And stepped back.
Ciro gave a slight nod and moved at once, guiding her toward the nearest SUV.
The words rose fast: “Ciro—wait. Take her back. Keep her here. Where I can see her. Where I can protect her. Where no one will ever touch her again.”
But I clenched my jaw and swallowed them down, because I knew better.
This place—this life—wasn’t safety; it was a battlefield.
There is an ongoing war in my city, Lombardy, between us Italians and the Spanish mafia factions.
I could give her everything I had—every man, every weapon, every ounce of power I controlled—but none of it mattered against chaos.
Bullets didn’t listen. They didn’t care about promises.
Out there—beyond these mountains, beyond my name, beyond this world—she had a chance. A real one.
No one would know her. No one would recognize her. No one would come looking.
I don’t plan to end the war anytime soon, and I’m worried Loretta could get caught in the chaos.
Sending her away is the safest option—somewhere she can live, heal over time, and try to exist like an ordinary civilian.
I forced myself to stay where I was as Ciro guided her toward the long black limousine.
Every step felt like something was being pulled out of me, piece by piece.
He moved carefully, stopping at the door.
One of the men stepped forward instantly and opened it without a word.
Ciro lifted her into the car, making sure she was settled before stepping back.
Then he turned to the wheelchair, folded it with practiced ease, and placed it in the trunk before shutting it firmly.
He walked around and slipped into the front passenger seat.
The engine came alive.
Inside the car, she turned slowly, like it took effort.
Her hand pressed against the tinted glass, fingers splayed slightly, as if she needed the contact—as if she needed something between us that distance couldn’t fully erase.
She waved. Small. Unsteady. Her fingers trembled.
And her eyes—God. Her eyes. They weren’t just sad. Sadness would have been easier to bear.
They were hollow. Drained.
Sixteen years of hell lived inside them—years that began when she was eight and only ended when I pulled her out at twenty-five, just three months ago. I knew it was far too late.
The damage was written across her like a map no one else could read.
Her shoulders curved inward, even now—protective, instinctive—as if she still expected hands, pain, violation.
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to breathe.
