A sound I could never claim.
Vincenzo leaned toward her, listening, responding, his voice low and unguarded.
Candlelight flickered across their faces, warm and gold, softening everything.
For a moment, they seemed almost unreal—intimate, private, a world built only for two.
And I—was not part of it.
Not then. Not ever.
I tore my gaze away before it could settle, before it could hurt any more, and kept walking.
Step after step up the stairs, away from the light, away from the table, away from the life I had just been forced to witness.
But not away from the truth—no matter how far I walked, I would still feel it.
Everywhere.
Inside, my room greeted me with stillness.
I stripped out of my clothes without hesitation.
Jeans slid down.
Top followed.
Fabric hitting the floor in a soft, final sound.
I stood there in just my black boyshorts and bra, the air cool against my skin.
I let my gaze drift across the scars that mapped my body.
Jagged lines etched across my ribs, thin pale slashes running along my arms, burn marks darkening the curve of my shoulder blade.
Bullet grazes, knife cuts, and other horrors that left their mark long after the pain had faded.
Elena—a living map of survival.
Naples. Athens. Marseille.
Cities where I had run.
Cities where I had bled.
Five years of eluding Ruslan Baranov and his men.
Five years of never being safe.
And yet, standing here, in this room, watching what I had to endure tonight, I realized—it wasn’t worse.
Not really.
It was just... different.
Different in a way that left no physical marks.
Different in a way that clawed at something inside me I couldn’t bandage or hide.
