Right now, with my mom’s memory desecrated by that woman’s presence in her home, I’m feeling like the son who couldn’t protect her in life, and apparently not even her memory in death.
The rage simmers just beneath my skin, threatening to spill over in ways that would make even Matteo pause. I need to move to burn off this energy before I do something I might regret.
I take the stairs two at a time, rage driving every step. The whiskey’s warmth has turned to fire in my veins, fueling each step as I reach the second floor of my home. My bedroom door bangs against the wall as I shove it open.
As soon as I’m inside, I yank my tie loose, the silk hissing against my collar before I throw it onto the bed. My jacket follows, landing in a heap of expensive fabric that would normally be carefully hung.
“Figlio di puttana,” I mutter, the Italian curse feeling more satisfying than its English equivalent.Son of a bitch.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Cursing my dad while insulting my grandmother, a woman I never met but who likely deserved better than the son she raised.
My shirt buttons surrender to my fingers, one by one, until I can shrug the garment off my shoulders. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and arms where the wolf tattoo wraps around my ribcage—matching the ones my cousins wear.
Family. Blood. Loyalty. Concepts my dad pretends to honor while making a mockery of every single one.
Striding over to the dresser, I grab black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, the fabric soft but sturdy. Practical. Nothing like the flashy, fragile nonsense that woman was barely wearing. Theclothing my mom chose was always elegant but understated. Quality over display. Substance over spectacle.
While getting changed, I do my best not to think about my dad and his child-bride. Fucking ridiculous.
Dressed in my workout clothes, I head toward the gym in my basement. But I only make it a couple of steps before I hear Alina whimpering. Curiosity compels me to sneak into her room.
Like last night, I sit down in the chair at the end of the bed, fascinated by the sight of whatever ghosts plague her.
There’s something almost hypnotic about watching her this way—seeing beneath the guarded exterior she presents while awake. In her nightmares, she’s raw, exposed, real in a way few people ever allow themselves to be.
Tonight, her nightmare seems different. Less terror, more grief. She doesn’t thrash or cry out. Instead, tears stream silently down her face, her lips forming words I can’t quite catch. One hand reaches out repeatedly, grasping at empty air before falling back to the mattress.
“Mom,” she whispers, the word clear and heartbreaking in its simplicity. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
When the nightmare finally subsides, I find myself leaning forward, studying the features now relaxed in sleep. The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. The slight dimple in her chin. The fullness of her lips. With a soft snore, she turns and the movement causes the cover to slip down her body.
Even in her sleep, her stomach growls for food. Alina’s been here for five days, and so far, all she’s eaten are a few slices of toast and some fruit. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’s doing it to lose weight, so it has to be some kind of martyr complex.
Fucking ridiculous.
Standing, I check the closet and the drawers in the dresser. She hasn’t even bothered hanging or unpacking the new clothes.
This feels like her final act of defiance against a situation she can’t control. I understand the tactics. I don’t respect it though. And I definitely won’t indulge it.
I stand, moving closer to the bed. In sleep, her face holds none of the wariness that tightens her features when awake. Despite the tears, despite the pain evident in her expression, there’s a softness there that catches something in my chest.
“Enough, Alina,” I murmur, knowing she can’t hear me.
Her only response is a soft exhalation, her body turning slightly toward the sound of my voice before settling again. The cat watches me from the foot of the bed, its tail twitching warily.
I’ve been patient. I’ve given her space. But I didn’t bring her here to watch her waste away. I brought her here as payment.
Chapter 11
Alina
Ijolt awake with a gasp, my mom’s name dying on my lips as the nightmare dissolves into shadow.
Sweat clings to my skin despite the chill in the room, my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The sheets twist around my legs, damp with fear and tangled from my thrashing.
For a moment, I can still see her face, still hear her impossible request echoing in my ears—the words I can never unhear, the promise I wish I’d never made.
Onyx stirs beside me, his yellow eyes blinking slowly in the darkness. He stretches, paws extending toward my trembling hand as if offering comfort. I stroke his sleek fur, focusing onthe softness beneath my fingers instead of the remnants of my nightmare.
