Chapter 41

*Grace POV*

When I opened my eyes, the dull light of evening streamed into the room, casting long shadows on the walls. I groaned as I tried to sit up, a wave of pain surging through my body, reminding me of every bruise, every cut, and every cruel touch Moretti’s men had left behind. It had been twenty-four hours since Elio saved me, but it felt like I was still trapped in that dingy basement, reliving the torture. My muscles screamed in protest as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

*You’re fine, Grace. Elio saved you,* I told myself, trying to quiet the panic that clawed its way up my throat every time I thought about it. The memory of their hands, the ropes biting into my wrists, the cold, hard ground beneath me—it all came rushing back in flashes, but I pushed it down, buried it deep.

I had to keep moving.

With shaky legs, I stood and slowly made my way out of the room, leaning on the walls for support. Each step was a reminder of the pain I endured. I needed something—anything—to make me feel human again. Food. That was the first thing on my mind. If I could just find Eleonor in the kitchen, maybe she could whip up something warm to chase away the lingering cold from my bones.

But as I neared the living room, I heard whispers. Eleonor's voice, quiet but firm, and someone else’s—a man, older, his voice low and gravelly, filled with authority. My curiosity piqued despite the pain, and I followed the sound, my steps slow but determined.

"The master is not at home now. You better come back tomorrow to talk to Grace," Eleonor was saying.

*Talk to me?* Who would want to talk to me?

I stepped into the doorway, the dim light casting long shadows on the faces of those inside. Eleonor stood stiffly near the entrance to the kitchen, while the man, tall and stern, stood facing her. His presence was commanding, his sharp features exuding power. And the resemblance between him and Elio was striking—there was no mistaking it. This had to be Elio’s father, Domenico.

"Speak what?" I asked, my voice hoarse and curious.

The man turned to me, his piercing eyes scrutinizing me from head to toe. His expression was unreadable at first, but then, slowly, a smirk crept across his face, full of sarcasm and disdain.

"Ah... Look at that. Grace Caruso. The traitor's daughter." His voice dripped with venom as his eyes lingered on the bruises that marred my skin. "Moretti did quite the number on you, didn’t he?" He seemed almost satisfied by my condition, as if seeing me hurt validated some twisted sense of justice.

My heart hammered in my chest, but I held his gaze. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Domenico," I said, my voice steady despite the pain radiating through my body.

Eleonor, sensing the tension, made a move to intervene, her worried eyes darting between me and Domenico. But I gave her a small shake of my head, silently telling her that it was okay. This was a confrontation I needed to face. She gave a slight nod and quietly retreated into her room.

Domenico’s cold, calculating gaze never left me. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as if he was sizing me up, searching for any sign of weakness. "The first thing I want to know," he said, his voice low but laced with authority, "is what’s going on between you and Elio?"

My heart stuttered in my chest. The way he asked the question, the way his eyes bore into mine, it was clear he wasn’t asking out of idle curiosity. This was a test, a dangerous one, and I needed to tread carefully.

"Nothing," I replied quickly, almost too quickly. "There’s nothing between us. He doesn’t want us to be anything." My voice cracked at the end, betraying the hurt I was trying to hide. I held back a pained sigh, not just from the physical pain but from the truth of my words.

Domenico’s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone dripping with suspicion. "Because I’ve never seen Elio act like this before. When Moretti kidnapped you, he was... different. He’s not the kind of man to lose control over anyone, and yet, here you are." He gestured toward me, his gaze piercing. "Bruised, beaten, and somehow still alive. You think that’s just a coincidence?"

I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. "I don’t know why he came for me. But I didn’t ask him to. And I didn’t betray him."

The last sentence came out stronger than I intended. I couldn’t let this man think I had anything to do with my father’s betrayal or Moretti’s twisted games. I may be the daughter of a traitor, but I wasn’t part of my father’s plans. I wasn’t a pawn in this game, and I needed to make sure Domenico understood that.

Domenico tilted his head slightly, as if weighing my words. "Your father is a traitor," he said, his voice colder now, more dangerous. "And by association, you’re a liability. So why should I trust anything you say?"

I bristled at his words, but I forced myself to remain calm. This was the man who raised Elio, the man who controlled the empire that Elio now ruled. I couldn’t afford to anger him, not when my life might still hang in the balance.

"I don’t expect you to trust me," I said quietly, choosing my words carefully. "But Elio saved me. He wouldn’t have done that if he thought I was a threat."

Domenico’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite place—annoyance, perhaps, or maybe even doubt. "Elio doesn’t always make the right choices," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "His judgment has been clouded before."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of his words sinking in. I felt like I was walking on a razor’s edge, one wrong step away from falling into oblivion.

Domenico finally sighed, the sound laced with frustration. "We’ll see," he said, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "I’ll be watching you, Grace Caruso. And I’ll find out the truth, one way or another."

With that, he turned and left, his presence lingering in the room long after he had gone. I stood there, my body aching, my heart racing, trying to process everything that had just happened.

Elio’s father didn’t trust me. And if I wasn’t careful, I could end up paying for my father’s sins.