I walk out of the office and don’t look back, even when I hear Bella calling my name. Even when I hear Matteo’s broken voice saying, “Let her go. She needs time.”
Time. Like time is going to magically make this okay. Like I’m just going to wake up tomorrow and be fine with the fact that my entire life is a lie.
I grab my keys from the hall table and push past the security guards asking where I’m going.
I don’t fucking know where I’m going.
I just know I can’t stay in this house full of bullshit family photos and people acting like I’m some fragile little princess.
I’m not a princess.
I’m a rapist’s daughter, and apparently I’ve been too stupid to figure it out for nineteen years.
I need to drive. I need to get away from Matteo’s broken face and Bella’s crying and all these people who think they know what’s best for me when they’ve been lying to me my entire life.
I slam the front door and don’t look back.
6
ALESSANDRO
Bianca’s car is still parked in its usual spot, the silver Audi gleaming under the security lights.
Relief floods through me.
At least she hasn’t fled into the city where anything could happen to her in her current emotional state.
But if she’s still here, where would she go?
I stand in the driveway for a moment, considering.
Her bedroom would be too obvious, too much the response of a child seeking comfort in familiar surroundings.
And right now, nothing in this house feels familiar or safe to her anymore.
She’d need somewhere private, somewhere she could think without interruption.
Somewhere that feels like hers alone, separate from the family dynamics that have just imploded around her.
Her study.
Not the formal library that the family uses for business meetings or Matteo’s own office, but the small private study on the second floor that Matteo had converted for her when she started high school.
Her sanctuary, filled with her books and papers and the kind of controlled environment she uses to process complex problems.
I head toward the main entrance, noting how quiet the compound has become.
The usual background hum of activity—security making rounds, household staff completing evening tasks—has been muted to almost nothing.
Even the guards at the door look uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what protocol to follow when the family implodes.
The house feels like a tomb as I step inside.
My footsteps are deliberately quiet on the marble floors, years of moving through dangerous situations making silence second nature.
I can hear voices from the direction of Matteo’s office—heated conversation that suggests the crisis management is still ongoing—but I bypass that entirely and head for the main staircase.
The second floor is even quieter than the first, shadows pooling in corners despite the overhead lighting.
