His hand on my back steered me deeper into the dark. Away from terrace light. Away from voices. The path narrowed; rosemary brushed my calves, wet from the sprinklers.
I thought of Matteo’s face when I threw those words at him—how they landed, heavy, unfair. I’d pushed away the one person who showed up. Now I was walking beside the man I feared, and I’d done that to myself. Brava, Isabella. Gold star in bad choices.
“I’ve missed this,” Ferraro said, voice low and velvet, like we were in a salon, not a garden. “Being alone with you.”
We passed the roses, the fountain, the cedar that always sounds like the ocean when the wind gets clever. He guided me toward the old section where lights don’t reach and hedges breed shadows. Public Luca is all handshakes and measured terms. Night Luca doesn’t need words. He looks at my mouth like it owes him a thesis.
In my head—too late, always late—I told Matteo he’d been right to respect my no, that none of this was his fault. I sent the confession nowhere and called it prayer.
Ferraro stopped at the stone wall. A corner without a moon. “Now,” he said, crisp, professional—snob mask back on—“let’s discuss your university plans.”
“Here?” I tried for light. It cracked.
“Privacy,” he answered, as if that were a credential. His fingers closed around my wrist. “I’ve been patient all evening. Watching you play innocent daughter. Sitting there pretending I’m just your father’s friend.”
“Please—”
He pressed me to the wall. Body, breath, claim. “You’re mine,” he murmured into my cheekbone. “You’ll always be mine.”
“No.” I pushed at his shoulders; he didn’t move. His mouth found mine—hard, wrong—then my jaw, my throat, my shoulder. Hands everywhere like he was rearranging furniture. I twisted away; he followed. We were shapes fighting, and the dark kept our secrets like a good accomplice.
Somewhere across the garden, gravel clicked under a foot.
Matteo’s journal, August:
No lamps on that side of the house—just warm stone and the vines breathing! I was cutting across to check the valves when I saw you, Bella—two shadows by the wall—and him. Ferraro. Dio.
He stepped in and you didn’t step back. My heart kicked like a trapped bird. He lowered his head—so neat, so rehearsed—and your hands came up. Were you holding him? Pushing him? Tell me which! I would have run if I’d heard fear. But the wind stole every sound and from where I stood you looked like lovers, not captured—choosing.
I hated it. I hate him! I hate that he knows the right words and wears them like a suit of armor. I hate that he stood where I wanted to stand—under the fig-colored dark, close enough to count your breaths. And still I love you. There, I wrote it. I love you, Bella, in a way that makes every tendril turn toward your name. Mi manchi even when you’re ten steps away.
left like a fox—quiet, no broken branches, no scene. On the path I kept my eyes forward because if I looked back I would have called your name. I would have shouted it! And if you turned toward me, I would have been lost and glad of it...
Ferraro pulled back, breath ragged, satisfied. “Good girl,” he said, like praise. “You remember how this works.”
I didn’t answer. My voice had locked itself in a cupboard. He straightened my dress. Smoothed my hair. “Smile,” he said lightly. “We’re going back to coffee.”
We walked toward voices, the terrace lamps turning us back into people. Papa looked up, happy to have the evening he wanted. Luisa’s eyes were knives polished for surgery.
“There you are!” Papa said. “Coffee’s cold. I’ll make fresh.”
“The gardens are beautiful at night, Alessandro,” Ferraro said, pleasant, distant, the director of his own scene. “You’ve maintained them wonderfully.”
I felt Luisa watching the way prey feels a hawk. I kept my eyes on the cups.
When we’d settled, he tilted his head. “Alessandro, you mentioned artifacts from Gianna’s career in the attic. May Isabella show me? I’ve always been… fascinated by her work.” He said fascinated like a diagnosis.
Papa beamed, relief and pride tangled. “Of course. Bella knows where everything is. I haven’t been up in years—troppo dolore.”
I shook my head a fraction at Luisa’s first movement. She sat, hands white on the saucer, understanding half, guessing the rest.
The attic stairs are narrow, the kind where memories sit on each step like old aunties. The door stuck, then yielded with a sigh. Inside, dust motes spun in lamplight. Trunks. Film posters. A mannequin torso with a dress that still smells like nights I wasn’t born for.
He closed the door. Turned the lock. The sound was small and final. “Finally,” he said. “Real privacy.”
“My father is right downstairs,” I managed.
“Then be quiet.”
He came fast. I backed into a stack of trunks that complained under my hips. “No. Please, not here. Not in my home—”
“Especially here,” he said, pleased with himself, the scholar choosing the correct setting for a case study. His hand closed on my arm; the old sofa caught my knees. We went down hard.
I fought. Really fought. Elbows. Nails. Air. “No! Stop!”
His palm clamped over my mouth. “Shut up,” through teeth. “Your father will hear.”
I bit him. Sharp. He yanked back and slapped me. My head rang like the chapel bell.
A scream tore out of me and cut short under his hand. “Please,” I gasped when I got air. “Please stop—”
He was stronger. But I kept pushing, thrashing, making noise I couldn’t make vanish later. “No! Get off—” The words pitched too high; panic shreds syllables.
Below us, the house breathed—the clink of a cup, a chair leg scraping, Papa’s voice somewhere softer because of Sofia. Then a new sound. Footsteps on the hall boards. A pause. The first stair creaked.
Ferraro froze. Head cocked. Listening.
Another step. Closer.
His fingers tightened around my throat, not hard enough to mark. Enough to warn. “Not a sound,” he hissed into my ear, breath cool, civilized.
But the sounds had already escaped me—pleas, broken and bright. The kind you remember later and hate yourself for.
The doorknob rattled. Stopped. Rattled again. Locked.