Domenico with his stupid smile.
Domenico teaching me how to ride his motorcycle even though I screamed the entire time.
Domenico kissing me on fire escapes and rooftops like we were normal people instead of trapped children born into violent families.
Back then, I thought it was love.
Maybe it was.
Or maybe I was just drowning and he happened to look like air.
We planned to run away together, because I was desperate to escape my father. How we got caught.
My stomach twists violently.
Because even now, months later, remembering that day makes my chest constrict. My father found us, and Domenico paid the price. I’ve lived with the guilt ever since.
Massimo locked me away after Domenico died.
Punishment. Because I came back ruined. No longer untouched.
No longer politically valuable.
I remember clawing at the door until my nails bled.
Begging to be let out.
Crying until my throat burned raw.
And my father never came. Never opened the door. Never softened.
“Sienna.”
Camilla’s voice cuts through it. Her arms wrap around me from the side, warm and firm, pulling me out of the memory like she’s physically dragging me back into the present.
“It’s okay,” she whispers against my hair. “It’s okay. You’re here.”
Daniela joins a second later, smaller arms squeezing tighter. I breathe in shakily. Out again. The memory doesn’t fully leave, but it steps back.
“We’re okay,” I lie softly.
None of us believe it.
Minutes later, I’m standing outside my father’s office. My throat feels tight, like I swallowed glass. This is stupid.
My father always said women don’t come into this part of the house. We don’t enter these conversations. We don’t interrupt the machinery.
I swallow hard and lift my hand anyway.
I knock once. A pause. Then again.
“Come in.”
His voice is flat. I take a deep breath and enter. The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound feels too loud in the office.
Massimo is already seated at his desk.
Still in the same suit, with the blood from Alessandro’s punch drying at the corner of his mouth. His eyes lift to me slowly.
