After Five Years of PTSD, The Don Heir Begged Me Back

This was the man who had sent for me from the convent. The man who'd made sure I got hot food every day.

I should have been grateful to him.

But five years was enough.

And Bianca was back now.

"Don," I said, "I want a divorce. Bianca's home now."

He was pouring himself a whiskey. His hand stilled when I spoke. A few drops splashed onto the desk.

"Dario isn't well. You know how difficult he is. Do you really think a girl like Bianca can take care of him?"

"And where would you go, leaving the Vellari Famiglia?"

"The Salvatores won't take you in. You're not their daughter." His tone was flat. "Back to the convent? You think they'd have you? They'd just sell you again. To someone older than Dario. Madder. Uglier."

I opened my mouth to speak.

He waved a hand at me, the way you wave at a fly.

"You have no use outside of taking care of Dario." His eyes held nothing extra in them. "Even if he never loves you in this life — don't think you're walking out that door. This is your fate. And besides — even if you wanted out, you'd never survive the Famiglia tribunal." He paused. "In families like ours, divorce isn't one person's decision."

I stood at the edge of his enormous desk for a long time.

The old Don said nothing more. He turned to the papers on his desk and pretended I wasn't there.

I walked out of his study.

Outside, the sun was harsh. The stone steps were hot to the touch. The air was thick and heavy.

Like the five years that had trapped me here.

I would leave.

I made the promise to myself.

—

Dario spent every day with Bianca now. Days had passed. No one mentioned when she would go. The household had quietly begun to treat her like the lady of the house.

And yet — out of habit, maybe — Dario still wouldn't let me out of his sight.

Once, I just went to the garden to clip rosemary for soup. Dario couldn't find me in the house. He came outside with a gun in his hand.

There was a flat cruelty under his cold expression.

"Next time I — can't see you, I'll just shoot."

But too close was wrong, too.

Once, I lost my balance and fell against him. He immediately said I smelled. That the sight of me disgusted him.

Then there was the day his gun went off by accident. I hadn't moved away in time.

A scalding pain shot through my upper right arm. Blood ran down my elbow.

I froze. I didn't scream. I didn't move.

Dario shot up from the couch, hurried to me, his face urgent. "How did you — get hit? Who told you to stand there?"

His hands shook so badly opening the first-aid kit that he couldn't get the latches the first few tries. Once it was open, he wrapped the gauze around my arm too tightly and too fast. I sucked in a sharp breath at the pain.

He must have noticed. His hands gentled.

"How are you — this useless?" His voice was shaking too. "You can't do anything right. You make a mess of my life. I hate you."

"Dario," I said softly. "If I left — would you be a little happier?"

He froze.

A long silence.

Then: "Of course I would. Too bad you can't leave. You're going to be a parasite on the Vellari Famiglia for the rest of your life."

The family physician arrived and cleaned the wound.

Dario looked visibly relieved. But what came out of his mouth was: "Good thing it didn't ruin my dinner with Bianca. That place won't even hold a reservation for me."

It really was time for us to be over.

I watched him walk away. I went numbly back to my room and lay on the bed, scrolling through my phone. Then I saw it: a Catholic boarding school in Naples was hiring.

I opened my email and started a new résumé. In the box for the name, I didn't write Sophie. I wrote the name I had almost forgotten.

Lia.

It was the name I had before the convent.

By the time the résumé was done, the sky outside was completely dark. I checked it once. Then I sent it.

Application review took seven days.

I closed my eyes.

Seven days.

Almost.

A new life. Coming.

I couldn't sleep that night. I lay in bed and watched the ceiling until morning.

Dario had wrapped my arm clumsily. The gauze was wound too tight. My fingertips had gone numb.

I didn't unwrap it.

It was one of the few things he had ever given me.