"How do you know? Because he says so? Because he's fucking you and telling you what you want to hear?"
The words hit like a physical blow.
"You don't know anything about what's happening here," I said. "About what Matteo and I—"
"I know you're in over your head. I know you've always been too naive for this world. And I know that whatever you think is happening between you and DeLuca, it's not real. It's Stockholm syndrome. It's manipulation. It's him using you until you're not useful anymore."
"Fuck you, Antonio."
"I'm trying to save you—"
"I don't need saving. Not by you. Not by Giuseppe. Not by anyone." My hand shook on the phone. "I'm choosing this. Choosing to stay. Choosing Matteo. And if that makes me a traitor in your eyes, fine. I've been a disappointment my whole life anyway. At least now I'm choosing it."
"Stefan—"
"Tell Giuseppe I'm not coming back. Tell the families I'm not cooperating. Tell whoever asks that I'm done being a Romano." My voice cracked slightly. "And tell yourself whatever you need to hear to justify leaving me alone."
I hung up before Antonio could respond.
The receiver clattered onto the desk. I stood there staring at it like it might come alive and attack me.
That was it. I'd just cut ties with my family. Refused to come home. Told my brother to tell everyone I was choosing the Vitales over blood.
There was no taking that back. No undoing what I'd just done. The Romanos would consider me a traitor now. Would tell the other families I'd chosen Giuseppe's enemies. Would cut me out completely.
I should feel devastated. Should feel grief for the family I was losing. For the life I was burning down.
Instead, I felt...
Free.
Terrifyingly, overwhelmingly free.
But underneath the freedom was something darker. Guilt. Worry. The nagging voice that said Antonio might be right—that I was naive, that Matteo was using me, that the moment I stopped being useful I'd be discarded or killed.
And there was a kind of grief, after all. Not for the family I actually had, but for the family I'd always wished I had. The one where Giuseppe valued all his sons. Where my brothers saw me as an equal instead of a liability. Where I belonged and mattered and was more than just decorative.
That family had never existed. But I'd hoped for it anyway.
Now I was burning even the possibility of it.
"Stefan." Matteo's voice was gentle. "Are you okay?"
I looked at him. At this man who'd kidnapped me and kept me prisoner and claimed me publicly. This brutal enforcer who played chess with me and brought me Thai food and made me feel like I mattered for the first time in my life.
"I told them I'm not coming back," I said. "Antonio said Giuseppe wants me to come home. To cut ties with you. To prove I'm still a Romano." I swallowed hard. "I refused."
Matteo crossed to me and pulled me into his arms. I collapsed against him, the adrenaline draining away and leaving me shaky.
"What did Antonio say?" he asked.
"That the other families are asking questions. That they think I'm cooperating. That I need to come home and present a united front." I pressed my face against his chest. "He said you're using me. That the moment I stop being useful, you'll kill me. That this is all Stockholm syndrome and manipulation."
"Do you believe that?"
Did I?
Six weeks ago, I would have said yes immediately. Would have recognized every warning sign. Would have known this wasunhealthy and wrong and exactly the kind of situation I should escape.
