Chapter 5 The Weight of Control

Lizzie Foster

The shotgun weighs on my arm, but not enough to make me stop. I’ve spent the entire morning doing this. Shot after shot, trying to ease my irritation the only way I know how: sharpening my aim.

Training alone has become a release valve. A way to steady my mind when anxiety starts to consume me.

I’m irritated because Salvatore canceled my fiancé’s visit, as if he had the right. It’s already bad enough that he’s my guardian—I don’t want him ordering me around, much less making decisions for me.

I aim at the clay disk launched into the air by the machine and fire. The crack of the shot echoes through the garden. One of Salvatore’s men already came to tell me he’s on his way, as if it were a warning disguised as courtesy. As if I should stop my “fun” just because the master of the house is coming back.

As if they forget this house is mine.

Time seems to move slower as I keep the gun raised, forcing the next shot with determination.

I hear the gates of the mansion open. An armored car rolls in, followed by two others. I don’t need to think much about it—it’s Salvatore.

The soldiers get out first. He comes right after them. I try not to look… but it’s inevitable. There’s something different about him. He seems pale, worn down. Not the same impenetrable man as always.

The moment he steps past the rosebushes, I see him more clearly: he’s wearing a black sweatshirt, which is unusual for him, since he almost never abandons his suits.

"Practicing, Lizzie?" he asks, arching a brow as he approaches, stopping just a few steps away from me.

The launching machine is switched off by Elijah, the trusted man who works for Salvatore like a shadow. He’s always nearby—whether I’m going shopping or meeting Scarlett. It’s as if he breathes for Salvatore.

"Tell him to turn the machine back on," I say, keeping my tone polite.

"I heard you spent the whole morning out here. It’s almost late… you’d better go inside and eat something."

I wrinkle my nose, annoyed.

"You’re making decisions for me, Salvatore, and I don’t like it. What right do you think you have to cancel my meeting with Damien?"

"I thought it would be better to postpone it," he answers cautiously. "I wouldn’t have been here."

"But your men would have been." I point the shotgun at him. "Or do you not trust them enough?"

"Don’t build an invisible bridge, Lizzie," he says sharply. "I didn’t forbid you from seeing him. I only postponed the visit."

His fingers slide with precise ease along the barrel of my shotgun before he pushes it aside.

"Where were you?" I demand, making no effort to hide the coldness in my voice. His absence, after all, doesn’t affect me as much as he ربما thinks it does.

"Taking care of something for a friend," he replies, laconic.

"Your friend from Italy?" I ask, remembering what my father used to say about Salvatore growing up far away, only becoming close to the Beaumont family years later.

"Yes," he confirms with a slight nod.

"I want to see Damien," I declare. "Now that you’re back, you can let him know he’s allowed to visit me."

He slowly shakes his head, his brown gaze narrowing.

"Give me some time, Lizzie. I just got back. I need to rest for a few hours."

I rest the shotgun on my shoulder.

"You’re doing this on purpose!"

"I’m only looking after your safety, girl."

"You were never around, remember?" I shoot back, feeling my anger rise like wildfire. "So don’t come pretending to be the good man now just because my father isn’t here anymore. I’m not your responsibility, Salvatore."

"Yes, you are." He growls the words. "Start behaving yourself. Stop acting like a spoiled brat."

I feel the invisible slap strike my face. He really sees me that way… as spoiled?

"You don’t know me," I say, pointing a finger at him.

For a moment, I swear I see him press a hand to his abdomen, his face twisting in pain.

"Sir…" Elijah steps forward, concerned, but Salvatore dismisses him with a harsh gesture.

"We’ll talk at dinner, Lizzie. Right now, I need to rest."

He turns and walks away, leaving silence in his wake.

What’s wrong with him?

---

Living with Salvatore has been brief, but long enough for me to grow used to how rigid he is about mealtimes. When I’m alone, I rarely eat at the table. But when he’s around, I have to follow every rule of etiquette: dress properly, sit with perfect posture, be polite and accommodating.

Besides shooting, I also use my hands to play the piano. Music is a hobby. What truly enchants me is the idea of taking care of a home, of having children, of being a wife. I know how that sounds. I know what people say—that we shouldn’t build our dreams around men, fairy tales, or promises. But I’m a mafia princess. My fate was always clear: marry someone influential, preserve the bloodline, uphold the structure.

I wait for Salvatore to finish his meal—roast turkey, stuffing with cranberry sauce.

He seems better now. The rigid edges of his features have softened, and some color has returned to his face. His eyes, a striking golden brown, study me beneath thick, serious brows.

"I know you want to talk…" he says, without offering a smile. "So go ahead."

Beneath the table, my feet won’t stop moving, an involuntary gesture that gives away my nerves. It’s one of my tells: restless feet, sweaty hands. I’m incapable of hiding what I feel; my emotions spill out of me like clear water running down the sides of a glass.

