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As the music of the festival fades into the background, replaced by the gentle sounds of the night, Dominic and I walk back to the villa. The air between us feels different now, lighter somehow.
Emboldened by his openness, I find the courage to share pieces of my own history. “You know, my childhood wasn’t exactly picturesque,” I start, my voice soft under the starlit sky. “It’s strange, but walking through the festival reminds me of moments I spent dreaming of a life like this.”
Dominic looks at me. “Tell me about it.”
“I don’t talk to my parents anymore. They were... abusive, in more ways than one.” The words taste bitter as they leave my lips, but there’s a certain relief in voicing them.
“I used to dream the violence would stop, that we could move somewhere quiet and start again, forget everything that had happened. I used to think it was New York that made them like that but the truth is they’d have been the same wherever we ended up.”
He stops, turning to face me, his concern evident. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
I nod, feeling a tight knot in my throat. “I remember this one time, I’d won a school art competition. I was so excited to show them my sculpture. But when I did, my father just scoffed and smashed it up right in front of me. Said art would never put food on the table.”
His hand reaches for mine, a silent gesture of support.
“And my mother,” I continue, the memories flooding back now, “she was so cold. I used to make her breakfast in bed, trying to win her affection. She never ate it. Stared through me at the TV like I wasn’t there.”
The words start pouring out of me. “They used to hit me all the time. I was so scared. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. When I turned eighteen, I moved out, got a new cellphone, and I haven’t spoken to them since.”
As I speak, Dominic’s expression hardens, the protective instinct in him awakening. “No one will ever hurt you like that again, Isabella. I promise you that.”
“What if I’m like her?” I ask as we approach the villa. “What if I’m like that with my own kids?”
“You won’t be.”
“How can you be so sure.”
He kisses my forehead. “Because I know. Now lunch should be ready for us. Let’s eat.”
9
DOMINIC
The afternoon air is warm and fragrant, carrying the scent of the sea and blooming flowers. The sounds of the festival are faint from the villa dining room.
As we begin our meal, the soft clink of cutlery against fine china mingles with the distant lull of the sea.
I reach across the table, taking her hand gently. “Isabella, I know our beginning was anything but conventional. I want you to know, I deeply regret the way things happened.
“You shouldn’t have been involved in any of this. When Vincent is dealt with, you’ll be free to go get on with your life. I won’t keep you trapped here with me.”
“You think I feel trapped?”
“Don’t you?”
My phone rings. “Caruso,” I answer briskly.
“Dominic, it’s Marco. I have news.” The voice is tense yet triumphant.
I stand up, moving slightly away from the table. “Go ahead.”
“We found Marconi,” Marco says. “He was holed up in a safe house in Brooklyn. Came out just like you said he would. Had a bag packed. Looked like he was heading your way.”
“Tell me he’s dead.”
“We made sure of it. Cut him into tiny little pieces.”
“Good.”
