I hate that he’s learning far too young that his safety can be conditional. Being separated from him is one of the cruelest control tactics Dante has used so far. Not because it’s overtly violent or dramatic. It’s because it isn’t just punishing me. It’s punishing Luca too.
Our son deserves none of this. He didn’t choose his bloodline. He’s an innocent party in a war he doesn’t even know exists. Collateral damage in a mess built and then destroyed by men who have never had to deal with the direct consequences of their actions.
It hurts in a way that lingers long after I’m left alone in a bedroom Dante hardly ever visits. Most nights, he doesn’t even bother coming to bed. Whether he takes up residence in another guest room or in his study, I have no idea, nor do I care. To me, all of this feels unforgivable.
I turn the page slowly as his breathing finally evens out, his lashes brushing over his rosy cheeks. At least for now, I still have him. The words soon blur together, my voice dropping to little more than a murmur meant only to hold onto the moment for just a little while longer.
Then the light on Luca’s nightstand flickers.
My gaze snaps to it instantly.
It’s a small lamp, one that casts a warm, golden glow meant to soothe at night instead of keeping someone awake. I watch it pulse once… twice… the bulb struggling, dimming and brightening while it fights to stay alive. Then the room is swallowed whole by darkness.
Across the room, moonlight spills in through the open window, outlining the furniture in a soft shadow. I left it open earlier since the night air has been warm and gentle lately, figuring the scent of the sea would drift in just enough to calm Luca if he wakes up in the middle of the night again.
Now, I’m grateful for it for an entirely different reason. It’s the only thing that lets me see as I start to carefully shift out of the bed.
I reach for the lamp, planning on shaking it to get it to turn back on or maybe see if the bulb needs to be changed, but then shouting erupts in the hallway right outside the door and my entire body freezes in place instantly. The sounds cut straight through me, voices raised in alarm rather than irritation.
Luca startles violently at the noise, his small body jerking upright off the bed beside me as fear snaps him awake.
“Mama?” he whispers into the darkness.
I turn away from the lamp without another thought and grab him, pulling him tight against my chest. One arm locks around his shoulders to anchor him to me while my other smooths over his hair again and again, a useless, soothing motion meant more for me than for him.
“I’m here. I’ve got you,” I whisper into his hair, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the tremor creeping in.
But even as I say it, dread coils tightly in my chest.
What is going on?
The shouting outside escalates, urgent voices flipping into sharp, clipped commands that snap through the halls outside, muffledonly by the door sealing Luca and me safely inside this room. Then comes the sound that turns my blood to ice.
Gunfire.
The crack of it is unmistakable.
There is no time to think or for fear to bloom and render me completely frozen in place again because soon, instinct takes over completely.
I scoop Luca up and run.
His cry breaks free from his mouth the moment I do, his small hands clutching desperately at my shoulders as I bolt across the room toward the only other place with a door. The closet. I wrench it open, drag us inside, and slam it shut behind us hard enough that the frame rattles.
I drop down to my knees, my front pressed to the cool plaster inside as I curl my body around him like a shield. Luca is sobbing now, his chest hitching violently as terror pours out of him. Small patches of light trail in through the slats on the doors, highlighting the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Shh, shh,” I whisper frantically, my lips pressing to his hair even as my hands shake. “Mama’s here. I’ve got you.”
Another crack of gunshots echoes through the villa, closer this time, followed by the sound of shattering glass. I press my hand firmly over his mouth, hauling him fully into my lap to keep him from squirming, my arm tightening around his middle until he’s pinned safely against me. His sobs turn muffled beneath my palm, hot tears soaking my skin.
“It’s okay, baby. Please, please stay quiet for Mama,” I whisper desperately into his ear.
I strain to listen over the roaring of my pulse, every sound magnified in the cramped darkness of the closet. Luca trembles against me, his small body practically convulsing with each muffled sob.
I don’t pray often.
But crouched there on the floor, hidden in the dark with my son clutched to my chest, I pray harder than I ever have in my entire life. I don’t even know who I’m praying to. God? Fate? Anyone who will listen to me. I whisper silent pleas between shaky breaths, bargaining promises I don’t even know how I’ll keep if they’re ever fulfilled.
There would be no reason for gunfire to erupt inside Dante’s villa unless something has gone catastrophically wrong. His security is ruthless. Practically impenetrable. Men are posted at every corridor and every blind spot I never even realized existed until I started to wander on the days he would avoid me. For someone to breach the perimeter, let alone make it inside the house, means failures stacked on top of more failures.
