Commotion at the gates.
I hear it from my room—shouting, the crackle of security radios, voices raised in alarm. Something's wrong. Something's happening at the perimeter.
I'm halfway down the stairs before I consciously decide to move, heart pounding against my ribs. By the time I reach the front hall, all three brothers are already there.
Matteo looks irritated, arms crossed, jaw tight with annoyance. Luca is coldly furious, that dangerous stillness that means someone is about to have a very bad day.
Santo stands alert, hand resting casually near his hip where I know he keeps a weapon.
"What's going on?" I demand.
Matteo turns to me, lip curling with disdain. "Some boy at the gates. Demanding to see you. Says he's your boyfriend."
My blood runs cold. Nico.
"Show me," I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
Luca gestures to the security monitors mounted on the wall. Through the grainy feed, I see him—glasses askew, shirt rumpled, looking wildly out of place against the iron gates and armed guards.
He's shouting something I can't hear, gesturing frantically, making a scene that could draw exactly the wrong kind of attention.
"He's threatened to call the police three times," Santo says quietly. "Our men are getting... restless."
"He's going to get himself killed," I breathe.
"That's his problem." Matteo's tone is dismissive. "Say the word and we'll have him removed. Permanently, if you prefer."
"No." I'm already moving toward the door. "I'll handle it."
Luca's hand catches my arm, grip firm but not painful. "You don't have to go out there. We can make him disappear. He'll never bother you again."
"He's not a threat, Luca." I meet his steel-gray eyes. "Let me do this. Please."
Something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Or respect. He releases my arm.
"We'll be watching," he says. Not a threat. A promise.
I walk out alone, though I feel their eyes on my back the entire way. The gravel crunches under my feet. The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of roses from the garden.
And there, at the gates, is a ghost from another life.
Nico looks terrible.
Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes. He's thinner than I remember, clothes hanging loose on his frame like he's forgotten to eat.
Weeks of worry are etched into his boyish face—the face of the boy who loved me since we were six, who stammered through a confession in my childhood bedroom a lifetime ago.
"Gigi!" He rushes to the bars when he sees me, hands reaching through. "Thank God. Thank God you're okay. I've been looking everywhere for you!"
"Nico…"
"Your parents said you ran off with some rich guys, but I knew that was bullshit. I knew something was wrong."
He grabs my hands through the iron bars, grip desperate and trembling. "You would have told me. You would have said goodbye. Something happened, didn't it? They took you against your will?"
"Nico, listen to me—"
"Come with me. Right now. I have my car parked down the road." His eyes are wild, desperate. "I'll get you out of here. We can go to the police, or… Or just drive. Anywhere. I don't care. Just come with me."
I look at him. The glasses he's worn since third grade, now slightly bent at one temple. The stubble he's never quite been able to grow properly. The earnest, terrified determination in his eyes.
The boy who couldn't even confess his love without shaking. The boy who thinks he can save me from three mafia bosses with nothing but determination and a decade-old crush.
"Nico." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "I'm not a prisoner. I'm here because I choose to be."
His face crumbles. "That's insane. Listen to yourself, Gigi. These men—do you know who they are? What they do?"
"Yes."
"They're criminals. Murderers. The things I've heard, the rumors—people are terrified of them. The whole neighborhood knows what the Moretti family does."
His grip tightens on my hands. "And you're telling me you chose this? That you want to be here?"
I pull my hands free, step back from the bars. "Yes. I know exactly who they are. And I'm staying."
"How?" His voice cracks. "How can you choose this?"
"Because they're not the monsters you think they are. Because this is my life now, Nico. Because I'm not the same girl who sat in that bedroom and let you confess to her."
Nico flinches like I've slapped him.
"I love you," he says, voice breaking. "I've always loved you. Since we were kids. You're the only girl I've ever wanted, Gigi. Whatever they've done to you, whatever they've made you think—I'll wait. However long it takes."
"Nico, please don't do this to yourself."
"You are not thinking clearly!"
He's pleading now, tears gathering in his eyes, hands wrapped around the iron bars like he wants to tear them apart.
"They've brainwashed you. Manipulated you. The Gigi I know would never choose this. She'd never want to be with men like them. She wanted a normal life. A family. Safety."
"The Gigi you know doesn't exist anymore." The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don't take them back. "Maybe she never did. Maybe she was just a girl waiting to find out who she really was."
"Gigi—"
"Go home." My voice softens despite everything. "Please. Forget about me. Find someone who wants the life you're offering. That's not me. It was never me."
"I can't just forget you." The tears are falling now, streaming down his cheeks unashamed. "You're everything to me."
"And I'm grateful for that. Truly." I meet his eyes one last time, letting him see the truth in mine. "You deserve someone who loves you back. Goodbye, Nico."
I turn and walk away. I don't stop. Don't turn. Just keep walking toward the house, toward the life I've chosen, leaving the last remnant of my old self crying at the gates.
Matteo is waiting in the doorway when I reach the entrance.
Something unreadable flickers in his amber eyes as he watches me approach—curiosity, maybe, or something softer he'd never admit to. Then his arm slides around my shoulders, heavy and possessive, claiming me in that way he does.
He turns us both toward the gate, toward Nico still standing there, fingers wrapped around the iron bars, tears on his face. And Matteo gives him a look of pure, undisguised contempt.
A message. A warning. Mine.
Then he walks me inside, arm never leaving my shoulders, and the door closes behind us with a sound like the final page of a book turning.
"You okay, piccola?" His voice is softer than I expect, almost gentle.
"Yes." And I'm surprised to find I mean it. "I think I finally am."
I don't cry this time. I'm done mourning the girl I used to be. She was never strong enough for this life anyway.