“Good to know.”
He glances toward the glass, where the hallway flickers with movement. “You put me in a position where I had to pretend I didn’t know. I dislike pretending.”
“You’re good at it,” I say.
“So are you.” His smile turns real for the first time. “One more thing. Don’t make me chase you again. If you’re going to disappear, send a ghost to tell me which direction.”
“If I’m breathing, you’ll hear it,” I say. “If I stop, you’ll feel that too.”
“Good.” He reaches for the handle, and we walk out shoulder to shoulder into a hallway full of eyes, each of us exactly what we are: sharp men with exit plans, playing long games, leaving the board a little cleaner than we found it. The kind who won’t die early. The kind who survive and rewrite the ending. And maybe—one day—the kind who’ll lift a glass to each other.
The door clicks shutbehind us. Marcello doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t let go of my hand. He just stares at me, like he’s trying to convince himself I’m real. Like if he blinks, I’ll vanish.
I try to speak, but my throat closes up. Then, in a single breathless movement, he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me like he’s anchoring both of us to the floor.
"I thought you were dead," he murmurs, "I thought—I was sure he killed you."
"I’m okay," I whisper into his shoulder. "I’m here. I’m okay."
His grip tightens, and I finally let myself cry. Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind that shakes your spine and strips the words out of your mouth until all that’s left is breath and sound.
"I’m so sorry," I sob. "I wanted to come back. I wanted to call. But I was afraid, afraid you’d hate me for what happened. For marrying him. For not telling you."
He leans back just far enough to see my face, and his thumb gently brushes away one of my tears.
"You think I cared about that?" he asks softly, like the thought physically pains him. "You think I’d ever blameyoufor what that bastard did?"
I swallow hard and nod. "You don’t know everything. What he—what he made me?—"
"I know," Marcello cuts in, voice a low rasp. "I know about the cuffs. The collars. The dress."
I freeze.
I hadn’t said it out loud to anyone but Raffael and Esther. I didn’t know he—how could he?—
Marcello sees it on my face and shakes his head.
"I should’ve stopped it," he whispers. "After L.A., I had a feeling. I knew something wasn’t right. I thought—I thought I had time to get you out." His voice cracks. "I told myself I was planning. Playing it smart. But I was just too fucking slow."
"Marcello…" I whisper, shaken by the guilt in his voice. "It’s not your fault."
"It is," he says, jaw tight. "I’m your brother. I was supposed to protect you."
"You still are," I murmur. "You always have. Even when you didn’t know it."
He pulls me back in. "You survived. You made it through. And now you’re back. That’s all that matters to me."
I sob into his shirt again, letting his words sink in like sunlight through cold skin. There’s so much we still need to say. So much I’ve kept buried. But for the first time in what feels like years, I feel safe in my brother’s arms.
"I missed you so much," I whisper.
"I never stopped looking," he says. "And I never stopped hoping."
I pull back just enough to see his face again, to breathe through the ache in my throat. "I was in a bad place, Marcello." My voice is shaking more than I like. "I mean… I still am, sometimes. Not all the time. But some nights… It’s like I’m back there. In that house."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. In a way that only a brother whowantsto understand can.
"I felt like a ghost. Like I didn’t belong anywhere. Like I didn’t even exist except when he—" I stop and swallow the bile. "When he needed to remind me that I was his property."
