VI. Unwanted child

As I head back to the secondary house, I notice that every Onorato drops their gaze and looks at the ground, giving a quick nod of respect. To an outsider, it seems like I’m above them. But the truth is, I wasn’t even recognized as one of them.

When I first arrived on this estate, I was just a fifteen-year-old girl holding her dreamy, love-struck, and hopelessly dazzled mother’s hand. Since then, I’ve been nothing more than an inconvenience—pushed aside when the funeral ended and dumped onto the secondary family like a leftover responsibility.

Salvatore had just taken over the blood operations of the Famiglia. He didn’t have time to worry about the daughter of one of his deceased father’s women, especially one who had arrived so recently. Still, he used to be kind, in his own way. He still is, actually. His rule isn’t built on fear—that part belongs to Cesare.

The Don is just empathetic enough. Fair, but with eyes that cut too deep, like they can strip the truth straight out of your soul without a word. He has a presence that makes a room feel smaller, more intimate, even when it’s filled with armed men. He doesn’t demand respect; he inspires it.

And in our world, that’s infinitely more dangerous.

Back then, I didn’t fully understand who was who, who gave the orders, and why. I only heard names whispered behind half-closed doors, those hushed voices thick with either reverence or fear, but I learned the difference quickly.

Salvatore made the decisions.

But Cesare carried them out.

And in the space between them, no one quite knew what to do with me.

So, I was handed off to Zio Arturo, the younger brother of the man who was supposed to become my stepfather, and to his wife, Zia Nora. But I never once felt like part of a family.

Not in any sense of the word.

I was banned from entering the main house and from seeing or speaking to the heirs. My very existence here felt like a rumor, something few had seen firsthand, just whispered about but never confirmed.

Until that day, two years ago.

Until I saw the blood—

“Marina.” The unmistakable voice of Damiano pulls me from dangerous memories that twist my stomach.

I turn toward him, noticing he’s already close enough that I can see the small dimples in his easy smile, and how his lean but toned muscles stretch beneath his shirt.

Two more steps, and he’s right in front of me, reaching out with a hand, his fingers brushing gently against my cheek. A light touch, almost reverent—one that could carry tenderness, if it weren’t for the way he looks at me. Darkly. Clouded.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, soft and velvety, but roughened with something I’ve never dared look at too closely. “You know you’re supposed to stay inside your room. You can’t worry me like this.”

I slide away with a grace honed by years of practice, flashing him a charming smile that eases the tension on his face.

“You worry too much, Damio,” I say, keeping my tone light, as if there aren’t any hidden barbs in those words. “I just went for a walk… it gets stifling inside those walls sometimes.”

Damiano’s eyes darken slightly. I know he hates it when I give vague answers, but he isn’t the type to raise his voice. He always stays on the edge, with sweet words and gentle gestures hiding meticulous, possessive control, all behind his protector’s mask.

Maybe because we’re close in age, only three years apart, he was assigned to watch over me by Don Salvatore himself. And even though he’s a Romano, from the secondary family, but still a Romano, that wasn’t an order he could refuse, even if, at first, he clearly resented it.

Back then, he was too young to be involved in the business or get his hands bloody, even though he was desperate to prove his worth. I think, in some way, he saw me as that opportunity. Maybe that’s what made his attention, control, and watchfulness… become suffocating.

“But it’s not safe out here,” he insists quietly, eyes scanning the area around us. “It’s full of dogs… vulgar ones.”

“Better not let Matteo hear you say that. He takes pride in the title,” I shrug, trying to keep my tone playful. But my words bother him. Or maybe it’s just the way his cousin’s name rolls off my tongue that makes his eyes narrow like that.

“You saw him?” Damiano grips my shoulder. At first glance, it might look like an innocent touch. But his fingers press down just a beat too long to seem casual. “Were you meeting with him? Is that it?”

“You’re not my babysitter anymore, Damio. You lost that title the moment Cesare suddenly decided I was important.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Damiano’s grip tightens, voice dropping several tones lower. “I’m working on that.”

“Working on what, exactly?” I ask, even knowing how dangerous it is to provoke a Romano, no matter where they fall on the family tree.

Damiano looks at me like he’s making a decision, and I’m not sure I want to know what he picks. His fingers relax for a moment, then press down again, this time on purpose and calculated, like he wants to remind me he still holds some power over me.

“You’re mine, Marina. To protect. To keep safe.” His thumb traces my exposed collarbone. “I’ve been taking care of you for nearly five years. That’s not something you just walk away from.”

“And you’ve done a wonderful job,” I retort, sarcasm slipping into my voice, even though it comes out quieter than I intended. “Just look at me now… so well-behaved.”

He smiles, but it’s the kind that never touches his eyes.

“…But we both follow orders. We don’t give them.” I add, slipping his hand off me with a slow, soft gesture; one too delicate to be a threat, but with just enough bitter rejection for him to taste in silence. “The order’s been revoked. You’re not my protector anymore.”

The silence that forms between us isn’t comfortable. But I’m used to this kind of silence that scrapes against your skin and claws at the bone. A silence full of everything that can’t be said aloud, and thick with everything he should’ve never let grow inside himself.

“For now.”

Those two words, whispered from Damiano’s lips, hit like a punch to the chest. They steal the air, leaving behind nothing but a sudden, sickening unease.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, carefully, though I already know he won’t give me a real answer. At least, not one that satisfies.

Damiano tilts his head slightly, considering the question, but his gaze never wavers. It stays fixed on mine—dark, intense, like it could pierce straight through me.

“It means everything has its time, Marina,” he says, almost a whisper, but the weight of his words doesn’t match the softness of his tone. “And ours… isn’t over yet.”

The possessiveness tucked into Damiano’s smile knots my stomach tighter than even Cesare could manage.

“Go back to the secondary house, cara.” He touches my face again, dragging the knuckle of his index finger along my cheekbone. “This place isn’t for you.”

I don’t argue.

For the first time in years, we agree on something.

I take a step back, hold his gaze for a long moment before finally turning and walking toward the house, each step measured, each breath carefully controlled. Just like I’ve learned I must do to survive.

Because even if the main family never acknowledged me…

That never kept the cruel eyes of others from noticing me in the shadows.