Lily
When I wake up, I am alone.As usual.The silence is heavy, stretching into every corner of the room.I stare at the ceiling for a long time before I sit up, my body feeling like it’s made of lead.My throat is raw, my eyes puffy and sore from all the tears I cried into Damiano’s chest the night before.I don’t even remember falling asleep.
Does Damiano ever sleep?Or does he sleep…elsewhere?Perhaps with someone meaningful?The thought makes my heart clench painfully in my chest.Could I get any more miserable?
I force myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, rinsing the sticky ache of sleep from my face.I brush my teeth, trying to scrub away the sour taste of grief and helplessness.The mirror reflects a stranger, vulnerable, undone.Not me.
I walk back into the bedroom and automatically reach for one of Damiano’s shirts.I’d started wearing them out of defiance, hoping it would annoy him.But now?The soft cotton feels like a second skin, and somewhere along the way, it became a comfort.They smell like him, citrus and cedarwood, and I hate that it calms me.That I feel safer wrapped in something that belongs to him.Worse, I think he likes seeing me in them.I’ve caught that look in his eyes, quiet, possessive, almost reverent.And each time, a part of me wanted to curl into it, to be wanted like that.
I pick up my phone from the bedside table and head to the door.I pause at the door, resting my forehead against the cool wood.What the hell am I doing?Letting him seep into my skin.Letting his touch tangle with my thoughts.Letting him unmake me one gentle caress at a time.He’s a storm.A beautiful, dangerous storm.And I’m the idiot standing in the middle of it with my arms wide open.I have to go.I have to leave before there’s nothing left of me to protect.Before I give him everything, my mind, my soul…my heart.
If I haven’t already.
This time, I won’t hesitate.No more waiting for the right moment.I will get away.And until then, I will guard whatever pieces of myself I still have left.
Squaring my shoulders, I open the door and step into the hallway, my heart steeled even if it’s already half broken.The living room is empty, as are the other rooms.The silence is oppressive.I try the front door and find it locked.Of course.
I have no more luck with the biometric lock.Suddenly my phone rings in my hand.I see the caller ID—Dark.
“Hello?”I say tentatively.
“There is breakfast on the kitchen counter, Rosa had to go out for a few hours.”
Well, hello to you too.
“A guard will be here in a few.Get dressed in something more appropriate!”he snarls before hanging up.
I am so dumbstruck I don’t immediately register that he knows what I am wearing.That jerk has cameras in the condo!I look around but I can’t see any so I give the one-finger salute in a general direction before stomping into the bedroom to get dressed.
* * * *
Damiano
The room is a fucking pressure cooker.
Voices explode all around the long mahogany table, a wall of curses and accusations overlapping in a storm of testosterone and fury.Men who run entire districts like kings are now shouting like street dogs.I let it continue for a few seconds, let the panic stew.Then I slam my fist down on the table hard enough to make the crystal glasses jump.
Silence snaps into place.
My gaze sweeps over the room like a blade, over the nine men, each the face of a family with enough power to start a war.They’re all staring back, some fuming, some pale, all rattled.I let the tension hang there, let them feel it in their bones.
“I called you here,” I say slowly, my voice low and lethal, “because we have a situation.And it just became a problem.”They shift, restless.I watch every flinch.
“A human trafficking ring,” I continue.“Right under our noses.Operating on our streets.Using our people.”More swearing erupts, but no one dares to raise their voice again.
“How long has this been happening?”someone mutters.
“As far as we know, two months,” I say.“Could be longer.We don’t have proof…yet.”
“How many?”another voice asks quietly.
I grit my teeth.“Unknown.People disappear every day in Boston.But four of the missing have verified ties to the Families.Low-profile workers so far, fringe connections.Until now.”
A thick pause settles over the table.“Only women?”someone else says, voice tight.
“Yes.”My jaw tics.“Young women.Early twenties to thirties.All gone without a trace.”
The silence that follows is colder than a morgue.
