The peace doesn't last.
I wake the morning after our dinner still wrapped in the warmth of it—the laughter, the stories, the feeling of belonging somewhere for the first time in my life.
Santo's arm around my shoulders. Matteo's easy grin. Luca's rare, genuine smile.
For one perfect night, I let myself believe this could be real. Then Enzo appears at my door mid-morning, and everything shatters.
His expression is carefully neutral—the professional mask he wears so well. But something flickers in his warm brown eyes. Warning, perhaps. Or pity.
"A phone call for you, signorina." He holds out the receiver like it might bite. "Your mother."
My stomach drops through the floor.
I haven't spoken to my parents since the night they sold me. Haven't wanted to. Haven't let myself think about them at all, because thinking leads to feeling, and feeling leads to a grief so vast I might drown in it.
But I take the phone with trembling hands. Because some part of me, some stupid, hopeful, desperate part, still wants to hear her say she's sorry.
"Gianna." My mother's voice is exactly the same. Flat. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. "We need to talk."
No hello. No how are you. No apology.
Just business.
"What do you want?" My voice comes out steady, which surprises me.
"The debts are cleared," she says, as if she's reading from a grocery list. "The Morettis kept their word on that front, at least. But that's not enough. The pizzeria is gone—you know that. Sold off to pay creditors. And your father..."
She pauses. "He can't work. His nerves. His health. The stress of everything that happened."
"The stress of selling your daughter, you mean."
"The stress of making impossible choices to keep this family alive." Her tone sharpens. "Don't act like you're the only one who suffered, Gianna. We've lost everything."
"You lost everything?"
I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears.
"I was dragged from my home. Sold at auction. Bought by three men who could have done anything they wanted to me. And you're talking about what you lost?"
"You're living in a palace." The accusation cuts through the line.
"Eating their food. Wearing their clothes. Sleeping in silk sheets while your father and I scrape by on nothing. We've seen the pictures, Gianna. The estate. The cars. You're not suffering."
"How would you know if I was suffering? You haven't asked. Not once since this call started have you asked if I'm okay. If I'm safe. If I'm happy."
Silence. Then: "Are you?"
It's not a real question. It's a challenge.
"That's not why you called," I say flatly. "Tell me what you actually want."
"Money." She doesn't even have the grace to sound ashamed. "You have access to resources now. The least you can do is share them. We raised you, Gianna. Fed you. Kept a roof over your head for twenty-two years. You owe us."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Owe them. Like I'm a debt to be collected.
Like everything they did for me as parents, the basic requirements of keeping a child alive, was an investment they're now calling in.
"I owe you," I repeat slowly. "You sold me to pay your debts, and now you think I owe you more?"
"We saved you." Her voice hardens. "Saved the family. Did what we had to do. And now you'll do your part. Monthly payments. Enough for us to live comfortably. It's the least you can do after everything we sacrificed."
"Everything you sacrificed?" My voice rises. "You sacrificed me! Your own daughter! You watched them drag me out of our house and you closed the door!"
"We did what we had to—"
"You could have found another way! Sold the house, declared bankruptcy, anything! But you chose me. You chose to sell your daughter's body rather than face the consequences of your own failures."
"Don't you dare—"
"Do you even care?" The question tears out of me, raw and desperate. "Do you care at all what's happened to me? What they could have done? What I've been through?"
Silence stretches across the line. When she speaks again, her voice is cold as winter.
"You sound fine to me. Better than fine. You've landed on your feet, Gianna. You always do." A pause. "I'll expect the first payment by the end of the month. Don't disappoint us."
The line goes dead.
I don't remember hanging up. Don't remember leaving Enzo's office, though I'm vaguely aware of his voice calling after me, his attempts to console.
My feet carry me on autopilot through corridors and out into the gray morning, until I find myself in the garden.
My garden. The hidden corner with the overgrown roses. The place where Santo almost kissed me. The only place in this whole estate that feels like it belongs to me.
I sink onto the stone bench, and the tears come before I can stop them.
Ugly, gasping sobs that tear from my chest.
Grief for parents I thought I knew—for the mother who used to braid my hair, for the father who taught me to ride a bike, for the family I thought loved me before I learned I was just currency to them.
Rage at being reduced to money, again and again, by the people who were supposed to protect me. And shame, burning, bitter shame, that some stupid part of me still wanted them to say they loved me.
"Gianna?"
Santo's voice, soft with concern.
I didn't hear him approach. I try to wipe my face, turn away, hide the evidence of my breaking.
But he's already there—kneeling in front of me, pale green eyes searching my face with devastating gentleness.
"What happened?" His hands find mine, holding them steady.
"My mother called." The words come out broken, barely coherent. "She wants money. That's all. Not to see if I'm okay. Not to apologize. Just…" I can't finish. The sobs take over again.
"Tell me everything," Santo says quietly. "From the beginning."
So I do. Every word of the conversation. The accusations. The entitlement. The complete absence of love or remorse or basic human decency.
Santo listens without interrupting, but I feel him tense with each new detail. His jaw tightens. His grip on my hands grows firmer.
When I finish, I'm empty. Hollowed out.
He pulls me into his arms.
Not sexual. Not possessive. Just holding me. Letting me fall apart against his chest while he strokes my hair and murmurs things I can barely hear.
His heartbeat steady under my ear. His warmth surrounding me like armor.
"They don't deserve you," he says finally, voice rough. "They never did, Gianna. Not for a single moment of your life."
"They're my parents."
"Blood doesn't make family." He pulls back just enough to look at me, pale green eyes fierce with conviction. "Family is who shows up. Who fights for you. Who holds you when you break."
His thumb brushes tears from my cheek. "Family is choosing someone, every single day, and being chosen back. What they did to you—that's not family. That's transaction."
I cry harder. Because I'm starting to believe him. Because the men who bought me at auction feel more like family than the parents who raised me.