Chapter 14 Shut out
The days after the cemetery visit blurred into a cold, gray haze.
I stopped talking.
Not dramatically. Not with slammed doors or shouted ultimatums. Just… silence.
I moved through the estate like a ghost—eating alone in my room, walking the halls at odd hours, staring out windows at the endless snow. When Dante knocked, I didn’t answer. When Maria left trays outside my door, I took them in without a word. When Sophia tried to catch me in the foyer with her bright “Hey, Liliana!” and that polished smile, I walked past her like she was air.
I didn’t care anymore.
The hurt had hardened into something quieter, sharper. A dull ache that settled in my chest and refused to leave. Last night had been real to me—every touch, every whispered promise. To him? Apparently just another secret to keep. Another complication. Another thing he could explain away later.
So I stopped caring what he explained.
I stopped caring what Sophia thought.
I stopped caring about the Rossi threats, the doubled guards, the locked gates. None of it mattered when the person who was supposed to protect me had already broken the one thing I couldn’t get back.
My trust.
My heart.
My body—still tender in places that reminded me every time I moved.
I spent most of my time in the library now. Dad’s old desk, leather-bound books, the faint smell of aged paper and cigar smoke that still lingered in the shelves. I’d sit there for hours, flipping through art history textbooks I’d brought from college, staring at paintings I used to love. Monet’s water lilies. Van Gogh’s starry nights. They used to make me feel alive. Now they just reminded me how trapped I was.
One afternoon—maybe the fourth or fifth day of silence—Dante came in.
He didn’t knock this time. Just stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
I didn’t look up from the book in my lap.
He stood there for a long moment. I could feel his eyes on me—intense, searching, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.
“Liliana.”
No answer.
He took a step closer. “We can’t keep doing this.”
Still nothing.
He exhaled—rough, frustrated. “You’re shutting me out. I get it. I deserve it. But you have to eat. You have to talk. You can’t just—”
I closed the book with a soft snap.
Finally looked at him.
His hair was longer now, unkempt. Shadows under his eyes deeper. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly since the morning Sophia walked in. Good.
“I want to go back to the USA,” I said.
My voice was calm. Flat. Like I was reading from a script.
He blinked. “What?”
“I’m tired of Italy.” I set the book on the desk. “Tired of this house. Tired of the guards. Tired of being watched every second. Tired of you.”
The last word landed heavy.
He flinched—just barely—but I saw it.
“I’ll be safe there,” I continued. “No Rossi family. No old grudges. No one knows who I am in the States. I can walk down the street. Go to a café. Take a class. Live like a normal human being for once.”
He stepped closer. “Liliana, it’s not that simple—”
“It is that simple.” My voice stayed even. “I graduated top of my class. Art history. I didn’t do that just to sit in a gilded cage and waste away. I have dreams. A life. Friends. A future that doesn’t involve being your little sister or your secret fuck or whatever I am to you.”
His jaw clenched. “You’re not—”
“I’m done,” I said quietly. “I’m done pretending this is home. I’m done pretending you see me as anything more than a responsibility you inherited from my father.”
He looked like I’d punched him.
I stood up. “I’ll book a flight myself if I have to. But I’m going. And I’m going alone.”
Silence stretched between us—thick, suffocating.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You think running to the States fixes this? Fixes us?”
“There is no us.” The words tasted like ash. “There never was. You made that clear the second Sophia walked in and called me your little sister. And you didn’t correct her.”
“I told you—”
“You told me it was fake. A cover. An informant.” I met his gaze without flinching. “But you still let her say it. You still let her touch you. You still let her believe I was nothing more than family. That’s not fake, Dante. That’s choice.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
I kept going—calm, relentless. “I waited for you. For years. I kept myself for you. I told myself the distance, the rules, the protection—it was all because you cared too much. Because you were scared of losing me like you lost my father. But the truth? You cared enough to protect me, but not enough to claim me. Not in front of the world. Not in front of her.”
His hands fisted at his sides. “That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her?” My voice cracked—just once. “Why didn’t you say, ‘She’s not my sister. She’s mine.’?”
He didn’t answer.
Because there was no answer.
I turned away. Walked to the window. Stared at the snow-covered grounds.
“I’m leaving,” I said again. “In a week. Maybe less. I’ll use my own money. My own passport. I’ll disappear if I have to. But I’m not staying here to watch you play house with Sophia or anyone else.”
He took a step toward me. “Liliana, please—”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand without turning around. “Don’t beg. Don’t explain. Don’t promise. I’m tired of promises.”
Silence again.
Then his voice—quiet, broken. “If you go… I can’t protect you.”
I laughed—soft, hollow. “You never could. Not really. You can’t protect me from this.”
I finally looked at him.
His face was pale. Eyes glassy. The powerful, untouchable mafia boss looked… lost.
“I love you,” he said. Barely above a whisper. “I’ve loved you since the day I walked into this house. Maybe longer. And I fucked it up. I know that. But if you leave—”
“I have to,” I said simply. “Because staying means pretending I’m okay with being your secret. Your responsibility. Your little sister when no one’s looking. I’m not okay with that.”
He swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”
“I wanted you to choose me.” My voice cracked again. “Out loud. In front of everyone. Without hesitation. But you didn’t.”
I walked past him—close enough that our arms brushed.
He didn’t reach for me.
I went upstairs. Packed a small bag—clothes, passport, laptop, the few things that still felt like mine.
Downstairs, I heard him on the phone—low, urgent, talking to Marco about flights, security details, private jets. Trying to control the uncontrollable.
I didn’t care.
I sat on the edge of my bed—our bed, once—and stared at the wall.
The snow kept falling outside.
The house stayed quiet.
And for the first time since I came home, I felt something like peace.
Not happiness.
Not relief.
Just… the beginning of letting go.
Because sometimes love isn’t enough.
Sometimes it’s the thing that hurts the most.
And I was done hurting.