She blinks. “What? Why? I don’t understand?—”
“I don’t want explanations,” I say. My voice is flat now, stripped of heat but no less sharp. “And I don’t want apologies.”
She takes a step toward me anyway. “Please, just let me explain. I never meant to betray your trust.”
That’s what twists the knife.
“You already did.”
Her breath stutters. For a second, she looks like she might argue, then thinks better of it. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
“This isn’t a punishment,” I tell her, though I’m no longer sure that’s true. “The Brooklyn penthouse will suit you better. Less people around. And you'll be safer, too.”
“Safer from what?” she asks softly.
“From everything you don’t know,” I answer.
Silence stretches. The wind lifts a strand of her hair and lets it fall again. She nods once, slow and careful, like she’s trying not to crack.
“Okay,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”
I glance at my watch. “You have an hour. Pack what you need. Ottavio will handle the rest.”
She swallows, eyes dropping to the ground.
I turn away before I can soften, before I can take any of it back.
Behind me, I hear her breathe in—sharp, shaky—but she doesn’t call after me.
That might be the worst part.
And for the first time in years, I’m not sure whether the danger is outside these walls or entirely of my own making.
17
ROSE
Warm tears cloud my vision.
I move through the room on autopilot, folding clothes that don’t need folding, placing books into boxes with shaking hands, trying very hard not to think about how temporary everything suddenly feels. The house is quiet in a way that presses against my ears, every sound too loud, every silence louder.
An hour. That’s all I get.
Just like when I ran.
The thought cracks something open in my chest, and the tears finally come. Silent at first, then ugly and uncontrollable, blurring my vision until I have to sit on the edge of the bed and press my palms into my eyes.
I should have known better.
I tell myself that over and over like a mantra. Matteo was never going to be different. Men like him don’t build families; they build fortresses. They decide what’s best for you and call it protection. They shut doors and expect you to thank them for it.
Everyone leaves.
Or they push you out before you can leave them.
My family did it first, with smiles and obligations and a future I didn’t choose. They called it love. They called it duty. They called it family.
This feels the same.
