When I finally leave, it’s late and the streets are empty.
I drive back to the estate thinking about everything he said. About choosing Luca’s future over my past. About being present instead of perfect. About love being the desire to be better because of someone.
And maybe, just maybe, I can be both the monster who protects them and the man who loves them.
Even if I’m still figuring out what that means.
17
SCARLETT
Dante wants us to dig into my memories and I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
We’re in his office, the door closed, with Viktor standing outside guarding us. Dante is explaining his plan like it’s a business strategy instead of potentially traumatizing me all over again.
“We need to recover what you blocked out from that night. There might be details about the ledger’s location that could end this.”
“You mean you want to poke around in my trauma until something useful falls out.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“How about no?”
He leans back in his chair and studies me with those grey eyes that see too much. “How about we try anyway. Because the alternative is staying in this limbo forever while people keep dying.”
I hate that he’s right. And I hate even more that my scrambled memories might be the key to ending this nightmare.
“Fine. But if I have a breakdown, you’re dealing with it.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The first session is awkward as hell.
We’re sitting in chairs facing each other, and Dante’s trying to guide me through relaxation techniques that feel ridiculous.
“Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing.”
“This is stupid.”
“Scarlett.”
“Fine.” I grumble and close my eyes, immediately feeling exposed and vulnerable. “Now what?”
“Think back to that night. The room you were kept in. What do you remember while you were there?”
“Five girls. The room was fortified with no way to escape. Blackout windows…”
“Good. What else?”
I try to focus but my mind keeps skittering away from the memories like they’re hot coals. “I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.”
“That’s the trauma response. We’ll work through it slowly.”
His voice is low and steady in my ear, surprisingly gentle for a man who makes his living through violence. And my body is responding in ways that have nothing to do with the memories.
The warmth of him so close. The scent of his cologne. The way his presence makes me feel safe even when we’re diving into the worst night of my life.
“Scarlett, focus.”
