Page 17 of Dangerous King
At first, it wasn't awful. We were five. Just kids who played together. We braided each other's hair, and I didn't mind thatwhen we played make-believe, she insisted on being the princess while I had to be the maid. It was the only attention I received. I think it was that way for her, too. Her mom wasn't like mine at all; mostly, we only saw her during dinner. When Camilla's friends came over, I hovered at the edges of their games, not uninvited, but barely tolerated. Initially, she let me stay and included me now and then. They made it clear that I wasn't part of their world, but I hadn't been cast out yet.
That changed when we hit puberty.
I remember one day in particular—it's seared into my memory.
Roberto, cruel as ever, made a disgusting remark about my body, about my developing breasts. I flushed with shame. Camilla's expression didn't change, but after that, the hand-me-downs did.
They stopped fitting. I received oversized sweaters, pants two sizes too big, and colors that clashed with everything—clothes she wouldn't have been caught dead in. And it only got worse after the Stephano incident, the one where he asked me out.
Now I look at these pajamas, brand-new, picked out by Izzy without hesitation or condescension, and the difference nearly guts me. Izzy made space for me the moment I stepped into her orbit, not like a stray she pitied, but like a sister she recognized. I've known her for barely a few hours, and already she's given me more comfort, warmth, andbelongingthan I ever felt in the Giordano house.
With the Sartoris, no one's pretending I'm invisible. No one's tossing scraps my way and calling it kindness. For the first time in a long while, I feel like someone might actually want me here.
True to Izzy's word, I find the vanity drawers filled with all kinds of cosmetics. All brand-new, still in their original wrappers. I pick a geranium-scented shower lotion and turn on the knob in the shower. Instantly, I'm assaulted by a spray, no, several sprays from all sides. Sputtering, I back out.Well, that'll take some getting used to, I mutter and take off my clothes.
A little while later, I lie on the softest bed, staring at the ceiling fan, and allow my mind to replay the events of this night. No, last night, I correct myself. It's going on one o'clock in the morning now.
The shower was heavenly, but even better was sorting through all the cosmetics. My skin was breathing in the creams when I slathered my face, neck, arms, hell, my entire body. It's not like I didn't have creams and lotions at the Giordano's. Whatever Camilla didn't want, she gave to me, sometimes barely used. Still, there is a difference between receiving things that have been picked out with love and hope and hand-me-downs.
The lights are off now, and the room is dim and quiet, the kind of quiet that's supposed to soothe you to sleep. But I don't trust silence completely. Not after years in the Giordano house, where quiet could mean anything: a dinner gone cold, a punishment being dealt, or someone bleeding behind a closed door.
On the surface, they seemed like a normal family: polite dinners, casual chitchat in the halls, and perfectly manicured routines. But every so often, the facade would crack. A terrifiedscream, sharp and short, or Giovanni'svoice booming with fury from somewhere deep in the house.
When that happened, I'd freeze in bed, my heart thudding so hard I swore it would bruise my ribs. I'd lie there so tense, waiting, that the next morning all my muscles would hurt.
I was waiting forhisfootsteps, hard and filled with brutal intention, waiting for the door to be opened with so much force it would hit the wall, waiting forhimto drag me out again—him, Giovanni.
It hadn't happened often—four or fivetimes, maybe. But that was enough. Enough to condition my body to fear loud noises, to flinch at shouting, to live with my muscles clenched in sleep.
But here…
Here, it's quiet too—the same kind of nighttime hush. Yet somehow, it feels different. I find myselfnotlistening,notstraining for hidden meanings behind every creak or murmur. I'm not holding my breath, waiting for it all to unravel. I probably should be, but somehow, here, the silence doesn't feel like a lie.
I don't really know these people. Not well. Enrico, Izzy, Silvano, they're still practically strangers. But I'm not afraid of them. And that alone is startling.
It's not that I fully trust them. Not yet. But there's an absence of fear, a quiet space in my chest where terror used to live. After years of holding my breath, of flinching at shadows, that realization hits hard: I can lie here, in this unfamiliar house… and not feel like prey.
It might be temporary, or I might just be naïve, but for the first time in years, I think I might be safe.
Involuntarily, my thoughts drift back to my family. Did Enrico get them out in time?
They're all the way in Sicily, and I doubt Giovanni had time to notify anyone of my betrayal, if he even realizes yet that I'mgone. For all he knows, I'm still locked up in the mansion like a good little pet. I don't think it would ever cross his mind that I was the one who helped Izzy escape. And that… that makes me a little proud. For once, I followed my heart and not my fear.
Living under Giovanni's thumb for so long, I got good at playing invisible. At shrinking myself until I could disappear into corners, into silence, into obedience. But I never let them takeeverything. Not the parts of me that mattered. I held on to my core like it was armor, kept my quiet integrity and stubborn hope. I smiled when I wanted to cry. I snuck out into the backyard when no one noticed; I climbed trees to find a place where I knew nobody would find me, where I was safe. There, when I was younger, I imagined things, like my dad coming with an army to free me, or sometimes it was me, killing Giovanni and saving my family. As I grew, those illusions died; my dad never came, and I knew I would never be able to kill Giovanni.
Sometimes, to bolster my courage, I dared myself. Just to prove to myself that I still had a say in my own life, I rebelled in small, almost invisible ways.
I'd wear something Camilla told me not to.
I'd sneak a slice of cake from the fridge in the middle of the night.
I'd leave the window open just to feel the wind.
Tiny, stupid things. But they weremine. They kept me sane. Kept my courage up when otherwise I might have turned into a shadow of myself. And now I need to dare myself again. I need to talk to Enrico. I need to make a deal.
If he wants me to testify to the Capo dei Capi—if he wants to use me as leverage—then he'll have to protect my family. I know howthis world works. I listened from corners and through closed doors when I wasn't supposed to. I know Giovanni won't waste a second trying to twist the narrative, to paint Enrico as the aggressor. If he succeeds in convincing Don Edoardo that it was Enrico who attacked him, then Enrico's whole family—including Izzy—is at risk.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and sink deeper into the soft pillow, letting my thoughts spiral, chasing every thread that led me to this strange, safe bed tonight.
