Chapter 9

Aurora

The room is quiet, and the air feels thick with grief. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, but they keep coming, slow, steady rivers of heartbreak. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to move. My body feels like it’s not mine anymore.

Damiano is still sitting beside me. He hasn’t said anything.

I finally glance at him through blurry eyes. His features are stoic as always, but there’s something in his expression, something unreadable and quiet. A tightness in his jaw, a subtle crease between his brows.

“Why does it feel like I’m alone even when you’re here?” I whisper hoarsely.

He doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re not alone.”

I scoff, but it sounds more like a broken breath. “I am. My mother is dead. I’m stuck in a house that doesn’t feel like mine. You own me, remember? Not exactly the kind of comfort I’m looking for.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I didn’t tell them to call you. But I made sure you got to her before it was too late.”

I stare at him. “It was too late.”

He presses his lips together. “Then let me make sure the funeral isn’t.”

I blink, stunned. “What?”

“I already arranged everything,” he says simply. “The funeral home. The flowers. The casket. A priest. Everything will be handled with respect.”

“You did that?”

He nods once. “She was your mother. She deserves it.”

For a second, I don’t know what to say. I want to hate him. I want to scream at him for locking me in this life. But there’s this strange part of me, small and unsteady, that’s thankful. That someone thought far enough ahead when I couldn’t think at all.

“Thank you,” I say, voice trembling.

He stands and adjusts his cuffs, suddenly businesslike again. “It’s tomorrow morning. I’ll take you.”

I want to protest. I want to say I can go alone. But deep down, I know I don’t have the strength for that.

“Wear black,” he adds before leaving the room. “And if you cry, cry. No one will stop you.”

The Next Morning

I stand in front of the mirror in a black dress Damiano had his assistant bring me. My eyes are swollen from crying, but I don’t care. I pin my hair up, wear no makeup. Grief doesn’t leave space for vanity.

Damiano is already waiting by the car when I come down. He’s in another black suit, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He opens the door for me without a word.

The ride to the cemetery is quiet. Vincent drives. No music plays. Just the sound of tires against pavement and the silence of mourning.

The funeral is small. Just a few nurses from the clinic, an old friend of my mother’s, The Rizzoto and me. I stand in front of her casket, fingers trembling as I place a single white rose on it.

Damiano stands behind me the entire time. Not touching, not speaking. Just there.

When it’s all over, when the last clump of dirt falls onto her grave, I fall to my knees. I can’t keep it in. My shoulders shake as I cry into my hands.

That’s when Damiano steps forward. Without a word, he lowers beside me and pulls me gently into his chest.

I let him.

I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t want to be alone. Maybe because part of me still remembers the man who held my hand at my worst. Or maybe… because grief breaks even the strongest walls.

“I miss her,” I whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs against my hair. “I know, amore mio.”

The car ride back from the cemetery is almost unbearable.

I stare out the window, numb, my hands twisted tightly in my lap. The ache in my chest is constant—like something hollowed me out from the inside. I don’t speak, not until we’re back at the house, and I’m sitting alone at the kitchen island, the untouched tea in front of me now cold.

Damiano enters the kitchen in silence. He watches me for a few seconds before pouring himself a glass of water. I don’t look at him when I speak.

“He didn’t cry.”

Damiano pauses mid-sip. “Who?”

“My stepfather,” I say, finally turning to face him. “Luca. He didn’t even shed a single tear. He never came to the hospital. Not once. Not when she was unconscious. Not when she was dying. Nothing.”

My voice cracks. “And now she’s gone. And he’s probably out there somewhere—drinking, playing power games, living like it means nothing.”

Damiano leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “He doesn’t grieve like you do.”

“He doesn’t grieve at all,” I snap, a tear rolling down my cheek. “She married him after my father died. She tried to be a good wife. She raised me with what little love she had left, and he didn’t care. He never cared.”

There’s a beat of silence. Damiano doesn’t say anything, but his jaw clenches.

I push my tea away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You’re not exactly the symbol of comfort.”

“No,” he says quietly. “But I listen. Even when you don’t want me to.”

I exhale sharply, folding my arms over my chest. “She deserved more. From him. From the world.”

“You’re right,” he says. “She did.”

I glance up at him then, surprised by the softness in his voice. And for a moment, there’s no mafia, no contracts, no threats. Just two people bound by loss, grief hanging in the air between them like fog.

“Whatever you think of me,” Damiano continues, “I won’t let him touch you again. Or use you. Or silence you.”

I stare at him. “Why do you care?”

His expression hardens again. “Because you’re mine. And because for what it’s worth… I know what it means to lose a mother you never had the chance to protect.”

The words hit deeper than I expect. I don’t say anything.

But I don’t walk away either.