Page 45 of The Scars We Keep
My thoughts immediately turn to Matteo.He prioritized Emery over power, legacy, and the family name.He left bodies behind and scorched the earth, all just to have what most take for granted—a life where he could love someone without it being a death sentence.Where he could wake up next to the woman he loved without wondering if today would be the day someone put a bullet in her head to get to him.
Isabella pursued the same goal.That same dream.That freedom.But she didn’t make it out.
She stops and swallows hard.I watch her throat move and see her blink rapidly, as if she’s fighting back tears she won’t allow herself to shed.As if showing that weakness would break her completely.
“We ran away together because I knew my father would never let me leave.I knew he would kill Ethan if he knew I loved him.So we ran, in the middle of the night, taking nothing but the clothes on our backs and the money Ethan had saved.We thought we could disappear.That we could outrun him.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter and hollow.
“We made it two days.Two fucking days before his men tracked us down and dragged us back, and threw us in the basement of my father’s estate.”
She goes quiet.A single tear slowly slides down her cheek.She doesn’t attempt to wipe it away; just lets it fall as if she doesn’t have the strength to stop it.
“What did he do, Bella?”I ask, even though I already know where this is heading.
“He killed him.”Her eyes meet mine and the pain in them is so raw andvisceral that it makes my chest tighten.“Right in front of me.He pulled me up by my hair and made me watch them beat Ethan.I begged for them to stop.Ethan pleaded for my life.Not his own life but mine.He begged my father to let me go.To spare me.Said he would do anything.He would take any punishment if he let me live.”
Her voice cracks and breaks apart.
“And my father.He justlaughed and told Ethan that I was never in any danger.That I was his property.His blood and that my punishment was watching the boy I loved die and seeing his brains splatter across the concrete floor.”
Rage floods through me so quickly I can barely breathe.The image of her—eighteen years old, hair clenched in that monster’s hand—forced to watch the boy she loved beg, bleed, and die.All because she wanted what every person deserves: freedom, love, and a choice.
I want to kill him, not for strategy, power, or any of the reasons I have killed before, but for what he did to her—for the girl she was and the broken woman she stands as now.
I will gladly shoot Arturo Serrano in the head and make sure he understands why before he dies.
Another tear falls down her cheek.Then another.
“Then he pressed the gun to my temple and said that if I ever did anything he didn’t approve of again, he would do the same to me.That he would dump my body where no one would ever find it.That I belonged to him and I was to obey him for the rest of my life, or I would die.”
Fuck.
I know what that pain feels like to lose someone you love.Someone you need.
“Isabella.”Her name emerges softer than I have ever said it before.The anger has vanished, replaced by something that dangerously borders on tenderness.
“So no, Lorenzo,” she continues, her voice stronger now, steadier, but still tinged with that pain.“I did not give my father anything.I will never give him anything, because every time I look at him, all I see is the man who destroyed the only good thing I ever had.”
She takes a deep breath and steadies herself.Her hands tremble slightly.
“I went because he won’t stop calling and demanding that I go to him.If I don’t show up, he’ll come here, and I don’t want him in this house.In our space.So I went, stood across from him, and lied through my fucking teeth.I told him I was a good little wife who doesn’t ask questions, then I got up and came home.I never told him anything, Lorenzo.I swear to you.I swear on Ethan’s grave.”She pauses.Her voice drops to something barely above a whisper.“He doesn’t even have one.I have no idea where they put his body.But I swear on whatever is left of him.On everything I have lost, I did not give my father a single thing.”
My anger is still burning beneath my skin, but it’s not directed at Isabella.It’s for him, the monster who held a gun to his own daughter’s head.I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close to my chest and holding her there.
“You don’t ever have to go back there,” I say into her hair.“But next time, you need to tell me you are leaving.”
My hand comes up, still bloody, and I cup her face.My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, leaving a smear of red on her skin.
“I believe you,” I say quietly.
Relief washes over her face.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I lean down and press my forehead against hers.We stand here for a moment breathing in the same air.Her hands come to rest against my chest.
Mine.The word echoes through my head like a drumbeat.She is mine.
