She wouldn't want to see me
She wouldn't want to see me
~ VITTORIO'S POV ~
Now she’s here, safe with me.
At least for now.
Still, the mastermind is out there. And until he’s caught, she’ll remain here under my roof where no one dares cross the gates without facing my wrath.
I sink into the couch in the living hall, a rare gesture. I don’t sit here often, too exposed, too domestic. This part of the house belongs to Elena more than to me. She spends her evenings here, reading or painting, while I bury myself in business behind locked doors. Over time, I’ve learned to avoid this place, because whenever she sees me here, she retreats to her room like a bird fleeing from the shadow of a hawk.
I chose to leave her this space, thinking it might bring her comfort. But nothing I do ever seems enough.
She still despises my decision to keep her home instead of letting her stay at the hostel near her college. I couldn’t allow it. Too many dangers, too many unknowns. My enemies would salivate at such an opportunity. She argued for weeks, raged even, but I remained firm. My stubbornness became her prison, and her prison made her hate me.
Honestly, everything I do for her safety and benefit ends up backfiring. Every wall I build to protect her turns into a barrier between us.
“Cumpà,” Giovanni’s voice cuts into my thoughts as he steps into the hall.
I look up, my face softening at the sight of my oldest friend. “You’re here.”
“I thought it better to see Elena,” he replies, walking toward me with that unhurried stride of his.
We clasp hands, then hug lightly, shoulder to shoulder, a gesture that’s half-brotherhood, half-duty.
“Where is she?” he asks without delay.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” I admit.
Giovanni frowns, his lips twisting with annoyance. “You’re not even making things any better.”
I arch a brow. “How so?”
He leans against the armrest, eyes narrowing. “You’re not going to her as a father. Instead, you show up as Vittorio Caruso, Il Re Senza Pietà. The King Without Mercy.”
I breathe slowly, his words piercing more than I’d like. “Well, I am both. You know this.”
“That’s not what she needs,” he snaps. “You’ve spent years cultivating fear and respect in the world, but in her eyes, that same fear drives her away. You’ve tried talking, yes, but not as her father. Not as a man willing to bend for her. You still reason with her as if she were a soldier in your command.”
I clench my jaw. He’s not wrong, but it’s not that simple.
Claire enters then, carrying a tray of biscuits and orange juice. Her movements are quiet, precise, the way I trained my staff to be. She sets the tray on the glass table between us and waits.
Giovanni doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’ll have to make her see you as her father once more. She’s wounded, Vittorio. Not by bullets, not by blades, but by you. You’ve hurt her, maybe unknowingly, but that pain is real. And only you can mend it.”
A heavy breath escapes me, one I didn’t intend to release so loudly. The truth is, when it comes to Elena, I am weak. She is the only chink in my armor, the only one who can unmake me with a look, a word, or her silence.
And lately, her silence is all I get.
I don’t know what to do anymore,” I confess, my voice low, almost breaking. “Every move I make only pushes her farther. I fear one day she’ll leave, and I’ll have nothing left but regret.
“What can I do, Giovanni?” My whisper feels heavier than a shout.
“Let her see reasons that you still care,” he answers firmly. “Not with guards, not with locked gates, not with the empire you’ve built. With you. She needs to see the man behind the name.”
I run a hand over my face, exhaling again, my uncertainty too obvious to hide.
“Claire,” Giovanni calls suddenly, just as she turns to leave.
She stops. “Yes, sir?”
“Where’s Elena?” he asks.
“She’s in the garden, sir,” Claire replies softly.
I wave her away with a flick of my hand. She bows lightly and disappears as quietly as she entered.
Giovanni straightens, determination written all over his face. “Well, let’s go see her.”
I shake my head. “She’ll be happy to see you, not me.”
He shoots me a glare, sharp enough to cut stone. “That’s exactly why you need to be there.”
I sigh, rising reluctantly from the couch. My legs carry me beside him as we stride toward the garden.
The hallways stretch long, filled with oil paintings of forefathers and Capos who built this empire. Their gazes follow me, stern and accusing. For all their victories, none of them had to face what I’m facing now, being a father to a daughter who sees me as a murderer.
“Has the culprit been caught?” Giovanni asks as we push through the double doors that lead outside.
The afternoon air greets us, cool and fragrant with jasmine. The faint sound of the fountain trickles in the distance.
“No,” I reply with a clipped tone. “Not yet.”
That one truth gnaws at me like a rat in the dark. The mastermind is still out there. Every day he breathes, Elena and Eirlys are in danger. And the irony burns me, I keep her locked away to protect her, but in doing so, I might be driving her straight into the arms of the very danger I’m shielding her from.
The garden sprawls before us, manicured to perfection. Roses climb the stone walls, lanterns glow faintly along the paths, and in the center sits the fountain shaped like an angel holding a jar. There, among the hedges, I catch a glimpse of her.
Elena.
Her hair glimmers in the fading light, her posture calm as she scribbles in her sketchbook. For a moment, the world quiets. She looks peaceful, almost angelic.
And then I remember, peace exists for her only when I’m absent.
I stop walking, suddenly unable to take another step. Giovanni notices and turns to face me.
“Go,” he urges.
“She doesn’t want me,” I mutter.
“She needs you,” he corrects. “Not the King Without Mercy. Her father. Vittorio.”
I draw in a long breath, my chest heavy with the weight of two identities I can’t seem to reconcile.
For the first time in years, I feel unprepared. Not for a war, not for betrayal, but for a conversation with my own blood.
And that terrifies me more than any bullet ever could.