“Sh…shtop!” I shout, my voice tearing from me with effort. The panic is hot and frantic in my veins. “P…pwe…Pwe..ase Shtop!” I stammer my distorted words, not caring who will hear and mock me for an impediment I did not ask to be born with.
But they don’t stop. A fist drives into his stomach, and I hear the air leave him in a rough exhale. His eyes flick back to me, and even now, there is no fear for himself, only that same raw, desperate desire for me to trust him.
“Enough,” Vittorio says at last, though the word is reluctant. He crouches in front of Giovanni, his smile slow and cruel. “You could end this. Tell me what I want to know. Her suffering ends. Yours too.”
Giovanni spits blood onto the floor. “You will get nothing from me. And after all this is done, I'll kill you.”
The man whom I once called father watches from the side, his expression flat. I look at him, my chest heaving, and sign with my shaking hands. You are going to watch them kill him?
His mouth curves into the faintest smirk. “I told you before. You ruin everything you touch. This is what happens.”
The room tilts for a moment, my vision narrowing to Giovanni’s face. His lip is split, blood trailing down his chin, one eye already swelling. And then he winks.
He fucking winks.
Just as I am processing what is happening, the door bursts open, and Tomasso is the first through, weapon raised. Dario is behind him, followed by more of Giovanni’s men. The room erupts.
Gunfire cracks against the stone. Vittorio’s men caught unawares scatter for cover, but Giovanni’s men move with brutal precision, first securing Vittorio, while dropping his men one by one. The sharp scent of gunpowder fills the air, mixing with the copper tang of blood.
Vittorio shouts for someone to kill me, but before the man can take a step, Tomasso drops him with a single shot.
One of Giovanni’s men is at his side in seconds, working the shackles free. The moment his wrists are loose, Giovanni springs to his feet, making a beeline for me.
He kneels before me, guilt and relief mixed in his eyes. As soon as his hands cup my face, I feel the weight of exhaustion overwhelm me. I lean forward without thought, sinking into his chest as if that alone might keep me from falling apart completely.
He wraps me in one arm and stretches the other towards Tomasso, and without a word, his second in command places a Glock in it. He pulls my face into his chest as if to protect me from seeing what is about to happen, and as he drops a kiss on my hair, he fires a single shot, killing Vittorio instantly.
The muffled sounds of the cleanup fade around us, commands issued in low voices, the shuffle of bodies being moved, but they might as well be echoes from another world. My cheek presses against his heart, the steady beat a pulse of life I haven’t felt in over a day, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
When he lets go, he cradles my face, his thumb brushing gently over the bruised skin beneath my eye. His gaze drags over me again, slower now, and what I see in his face shatters me.
It is not rage, though that simmers deep. It is fear, bone-deep fear, that he might have been too late. His breath is uneven, his voice low and breaking. “They did this to you,” he says simply.
I nod my head. “They will never touch you again, cara,” he says, and his voice trembles with the force of it, “I promise, they will never touch you again.”
As he bends to take another good look at me, I see behind him, a bloodied Vittorio has drawn a gun with shaky hands, his face twisted with rage. He raises it toward Giovanni, and I quickly pull the gun from Giovanni’s waistband and fire a shot. Vittorio jerks once, his eyes wide, then crumples to the ground.
The room becomes completely silent after Vittorio’s confirmed death. Renato remains still, his face pale, eyes wide and unblinking. Without a word, he sharply turns and runs.
Two men chase after him. Still, Giovanni doesn't let go of me.
Slowly, my hands rise, trembling, to cradle the sides of his face. His skin is warm beneath my palms, the slight roughness of stubble tickling my fingers. I feel the split on his lips with my fingers. He doesn't flinch from my touch. He'd willingly put himself up for harm because of me.
I search his eyes as I sign, Are you okay?
Giovanni’s breath catches. His brow furrows with worry as tears spill from my eyes, uncontrollable and unbidden. I don’t bother to hide them. They fall freely, tracing hot streaks down my cheeks, pooling against his shirt.
The dam breaks inside me, and with a shaky breath, I collapse fully into him, my body folding against his like a fragile thing finally allowed to rest.
He tightens his hold, his own eyes glistening as he brushes a hand gently over my damp hair, as if soothing the storm raginginside me. “Mia cara,” he murmurs softly, voice trembling with raw emotion, “I’m here. I’m here now.”
The tears come heavier then, harder to stem. Relief crashes over me in wave after relentless wave, overwhelming in its intensity. The terror, the loneliness, the torment, they all fall away in this moment held in his arms.
You came. The thought forms silently on my lips, my hands still pressing words into the fabric of his shirt.
“I will always come for you. Always, mia cara,” he promises, voice steady despite the emotion beneath.
For a fragile, fleeting moment, I let myself believe there is nothing beyond this—no dungeon, no pain, no threats from my father’s cruel words. Nothing but the warmth of his arms around me, the soft cadence of his voice holding me safe.
