The week has already passed.
I'm healing—physically, at least. The bruises from the zip ties have faded from angry purple to sickly yellow. The raw patches on my wrists are scabbing over.
The nightmares come less frequently now, only every other night instead of every time I close my eyes.
I'm finding my footing again. Learning to walk through the estate without flinching at shadows. Learning to sleep without waking up screaming.
Then Enzo appears at my door with that carefully neutral expression I've learned to dread.
"Your parents, signorina." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "They've called again. Multiple times. They heard about... the incident."
My stomach turns to ice.
"How did they hear?"
"News travels in certain circles." He pauses. "They're insisting on speaking with you. I can tell them you're unavailable, if you prefer."
Part of me wants to say yes. But another part knows I need to do this.
"No." I stand, squaring my shoulders. "I'll take it."
I follow Enzo to his office, each step feeling heavier than the last. He hands me the phone and quietly excuses himself, closing the door behind him to give me privacy.
I bring the receiver to my ear. "Hello?"
"Gianna!"
My mother's voice is different this time—softer, worried, almost maternal. Almost.
"Oh, thank God. We've been trying to reach you for days. Are you alright? When we heard what happened, our daughter, kidnapped by criminals, we were beside ourselves!"
"Worried." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. "You've been worried."
"Of course we've been worried! You're our daughter. We love you. We never wanted any of this to happen. We've been praying for you, Gianna. Lighting candles at St. Anthony's every morning."
The performance is impressive. If I didn't know better, I might actually believe it.
"How much?" I ask flatly.
Silence on the other end.
"How much do you want this time, Mama? What's the price for your concern? What's the going rate for parental love these days?"
"Gianna, that's not fair. We called because we care about you. Because we were terrified something had happened to our little girl."
"Your little girl that you sold at auction? That little girl?"
"We've been over this." Her voice tightens, the mask starting to slip.
"We did what we had to do. And now, after everything you've been through, surely you understand how dangerous these people are. Surely those men would want to compensate us for our suffering."
There it is. The real reason for the call.
"Compensate you." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You want the Morettis to pay you. For the privilege of rescuing me from kidnappers. After you sold me to them in the first place."
"We're struggling, Gianna. We have nothing left. And you're living in a mansion, wearing designer clothes, eating food we could never afford."
Her voice turns sharp, accusatory. "The least you could do is share some of that wealth with the people who raised you."
"Stop." My voice doesn't shake. I'm surprised by how steady it is. "Just stop."
"Gianna—"
"You sold me like furniture. "
The words come out clear and cold.
"You watched men drag me screaming from our home, and you closed the door. You didn't call for help. You didn't try to stop them. You just let them take me and went back to your lives."
"We had no choice!"
"There's always a choice, Mama. You could have declared bankruptcy. Sold the house. Found another way. But you chose to sell your daughter's body instead. You chose money over me."
"Everything we did was for the family."
"I was your family!" The words tear out of me. "I was your daughter. Your child. And you traded me away like I was nothing. Like twenty-two years of raising me meant nothing."
Silence stretches across the line. When my mother speaks again, her voice has gone cold.
"You've always been ungrateful, Gianna. We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us?"
"I don't owe you anything. Not anymore." I take a breath, steadying myself. "You don't get to pretend to be my family anymore. Not after what you did. Not ever."
"Gianna, be reasonable…"
"Don't call again. Don't write. Don't show up at the gates. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have parents anymore. You made sure of that."
"You can't just—"
"Goodbye, Mama."
I hang up. Stare at the phone. Wait for the grief to hit.
But there's only relief. Clean and sharp, like cutting away dead flesh. Like finally closing a wound that's been festering for months.
***
Santo finds me in the garden that evening.
My garden. Our place. The stone bench is surrounded by roses that have somehow kept blooming despite everything.
He doesn't ask about the call—probably already knows. Just sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch, and watches the sunset paint the roses gold.
"I've been thinking," he says quietly after a long moment. "About this. About us. About what happens when you finally choose."
"Santo, I’m—"
"Let me finish. Please."
He turns to face me, those pale green eyes more vulnerable than I've ever seen them.
"I told you before that I'd share you if that's what it takes to keep you. I meant it. Every word. But I need you to know something first."
He takes my hands in his. His fingers tremble slightly.
"I'm in love with you, Gianna."
The words come out rough, like they're being pulled from somewhere deep.
"Not just wanting you. Not just needing you. In love. The kind that doesn't go away, doesn't fade, doesn't care about logic or pride or what makes sense."
"Santo..."
"I'm not asking you to choose me over my brothers. I know that's not how this works. I know we're all part of this now, whatever this is."
His thumb traces my knuckles. "I just need you to be happy. Whatever that looks like. Whoever that includes. Even if it's not me. Even if I'm just one piece of something bigger."
I kiss him. Soft at first, then deeper—pouring everything I can't say into the press of lips and tongue. He makes a sound against my mouth, somewhere between relief and reverence.
We make love in my bedroom as the last light fades—slow, emotional, Santo worshipping every inch of me like I'm something sacred.
He whispers my name like a prayer. Tells me I'm beautiful. Holds my gaze when we finally fall apart together.
Afterward, tangled in sheets, I trace the tattoos on his chest. The military symbols. The religious icons. The dates I've never asked about.
"My family sold me," I say quietly. "But I think... I think I found a real one here. With you. With your brothers."
Santo presses a kiss to my hair, his arms tightening around me.
"You did, Gianna. You're ours. However you want us. For as long as you'll stay."