Page 62 of Of Lies and Shadows

His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens again, and for a second, I think he might yell. Rage is easier for him than anything else—easier than vulnerability or truth.

“You made me thehero?” he says finally in a growl. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “Because they needed one. And I couldn’t be it.”

He takes a step closer, and I brace, instinctively leaning back. His voice drops even lower.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that after I humiliated you, put a gun to your head, and forced you into a marriage you didn’t want… you still told my children I saved you?”

I nod. “I did it for them. Not you.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Why?”

“Because they deserve kindness. Because they believe in fairy tales. Because they’re not mine, but I love them like they are.” My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “Because I’d rather they believe in you than fear you.”

The silence after that is brutal, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken between us.

And then, his words, softer than I expected: “They love you, you know.”

“I know.” My voice cracks. “That’s the worst part.”

He looks at me then, really looks. For once, not like he’s trying to read me or control me or break me. Just… looks. Like a man seeing something he doesn’t know how to hold.

“Don’t make me move into your room,” I whisper. “Please. I’ll try harder.”

Something shifts in his face. The irritation fades, and for a flicker of a second, I see him, not the capo, not the executioner, but the Dante from the pirate charity night. The one who made me believe he wasn’t a monster.

“I don’t want you to—” He cuts himself off, his eyes flickering with something I can’t quite name. “Where do you go?”

I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my skin like I can warm the cold rising in my chest. “Nowhere,” I murmur. “Just… away, for a while. I don’t really control it.”

He takes a step closer, and I rest a trembling hand on his chest. “But I can try.”

He shakes his head, then gently lifts my hand from his chest—but doesn’t let it go. His fingers wrap around mine, firm and conflicted.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t want to listen.”

His eyes search mine. “You should’ve said it anyway.”

For a breath, I almost lean in. Almost forget.

But then I remember the man who held a gun to my head, the spit on my cheek, the bruises on my soul. The memory flares hot behind my eyes, and my jaw ticks.

He must see it, feel it, because he releases my hand.

“You can stay here,” he says stiffly.

I nod. “I’ll try to please you next time.” And I hate that a part of me meant it.

His groan is immediate and guttural. He scrubs a hand over his face, exasperated. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” I shoot back. “What is this, Dante? What game are you playing?”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “Maybe… I need to stop pretending I don’t give a damn whether you disappear for good.”

I blink at him, stunned. “Then let me go.”

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