlier?”
Jenn sank onto the couch beside me and tugged the blanket over our legs. Her old, worn sofa was soft, familiar, and for a moment, it calmed my frantic heart.
“I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
Jenn pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry.” She leaned back, studying me. “And Damian just shot Mason like that? I mean, I can’t blame him, but still—normal people don’t just do things like that.”
“Damian is not a psychopath,” I said quietly, too quickly. Even as the words left my mouth, they rang false, like I was trying to convince myself.
“Then he’s a narcissist with psychopathic tendencies,” Jenn sighed. “I know it’s complicated, but you have to think of yourself—your safety, your future. You can’t stay with someone who destroys you like this. Rome could be a new beginning.”
I nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s for the best. At least for a while.”
“You don’t have to tell him where you’re going. I’ll help you. We’ll get through this.”
I closed my eyes, resting my head against her shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She stroked my back. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”
“I just hope it’s the right thing.”
I stayed with Jenn for two more days. Damian never reached out, but I was certain he knew where I was—he could track my phone.
During that time, I bought a new one and set my plan in motion.
On the third day, I went to my mother’s in Greenwood Falls. We walked through the fields together as I told her I’d be going to Rome for a while. I left out the details. She wasn’t thrilled, but she accepted it.
Theterminal in Rome buzzed with hurried voices and the rattle of rolling suitcases. Warm lights cast soft shadows across the sleek walls, the air heavy with coffee and city dust.
I stepped off the gangway and into passport control. The sterile airport chill gave way to warm Mediterranean air as I walked through the doors.
A sleek black limousine waited outside, its polished surface catching the evening light. Its tinted windows hid the interior, only shadows moving behind the glass.
In front of the car stood a man in a flawless dark-blue suit, hands clasped behind his back. His posture was professional, but the weight of his gaze found me instantly.
“Miss Elfhorn?”
His tone was polite, measured, his eyes running over me with quiet precision.
I nodded, though hesitation lingered. Could I trust him?
“My name is Marino Gewalgi. I’ll be your driver.” His voice was steady, almost impersonal, yet he knew exactly who I was. My father had either given him a photograph or detailed instructions.
I nodded again, surprised at how smoothly it had all been arranged. Marino stepped aside and opened the door with an elegant flourish.
A familiar warmth hit me the second I leaned in, carried by the faint scent inside, and then I saw him.
Myfather. Frenco Massimo Feretti.
Even seated in the shadows, his presence filled the space. His suit was perfectly cut, his smile radiant. For a heartbeat, something tight pulled in my chest — not fear, not distance, just the old weight of wanting to make him proud.
“My little Daisy,” he said in that deep, warm voice that had always comforted and unsettled me at once.
I slid inside, and he drew me into a firm embrace.
He was only forty-six, but already a legend. Born into blood and power, into loyalties bound by danger, he had carried the weight long before he understood it. At twenty-three, when my grandfather died, his youth ended in a single moment. With a child on the way, he had been forced to become something more: a leader, feared and respected, ruthless enough to hold an empire.