"There isn’t much time left before the wedding…" I say, trying to sound casual. "I think I’m just a little excited."

He looks at me for a second longer than necessary.

"Is this really what you want, Lizzie?"

It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice carry genuine seriousness.

"Marriage? Yes. It’s my dream. It may seem small, even silly, but it’s mine. A white dress, a veil, a bouquet of roses… weddings are beautiful." I try to put it into the best words I can.

The man isn’t satisfied with my answer.

"What I’m asking," he says, clearing his throat, "is whether you truly want this wedding, or if you just want to get married to fulfill a duty."

His words crack through the air. His hands come to rest on the table. I meet his cold, unreadable expression and feel truly exposed.

"I do want it. Of course I do. My father wanted me to get married too, and even though he’s not here anymore, I want to honor the plans he made for my future." I pause briefly before continuing, trying to keep my voice steady. "Either way, I’m going to end up married, so I’m relieved it’s to someone he chose."

Salvatore watches me carefully, weighing every word.

"You’re right—you’ll have to get married one way or another. It’s going to happen, unless you decide to become a nun. But I don’t think Damien is the best option for you. If you want, we can choose another man."

I shake my head immediately, without hesitation.

My father chose Damien. I won’t disrespect his decision. Besides, we know each other. We care about each other.

"We know each other. My father was a wise man, Salvatore. He would never make a mistake when choosing a husband for me." My voice comes out more fragile than I’d like.

"Maybe he just wanted you to be happy, Lizzie. Finding you a husband became more of a necessity than a wish for him. Tell me—did your father ever deny you anything?"

I search for an answer, forcing my mind to remember a single occasion. But I find nothing.

"No," I whisper.

"There’s still time, if you want to back out," he offers.

I know canceling this wedding would cost blood. Broken agreements never end peacefully. The tribunal decided my marriage alongside my father, and I understand the weight of going against what was settled.

Salvatore knows it too—so why would he be willing to get blood on his hands for the daughter of a friend he always seemed to disdain?

"I want to get married. I’m not backing out."

His hard expression doesn’t change. I hold his gaze, studying his eyes carefully, and I understand the dynamic between us with perfect clarity.

"You’re making a mistake."

He’s an older man, serious, imprisoned by his own rules.

Methodical to the bone—I know that much. He always wears the same watch on his wrist. He’s obsessed with organization. His office—which actually belonged to my father—is impeccably clean, as if it were a sanctuary. He occupies it as though it were his, with the same rigidity he brings into every place he steps into.

And his clothes… always white shirts, starched, perfectly pressed. Everything about him is programmed, precise, flawless, leaving no room for mistakes.

Salvatore is a man without visible cracks, and maybe that’s why he’s so hard to reach. So hard to know what he feels, or what he thinks.

I’m still hurt by what he said to me earlier. Calling me spoiled…

The fact that my father was good to me doesn’t give him the right to put that label on me. I’m not a girl who doesn’t know how to value things. I’m not stubborn like a child, and I want to be treated like someone my age—someone capable of making her own decisions.

I’m alone in the world. No mother. No father. If he knew how many nights I spend crying with my face buried in my pillow, he would pity me. Maybe he would understand that this frivolous appearance I wear is armor. It’s all I have left to hide everything that’s happening inside me.

When my father found out he had lung cancer, it was already too late. It had progressed too far.

From that moment on, I became more protective, more present. I handled his medicine, his meals, massaged his feet… I did everything, anything, just to spend more time with him. It still hurts to remember his final days.

I take a deep breath, look away from my guardian, and stare down at my hands clasped over the fabric of my blue dress.

"You called me spoiled…" I begin, keeping my voice under control. "Maybe you got the wrong impression of me, but I won’t accept that judgment. Not from you. You’ve only been living with me for a few months and think you know me."

"I know you. Of course I know you. I used to see you in the hallways every time I came to your lessons with your father… I know you far better than you can imagine." He sighs and continues. "I expressed myself badly. I’m sorry. I’d just arrived, and my head was full."

"Are you apologizing to me?" I ask, with a hint of provocation.

"I said I expressed myself badly, but I can’t take back what I said. Words hurt, and once they’re spoken, there’s no going back."

One of his beautiful old-fashioned lines. I roll my eyes discreetly.

Dessert is still on the table—a flan. I serve myself a little onto my plate. But before I can even taste it, he changes the subject.

"I’ll arrange your meeting with Damien for two days from now. Does that work for you?"

My eyes lift from the dessert to him. I bet he can see the light that suddenly appears in my brown eyes.

"Yes, that’s perfect." I smile and nod lightly.

But when my gaze settles more fully on him, I notice a stain on his shirt.

A red stain.

Blood.

"Salvatore… are you bleeding?" I ask, alarmed.

Without thinking, I push my plate aside and get up from the table, walking toward him. Before I realize it, my hand is already pressed against the stained fabric of his shirt.

"It’s nothing," he says, trying to downplay it.

