I didn’t see Matteo for the rest of the night.

Dinner was brought to my room by a maid — a quiet young woman who set the tray down and murmured, “Signor Matteo said you should eat.”

I ate because I was starving, but it tasted like nothing. My body felt heavy, my mind buzzing with everything that had happened.

When I finally slid under the covers, sleep came fast.

But peace didn’t.

The nightmare started the same way it always did.

I I was small again, barefoot, standing in our dimly lit living room. The air smelled like cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke.

My father’s voice thundered through the room, slurred but sharp.

“You think you can talk back to me, huh?!” he roared.

“Please, just stop,” my mother begged, stepping between us. Her hands were up, trembling. “You’re drunk, Marco. Just go to bed—”

SMACK.

The slap echoed.

I screamed. “Stop it!”

I grabbed his shirt, pulling at him, trying to make him let go of her.

“You little brat!” he growled, shoving me so hard I stumbled back and hit the wall.

“Mamma!” I cried, scrambling back toward her.

But my father was faster.

“You think she’s gonna save you?” he spat, grabbing my mother by the arm. “This is her fault. Always her fault!”

“Marco—please!” she cried.

Another slap.

Then he shoved her, hard.

“MAMMA!”

Her head struck the corner of the wooden table with a sickening crack.

She crumpled to the floor, and blood — so much blood — began pooling under her.

I fell to my knees, shaking her shoulders. “Wake up! Please, wake up!”

Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open.

Behind me, my father was shouting, calling me ungrateful, screaming about how we ruined his life.

I couldn’t hear him.

All I could hear was my own sobs.

“Don’t leave me,” I cried, clinging to her limp hand. “Please don’t leave me.”

I woke up gasping, tears streaming down my face.

The room was too quiet. Too empty.

I couldn’t breathe.

Before I could think, I was on my feet, pulling the door open and running down the hall. My bare feet slapped against the floor until I reached the last door.

I knocked once, hard.

Nothing.

Then I pushed the door open.

Matteo was sitting on the edge of his bed, a phone in one hand. His head snapped up when he saw me.

“Bella?” He was on his feet in seconds, crossing the room. “What happened?”

I couldn’t even answer. My chest hurt, my throat burned, and tears kept coming.

He grabbed my shoulders gently but firmly. “Talk to me. What happened?”

I shook my head. “I… I just… I can’t stay in that room alone. Please.”

For a second, something unreadable flashed in his eyes — confusion, maybe surprise — then it softened.

“Come here,” he said quietly, guiding me toward the bed.

The mattress dipped as I sat down.

He didn’t ask questions, didn’t push.

Instead, he kicked off his shoes and slid onto the bed beside me.

I curled up without thinking, pressing my face against his chest.

His hand hesitated for a second before coming to rest on the back of my head, his fingers running slowly through my hair.

“Breathe, bella,” he murmured. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Something in me broke then. The tears came harder, messy and hot, and he just held me, quiet and steady.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said softly. “I’ll kill anyone who touches you. Do you hear me? No one’s ever going to hurt you again.”

For a long time, we just lay there, the sound of his heartbeat steady under my ear.

I woke up to sunlight streaming in through the windows.

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming.

Then I realized where I was.

Matteo’s room. Matteo’s bed.

And the spot beside me was empty.

I sat up quickly, heart pounding.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom.

When the door finally opened, Matteo stepped out, steam curling behind him.

He had a towel slung low around his hips, water running in rivulets down his chest.

My breath caught.

He noticed, of course.

A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth. “Like what you see, bella?”

I glared at him, my face hot. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still staring,” he said, grabbing a shirt from the chair near the bed but not putting it on.

“Where are you going?” I demanded.

“To pay Vieri a visit,” he said simply, toweling his hair.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. You can’t just keep leaving me here like a prisoner.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said evenly.

“Then prove it. Let me come.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But get ready. We leave in an hour.”

I swung my legs off the bed too quickly. The blood rushed to my head, and before I knew it, I tripped over the edge of the carpet — straight into him.

He caught me easily, one hand on my waist, the other bracing my arm.

For a second, we just froze.

Then I felt the towel slip.

My eyes went wide.

Matteo’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Well,” he said softly, “this is interesting.”

I scrambled back, my face burning. “I—sorry—”

He took a step toward me, still holding the towel in place but not bothering to hide his amusement.

“You keep running from me, bella,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

“Because you’re insane!”

“Or maybe,” he said, closing the distance between us, “you’re scared of how much you want me.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then his fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up.

“Matteo—”

His mouth didn’t touch mine. Instead, it brushed my ear, his breath hot.

“When I finally take you,” he murmured, “you won’t be running. You’ll be begging.”

My pulse was out of control now.

Then, just as suddenly, I shoved him back and bolted for the door.

Behind me, his laugh was low and dark.

“Stop acting like you’re still a virgin, bella!” he called after me.

I slammed the door behind me, my heart hammering.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t tell if I was running away from him — or from myself.