"I... I heard a noise." My voice was a shaky whisper. "What happened to you? And... is that a gun?"
He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Go back to bed, Amelia. It's nothing that concerns you."
"A gun? Damien, what are you involved in? Milly told me... she said you were-"
"Milly talks too much." His voice was dangerously quiet, a warning. "And you need to stop listening to gossip." He took a step towards the stairs. "Go. Now."
"No!" I blurted out, a sudden rush of defiance overcoming my fear. "I deserve to know! You live here! In my house! My mom lives here! Is she safe? Am *I* safe?"
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes burning into mine. "You are safe, Amelia. Always. As long as you stay out of my way and don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."
"What if I do want the answers? What if I don't want to be kept in the dark?" I clenched my fists. "This isn't some movie, Damien! This is real! You're hurt!"
He slowly ascended the stairs, each step deliberate, menacing. When he reached me, he was towering over me, his scent of blood and something metallic now mingling with his cologne. "Sometimes, principessa, ignorance is a blessing. Some truths are too ugly for pretty little girls like you." He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing gently against my cheek, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through me. "Now, go to bed. And forget what you saw."
I stared up at him, my heart pounding, a strange mix of fear and something else, something akin to fascination, swirling within me. His eyes, usually cold and hard, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher. Concern? Regret?
He pulled his hand away, the brief connection severed, and turned, heading towards his room. I stood there for a long moment, my hand pressed to my cheek where he'd touched me, the image of the gun, the bruise, and the unexpected tenderness of his touch warring in my mind.
***
The next day at school, Steve approached me during our free period. "Hey, Amelia. I was wondering if you'd like to, maybe, grab some coffee sometime? Or gelato? I know a great place." He smiled, an endearing blush on his cheeks.
I hesitated, a strange sense of unease settling over me. Damien's words: *There are men around, Amelia. Men who don't care about your 'appropriateness'.* Was this what he meant? Or was I just being paranoid?
"Um, thanks, Steve. That's really sweet, but I'm just really busy with school right now." I offered him a weak smile.
His face fell a little. "Oh. Okay. No worries. Another time, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe." I mumbled, feeling a pang of guilt. He was genuinely nice. But something held me back. A fear, perhaps, that associating with me would somehow put him in Damien's orbit.
As I walked out of school later, I saw Steve talking to a group of friends. He glanced my way, then froze, his eyes widening. I followed his gaze.
Damien stood leaning against his sleek black car, parked directly across the street from the school gates, a dark figure against the vibrant backdrop of the Roman afternoon. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Steve, his expression unreadable, but radiating an intensity that made my stomach churn.
Steve quickly turned away, his conversation abruptly ending. He looked pale.
My blood ran cold. Damien was sending a message. To Steve. To me.
I walked towards him, my jaw tight. "What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice low and furious.
He pushed off the car, his eyes, dark and unyielding, meeting mine. "Picking you up. Father thought it would be a good idea."
"Don't lie to me. You're trying to scare Steve, aren't you?" I whispered, my anger simmering. "Why? What right do you have?"
He opened the passenger door, a silent command. "Get in, Amelia. We're not having this conversation in public."
I hesitated, then climbed in, slamming the door shut. The car smelled of leather and his familiar cologne. As he pulled away from the curb, I saw Steve still standing there, looking shaken.
"You have no right to interfere in my life!" I hissed, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"I have every right. You're my responsibility." His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "You think that boy is good enough for you? You think he can protect you from the wolves out there?"
"Wolves? What are you talking about? He's a sweet, normal guy!"
"Normal doesn't exist in our world, Amelia. Not anymore. You're connected to me now. To *us*. And that puts a target on your back." His voice was low, laced with a raw intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "I won't have you associating with anyone who can't keep you safe. Understand?"
"You can't control my life!"
He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, the sudden noise making me jump. "I can,
and I will, if it means keeping you alive!" He took a deep breath, his jaw tight. "Just... stay away from him, Amelia. For your own good."
I stared out the window, tears pricking at my eyes. He was suffocating me, terrifying me, and yet, a part of me, a small, foolish part, felt a strange, unsettling pull towards his possessive intensity.
***
Weeks passed, and the tension between us only grew. Damien continued his silent surveillance, his presence a constant, heavy weight in my life. He'd be there when I left for school, or I'd catch a glimpse of his car outside. Steve stopped trying to talk to me, his shy smiles replaced by nervous glances whenever he saw me. Milly, though worried, found the whole situation undeniably fascinating.
"He's totally obsessed with you, Amelia," she whispered one afternoon during an illicit coffee break. "It's like something out of a movie."
"It's like something out of a horror movie," I corrected, stirring my espresso with more force than necessary. "He's a control freak. A possessive, overbearing-"
"Hot, rich, protective mafia boss?" Milly finished, wiggling her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Amelia. The way he looks at you. It's not just anger. There's something else there."
I scoffed, but a blush crept up my neck. "There's nothing there, Milly. He just thinks I'm a nuisance. A child he has to babysit."
"Or maybe he sees you as more than that." She gave me a pointed look. "He's *always* watching you."
Her words resonated with me more than I cared to admit. I *had* noticed. The way his eyes lingered, the subtle shift in his demeanor when I was around. The way he'd warn me about my clothes, not with disgust, but with a strange, possessive concern. It was confusing, infuriating, and undeniably, unsettlingly attractive.
One evening, Mama and Sebastian were out again. I was in the kitchen, making myself a sandwich, when I heard Damien's voice from the doorway.