"Nothing?" I repeat, incredulous. "What happened on your trip to Italy? This looks serious, Salvatore."

He takes my hand and gently removes it from his shirt, without any aggression. Then he rises from his chair.

With him standing, I feel small. I’m five foot seven, but beside him I look like a handbag charm. He’s well over six and a half feet tall, a giant compared to me, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and an imposing presence that would intimidate anyone…

"I was shot, but it’s been taken care of," he says coldly, stepping back as if my touch bothers him.

A gunshot wound.

That was it. Earlier in the garden, he’d had that worn expression, trying to hide the pain.

"It’s been taken care of?" I ask, frowning. "Salvatore… there’s blood on your shirt."

"The bandage probably needs to be changed," he admits.

"Then come on, I’ll help you," I say, already turning to lead the way.

"What?" His whole body stiffens. "No. Absolutely not."

"My father was shot too, more than once. And I took care of him every time. I’m a good nurse," I tell him.

"I can manage changing a bandage, Lizzie. I’m not an invalid."

The way he says it pulls half a smile from me.

"Stubborn. You and my father were the same in that."

I’m not trying to help him because I like him, or because there’s any affection between us. I’m doing it because, aside from the staff, he’s the only company I have, and I’m not ungrateful enough to ignore that.

He’s a human being, and he must be in pain.

"Stay here, then. I’ll go get what I need to change the dressing," I say, turning to leave the dining room.

Salvatore doesn’t argue, and if he tried, it wouldn’t matter.

I head upstairs, where I know there’s a small first-aid cabinet in the guest room. I grab gauze, antiseptic, saline, healing ointment, and a small pair of scissors. I place everything on a tray and hurry back before he changes his mind.

When I return, I find him exactly where I left him, except now he’s sitting, his head slightly lowered. As soon as he notices me, he lifts his gaze.

"I can do this myself. It’s really not necessary," he murmurs.

"I’m not doing it for you," I reply. "I’m doing it for my father, who valued your friendship very much."

He lets out a restrained sigh and, reluctantly, starts unbuttoning his shirt.

He’s stubborn? Fine. I’m worse.

But the air leaves my lungs when the shirt starts to open. I’d expected to find the wrinkled, hairy stomach of a man over thirty.

Instead, I’m met with a defined abdomen, firm skin, visible muscles, and faint lines disappearing down the center of his torso. My eyes linger far too long, and I only realize it when my own embarrassment forces me to look away.

I’ve never seen a man like this… shirtless. It’s new to me.

I shake my head, pushing away the foolish thoughts, and focus on what matters.

The bandage is stuck to the side of his chest, soaked through with red.

I begin peeling it away with my hands. Blood doesn’t disgust me—I’m already used to this sort of thing. In fact, I think it’s something natural.

Salvatore winces.

"Does it hurt?"

"The painkiller I took seems to be wearing off."

I continue. There are stitches. His skin has been sewn back together, and once it heals, it’ll leave a very ugly scar.

"How did this happen? How did you get shot?" I can’t contain my curiosity.

"I was protecting someone, but we walked into an ambush."

"A woman?" I don’t know why, but the question slips out before I can stop it.

"Yes. My friend’s wife."

"Hm… But is she okay?"

"She is," he says simply.

I don’t realize how close I am. He’s sitting, and I’m bent over to reach him. I can smell him—strong, striking, different from what I’m used to with Damien. It’s an intense cologne, very pleasant.

His breathing brushes against my hair. His chest rises and falls, calm and steady. The shirt still covers his shoulders, but I can see part of the tattoo on his arm. I know every member of the Beaumont family has one. Scarlett once showed me hers, the one on her thigh.

There’s something strange between us. Sinister, maybe. He may not feel it, but I do. I’ve never felt anything like this before—not even with my fiancé. The hairs on my arms rise, and my breathing falters, as if my lungs are at war with themselves.

I blink.

What was that inside me?

When I’m done, I pull away quickly.

I don’t understand what’s happening to my body right now. It’s hot… too hot. Is it because he’s shirtless? I don’t know. I honestly have no idea.

He’s attractive for a man his age. His appearance is well kept, just like the rest of his body—or at least the part of it I was able to see. But then again, that’s the bare minimum for someone like Salvatore. As controlling as he is, of course he would keep his body in shape too.

I straighten my posture, trying to regain control.

"If you need help changing the bandage again, I can help," I offer, only out of politeness.

"I won’t need it," he replies curtly. His tone is hard. Distant. Cold. Made of steel.

"It wouldn’t kill you to say thank you," I tease, lifting a brow.

I think I see something at the corner of his mouth… the faintest trace of a smile. He never truly smiles; when he does, it’s out of sarcasm, never lightness.

"Thank you, Lizzie."

Salvatore says my name. Not in the usual way—he drags out the syllables, turning my name beautiful in his voice.

"Good night," I say, turning my back to him.

"Good night," I hear him reply softly.