And I still didn’t step back.
“Enrico…” she began, barely audible—half warning, half plea.
I didn’t move.
“I’m listening, Valentina,” I said softly, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. “I’m listening to every word you’re not saying.”
THIRTY
VALENTINA FERRARA
The floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I moved down the dark hallway toward the kitchen.
The whole house was submerged in that particular kind of silence only places like this could create—luxury silence. Thick and muffled, as if even ordinary sounds were forbidden here. As if the walls had been trained to swallow everything.
My nightgown barely reached mid-thigh, a soft, thin fabric that didn’t hide much. But at two in the morning I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake.
Clara was sleeping deeply, still emotionally drained from the whiplash of the last few days. My girl was brave, but she was still small—four years old, barely past babyhood in the ways that mattered. Her mind and body were paying the price for a war adults were waging around her.
It made guilt sit in my veins like poison.
And Enrico…
Enrico was determined to make sure guilt became my default state.
After storming into my room like a hurricane, declaring I was his property, demanding I eat dinner with him every night, provoking me with nonsense meant only to cut, pinning me against a wall with his mouth too close to mine—and thenleaving as abruptly as he’d entered—he’d spent the rest of the evening acting as if none of it had happened.
As if he hadn’t shaken something loose inside me.
But I couldn’t.
I remembered every breath he’d taken too close to my skin, and I hated myself for it. How could I still register his silence—stillnotice him—when the only purpose of his words was to hurt me?
At this hour he should’ve been locked away in some isolated corner of the house with his own frustrations.
Or, with any luck, choking slowly on his pride.
I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the cold counter, letting the quiet wrap around me for a few fragile seconds.
For a brief moment, I almost forgot where I was.
Almost let myself pretend that this place could be home.
Then I heard footsteps.
Steady. Unhurried.
Painfully familiar.
I closed my eyes, not even bothering to curse—my body did it for me. Every muscle locked up in an instant, a reflex as automatic as breathing.
“Can’t sleep either?” Enrico’s voice cut through the silence, far too calm to be honest. Too slow not to be deliberate.
I took a slow breath, assembling myself before turning.
He was leaning against the kitchen doorway like he belonged there—black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, the muscle and veins visible under warm light. Tailored pants, slightly wrinkled as if he’d stopped caring halfway through the night.
Barefoot.
