“You can stay with me as long as you want.”
“I already told you what I’d prefer.”
“If you tell me where you want the apartment, I’ll make sure it’s yours.”
“I’m sorry we haven’t had much contact these past years, Dad.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I know your reasons. How’s your mother?”
“She’s happy.”
He had loved her once—loved her fiercely—before the Feretti name consumed him. She was only eighteen when I was born, still a girl, wild and searching. His world suffocated hers. Surrounded by drugs and darkness, she spiraled until he cut her free. He gave her an apartment, hoping she’d find stability, but she drifted anyway. Only when Chase entered her life did something finally shift—for her, and for me.
“I’m happy for Claire. We talk sometimes, you know.”
I studied his face. He would never stop loving her. Not really.
“You sounded upset the last time we spoke. Tell me who I should cut the head off.” His mouth curved as if joking, but his eyes were flat, deadly serious.
A nervous laugh slipped out. I knew better. He wasn’t joking.
“The work, the life there—it just became too much.”
“I see.” He knew I was lying.
The car pulled up before his estate—high walls, armed guards. His men opened the door, their eyes tracking me as I stepped out.
“I want you to rest here, find your peace. After that, we’ll get you an apartment.”
Rome always sharpened something in him — not because I feared him, but because this city made his influence impossible to ignore. But I knew myself. His world was a cage. Still, I was grateful. I saw in his eyes how much it meant to have me close again.
He led me through marble halls and high ceilings, past paintings that stared down like silent judges. Being here with him always reminded me of who he really was — not just my father, but a man whose presence shaped every corner of his world before he ever spoke. Pride and tenderness colored his voice as he showed me each room, as though reclaiming a part of fatherhood with every step.
“I prepared this room for you,” he said, opening a heavy door.
The room was beautiful—warm, elegant, the kind of space that embraced you. But it wasn’t the furniture that struck me.
It was the photograph on the nightstand—an old picture of us, taken when I was five. His smile then was carefree, unburdened. My face was innocent, untouched. My chest tightened.La mia piccola principessa.His little princess.
He walked to a shelf, almost hesitant, and opened a small box. “I kept all your things.”
Memories spilled out—the faint, dusty scent of old books and childhood toys. Scribbled pages. A sticker book, battered and faded but unmistakably mine. My throat closed as tears stung my eyes.
Hesaid nothing, just watched me. In his gaze was regret. And love.
“Grazie,” I whispered, the lump in my throat choking the words. “It means so much.”
He smiled faintly and set a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll always have a home here.”
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.
“Maybe something Italian? It’s been so long since I’ve had real Italian food.”
“Perfect. I’ll have the cook prepare something special.”
I sank back onto the bed, drawing a long breath. For that moment, thoughts of Damian faded away.
