Chapter 26

VALERIO

I worked fast.

Feeling like an intruder but having to do what was necessary, I went through Chiara’s closet. I added more clothes, shoes, robes, and toiletries to the overnight bag she’d packed herself the previous day.

When she’d been planning to flee from me.

I locked up her house.

Mauri helped me move her with gentle care to my car.

She followed our lead like a doll, not resisting, doing whatever we guided her to do without question.

It broke my heart to see her like this.

My woman, full of fire and passion, slumped against me in the backseat, eyes empty, dependent, and vulnerable.

I sat beside her, arms around her, nose in her wild tresses, praying.

Wishing she found her way back to us, to life, to love.

Minutes later, we were on our way to the other end of Naples.

Villa Teroso was counter-positioned from Mount Vesuvius, always hovering like a watchful sentinel.

Its beauty was stunning, but beneath that splendor was the constant reminder of its volcanic, eruptive threat, always in sight and front of mind.

Just like my war right now with Chiara’s receding soul.

I carried my woman through the grand entryway, her body still light in my arms, my steps heavy with my aching guilt.

I marched over the marble floors, which gleamed under the soft illumination filtering through the arched windows, focusing on my woman’s limp form.

My steps echoed through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings as I carried her upstairs. Where the air seemed lighter, the rooms open and airy with en suite bedrooms that caught the brine-laden sea breeze, carrying it through the house.

But even the serenity of the space couldn’t ease the knot of fear coiled in my chest.

Mrs. Venetio, our housekeeper for years, met me at the top of the staircase, her eyes flicking from me to Chiara.

Mauri, bless his soul, had called ahead and given her a sit rep.

The older, salt-and-pepper-haired woman didn’t say anything at first—only tightening her lips and giving a nod to me in acknowledgment.

She’d seen my family through all its storms, all its battles. This wasn’t new to her.

Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over me.

Mrs. Venetio would be my ally in caring for Chiara.

I jerked my chin at her as I swept past. Still holding my woman as I carried her up to my suite, into my bedroom, laying her down with care on the bed.

Mrs Venetio watched on, her face full of compassion.

‘Signore Rio,’ she announced, serene but edged with concern. ‘I’ll take charge of her meals, baths, and toilet breaks. You handle her mind and encourage her to move, eat, and rest. Together, we’ll keep a close eye on her.’

‘ Grazie ,’ I murmured, my rumble tight with emotion. ‘Let’s make sure she’s comfortable. She’s been through enough.’

Mrs. