It settles into my bones like steel.
I need to break free.
I know what I need to do.
The realization settles slowly,like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake, heavy and irrevocable. It may be reckless, maybe even naïve, but I have to prepare every fail-safe I can. If I can’t go to Matteo, then I have only one option left. I’ll turn to the law, to whatever sliver of protection the system can offer me, even if it feels like bringing a candle to a battlefield.
I’ve never gone up against darkness like this. Not the kind that smiles. Not the kind that whispers devotion while tightening its grip.
Men like Giacomo grow out of streets that turn you into monsters, and to beat a monster, you almost have to become one.
Who do I have to become to defeat him? How much of myself will I lose in the process?
And when freedom finally comes—ifit ever does—what pieces of me will be left to salvage?
The next morning, I dress in silence. No makeup. No perfume. Nothing that feels like a mask. I slip into clothes that are comfortable, practical. I don’t know how long today will be. I only know I won’t get through it if I’m pretending.
My phone pings nonstop with messages from Giacomo, each one threaded with apology and expectation. I tell him I need time. He assumes I’m upset, that I need space to breathe.
He doesn’t realize I need him far enough away for everything to unravel where he can’t see it.
Seventy-two hours. That’s the deadline I’ve given myself.
Three days toplan my escape or buy myself a head start. It isn’t enough… but it’s all I’ve got.
I slip out of the penthouse before dawn. The hallway is dim and quiet, but something in me hesitates outside Matteo’s door. The urge to knock flares?—
But I force myself to step back.
Stay away from him. No matter how loudly your heart pleads otherwise.
The taxi ride to the hospital is suffocating. My blood feels thick, my thoughts sluggish, fear dragging at every part of me.
Every scenarioin my head ends badly. Every one of them involves my parents. And I still don’t know how to protect any of us.
By the time I reach the sterile lobby, the lights feel harsh enough to strip me bare. I wait in the emergency room, nerves wound so tight I can barely breathe. Minutes stretch into hours. My stomach knots tighter each time the door opens.
When they finally call my name and I’m led into a private room, I sit on the cold exam bed with my hands in my lap, wrists throbbing, heart pounding.
The examination room feels too bright, too sharp, too clean for the mess inside my chest. The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and the moment it does, something in me straightens—some thin, trembling thread of resolve I didn’t know I still had.
“I need to report abuse,” I say.
My voice doesn’t shake. My body does.
The nurse looks up, surprise flickering across her face before she smooths it away with professional gentleness. She hands me a plastic cup—standard procedure, always standard, even when nothing in my life resembles anything close to normal.
“If you can go ahead and give us a urine sample, I’ll call the attending physician,” she says softly. “For wounds or trauma, the specialist has to assess.”
I nod. It’s all I can do. My throat is too tight for real answers.
“I’ll be right back,” she says once I’ve finished and handed her the sample; she slips out of the room.
I siton the edge of the exam table, waiting for the specialist to come in.
Minutes drag by, each one heavier than the last.
When the door opens again, the nurse’s expression has changed. She closes it softly behind her before speaking.
