Sofia ended the call by pressing her fingertip, very calmly, like that tiny gesture could cut a vein to the past. My hands were shaking so hard the coffee rattled in its cup.
“I have a friend in the police, Carla Bianchi. She could help you,” she said, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
I wanted to believe her so badly it hurt. She stood, wrapped me in those steady arms that smelled faintly of orange blossom and starch, and for a few seconds the world stopped wobbling.
“Come,” she said. “Rest now.”
She walked me upstairs. When we reached my room, she paused at the threshold, taking in the door hanging crooked on its hinges, the splintered frame.
“What happened here?”
I swallowed. “Matteo broke it. He heard… I wasn’t okay. He thought I might—” I flicked a glance toward the window I wasn’t looking at anymore. “He didn’t hesitate.”
Sofia’s mouth softened in a way that made me want to cry again. “Un bravo ragazzo,” she said. “A good friend.”
When she left, I stared at the ruined door for a beat, then grabbed my phone.
Me: Are you close?
The reply came in ten seconds.
Matteo: Balcony.
I pushed the curtain aside just as his head rose over the stone balustrade. Same route as when we were kids sneaking jam tarts and secrets—hands on the vine slats, feet careful where the mortar crumbles, breath quiet. He swung over and landed inside with that soft thud he always somehow makes sound polite.
My forehead found his collarbone and the knot in my chest loosened.
“Luca called,” I whispered. “Another facility. Tuscany. Five days.”
His breath hitched once, then smoothed. “We won’t let him,” he said. Plain, clean, the way he says there’s frost coming or we need to stake the tomatoes higher.
“Lie down,” he said finally. He toed off his boots, set them neatly beside the wall, and lay on top of the covers. I curled toward him, tucked under his arm. I fell asleep in under a minute. For the first time in months, my dreams had actual colors.
***
When I woke, light pooled on the floor and the house felt like morning instead of a memory. Matteo was gone. I showered until steam blurred the mirror and changed into something that felt like mine: white shirt, soft jeans, hair up—not Gianna’s shadow today.
Knock. Softer than last night. “Bella? May I?”
“Come in.”
Sofia stepped inside. Her eyes went to the door, then to me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I said, and for once it wasn’t a lie.
She touched my elbow and led me down the corridor. “Before the police, we can speak with your father,” she murmured. “I’ve prepared him as much as one can prepare a heart for this. He’s waiting in the study.”
I needed something to hold that wasn’t fear, so I grabbed a coffee on the way. The cup warmed my palms; counting sips kept me breathing.
Papa stood when I entered, then sat again like the ground shifted under his shoes. His face—oh God, his face. Love, worry, that old crack that never fully healed.
I took the chair across from him and set the cup down so it wouldn’t rattle. “Papa,” I said, and my voice did that thing where it dropped an octave into honesty, “I need to tell you something. About Tuscany.”
The change in him was instant, like a cloud covering the sun. “What happened?”
“Luca Ferraro,” I said. His name tasted like iron. “He’s not who you think.”
“Explain,” he said, but his eyes already knew.
I told him. Not every shard—no girl should have to hand her father that kind of glass—but enough to make the shape of it undeniable. The grooming in Rome. The power at the clinic. The photos. The threats. The dress. The attic. The word “midnight” like a bruise that still hadn’t faded.
Papa went white, then red, then white again, like a wave crashing and draining all over. “He assaulted you?” His voice broke on you. “Luca? My friend?”
“Yes.”
“And photographs? Blackmail?”
“I was trying to protect you,” I said. “He said if I told anyone, the shock would—”
Papa stood so fast the chair scraped. He swayed, grabbed the edge of the desk. “Breathe,” I said, crossing the room with my arms out like I could catch a man twice my size. “Papa, sit. Please.”
He let me push him back into the chair. His eyes flooded, then he blinked hard like he could hold the ocean in if he just clenched tightly enough.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It wasn’t accusation; it was ache.
“I was afraid,” I said, and the truth tasted like salt. “You barely survived Mama. I thought this would… break you.”
“Bella,” he said, and it sounded like a vow hurled at the ceiling, “nothing—nothing—matters more than you. Not my pride. Not my friendship with him. Not my heart. You.”
I bent and he pulled me in. We both cried—the messy kind that leaves your nose red and your dignity somewhere under the rug. “I’m so sorry, tesoro,” he kept saying into my hair. “I brought him into our house. I gave him your trust with my hands.”
“You didn’t know,” I whispered. “He is very good at looking like marble.”
“I should have known,” he said, the old man in him wrestling with the father. “I should have protected you.”
The phone on his desk rang. Once. Twice. He glanced at the screen, frowned, and answered. “Alessandro Moretti.”
“Alessandro!” Luca’s voice poured out—warm, professional, the kind of tone that makes people open doors. “How is Isabella? Still ill?”
Papa’s jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle jump. I shook my head quickly: don’t. Not yet. Not like this.
“She’s resting,” Papa said, voice courteous enough to be a shield. “Thank you for your concern.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Luca continued, all silk. “I want to take Isabella to my clinic till the university semester starts. This practice can help her in her future scientific work and have a positive impact on her recommendation letter. ”
“That’s not necessary—”
“I insist,” Luca said smoothly, and I heard the click of a trap’s hinge.
Papa lowered the phone, staring at it like it might bite.
“Papa?” I put my hand over his. The skin felt too hot. He pressed his other hand to his chest, right where his ribcage rises.
“Just… a moment,” he said through his teeth, and then color drained from his face in a terrifying rush. Red blotches bloomed across his neck and cheeks; sweat pearled at his hairline; his breath shortened into rough little saws.
“Papa!” I lunged for him as he slumped sideways. The cup toppled and shattered. Coffee bled into the rug like an exclamation I didn’t need.
“Help!” I screamed, and the villa swallowed the word and flung it down the corridors. “Sofia!”
She was there in seconds, already moving like she knew this hallway, this kind of panic. “Ambulanza,” she said to someone behind her, voice crisp, phone already in hand.