Chapter 38 VOICES THROUGH THE WALL
••Luciana••
We stayed two more days at the villa.
Mildred recovered faster than anyone expected. The nurse said the bullet missed anything vital, luck doing most of the work. She complained a lot, as usual, but the color slowly returned to her face, and by the second day she was already arguing with the nurse about her food.
Roman and I existed in the same space without colliding. We spoke when necessary; short sentences, neutral tones. No edge, or warmth. It felt like two people sharing oxygen, not intimacy. Strangely, it worked. There was peace in the distance, even if it was fragile.
On the third day, we returned to Sicily.
The flight back felt heavier than the flight out. I caught myself thinking that maybe we should have stayed longer, not because the villa was safe, but because everything there felt paused, like life had pressed a temporary stop button for us.
After settling in, Roman and I retreated to our room.
I really dislike the whole unpacking process. It was a breeze loading everything into the box, but taking it all out and organizing it in the closet? That's a different story. So I just left the boxes sitting there, planning to deal with them later.
Instead, I found myself sorting through documents on the table—not because it was necessary, but just to keep my hands busy. Roman was nearby, leaning against the window with his phone, and I couldn’t help but notice how his fitted shirt showcased his broad shoulders and muscles.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
It was Theo.
“Boss,” he said, carefully gauging his tone, “your father calls for you.”
Roman didn’t reply right away. I saw his jaw tighten, that familiar expression of tension. He nodded once, then followed Theo out.
The door didn’t shut all the way, allowing me to catch snippets of their conversation.
At first, their voices were low and muffled through the walls. Even restrained, Don Lorenzo’s voice carried an undeniable weight—a sharp authority that didn’t need to be loud to demand attention.
Then I heard it rise.
“What do you mean she was shot while you were on duty?” his father barked. “Do you realize what kind of weakness this displays?
Roman's voice cut through the tension, "It was a trap. We dealt with the threat."
"You dealt with nothing," snapped Don Lorenzo. "Your sister was injured. That's a failure in itself."
I froze, caught off guard. Without thinking, I edged closer to the door, pressing my back against the wall beside it.
"You were in Sicily playing house," his father continued, his voice harsh. "Meanwhile, there were transactions looming in Russia, and you let chaos knock on your door."
"I didn’t let anything—"
“Enough,” Don Lorenzo cut him off. “Since that Princess came into your life, you’ve been distracted, and careless.”
My fingers curled into my palm.
Roman’s silence stretched, dangerous and thin.
Then he spoke again, this time sharper. “Watch your words.”
“Or what?” his father scoffed. “You want to pretend you are not slipping? Andrian would never have allowed this.”
That name hit like a slap, something broke loose.
Roman’s voice changed, heat flooding through it, words tumbling out in Russian so fast I couldn’t catch all of them, but I understood enough.
“You don’t get to say his name,” Roman snapped. “You don’t get to use him against me.”
“He was stronger,” Don Lorenzo shot back. “He understood duty. He didn’t let emotions cloud—”
“He’s dead,” Roman roared. “And you keep burying him in my shadow like a weapon.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. I held my breath without realizing it.
“You are not him,” his father said coldly. “And at this rate, you never will be.”
A loud noise echoed through the space. Perhaps it was a chair being shoved, or maybe a fist pounding against the desk.
“I’m finished with this discussion,” Roman declared. “I’ll take care of my duties in Russia. Just don’t ever compare me again.”
Heavy footsteps pounded toward the room. I barely managed to step away from the doorway before it burst open. Roman charged in, and in my ill-timed position, I collided with the edge of the door.
“Ow—!” I yelped, cradling my hand as a jolt of pain shot through my knuckles. What impeccable timing. Truly impeccable. Roman didn’t even pause to check if I was alright; he simply bypassed me and settled onto his side of the bed, reaching for a bottle of whiskey nearby that had clearly been there for ages. He poured himself a glass and lit up a cigar.
I had overheard everything—the insults and the accusations. I was at a loss for words. Offering comfort felt inappropriate, while remaining silent seemed cowardly. So, opting for the better choice, I decided to leave rather than risk saying something wrong. Just as my fingers brushed the doorknob, his voice halted me. "Please stay."
"Alright," I replied, shifting closer to him and settling on the edge of the bed, leaving a few inches of space between us.
"I apologize for overhearing your conversation. I realize I might be responsible for this."
"Shh—" he interrupted gently. "Just be quiet for a moment."
"Then why am I here?" I questioned.
"Because this room feels better with you here," he said with a smile. "I didn't notice you there; did I hurt you?" he asked softly.
"It's nothing," I replied nonchalantly. Although it is something, and the pain lingers, I just chose not be that boss bitch for this moment.