Information that makes her more valuable alive than dead, which also makes her infinitely more dangerous to keep around.
But I’m not letting her go. Not now. Not ever.
13
SCARLETT
It’s been two weeks at Dante’s estate, and I still feel like I’m living in someone else’s life.
Every morning I wake up in a bedroom bigger than my entire apartment in Portland, with sheets as soft as a sheep’s wool and a comforter thick enough to keep me warm through the oncoming winter. Every morning I hear Luca’s laughter echoing through the hallways as he runs around this massive house like he belongs in it.
And every morning I remember that we’re prisoners here, no matter how nice the cage feels.
Well, not exactly prisoners. Dante would probably say we’re “under protection.” But when you can’t leave without armed guards following you, when every decision about your child has to be approved by someone else, when your entire life is controlled by a man who looks at you like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or fuck you, that’s not protection.
That’s captivity wrapped in expensive furniture and false concern. The worst part? Luca is adjusting.
I watch him now from the chilled library window as he plays in the backyard with Rosa supervising him. He’s wearing a new coat as he builds something with blocks, concentrating hard with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. The same expression Dante makes when he’s working.
God, they look so much alike it physically hurts sometimes. I feel cheated, knowing I carried him for nine whole months.
“Mama! Mama, look!” Luca waves at me through the window, holding up whatever he’s built. I can’t tell what it is from here, but I wave back and give him a thumbs up. He giggles and goes back to playing.
Two weeks ago he was terrified of Dante. Crying and clinging to me, begging to go home.
Now? Now he asks where Dante is if he doesn’t see him at breakfast. Now he wants Dante to read him bedtime stories about knights and dragons. Sometimes he sits in Dante’s office watching him work with wide, fascinated eyes.
It should make me happy. A boy should know his father and have a relationship with him. But watching them bond feels like I’m losing out.
“You’re thinking too loud again.”
I turn to find Dante standing in the doorway. He’s wearing black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms that are way too distracting. His hair is slightly messy like he’s just gotten out of bed.
“I wasn’t aware thinking had a volume,” I say.
“With you it does. Your face shows everything you’re feeling.”
“Then you should know I’m feeling trapped.”
He walks into the room and closes the door behind him. “You’re safe. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from everything, safe and trapped look remarkably similar.”
“You’re alive. Luca’s alive. That’s what matters.”
“What matters is that I can’t make decisions about my own life. About my own son.”
His jaw tightens. “Our son.”
“Our son who I raised alone for five years while you were busy building your empire.”
“Our son who I would have raised with you if you’d bothered to tell me he existed.”
And here we go again. The same argument we’ve had a dozen times in two weeks. The same circular logic that goes nowhere and solves nothing.
“I’m not doing this again,” I say, turning back to the window. “I’m tired of fighting with you.”
“Then stop fighting.”
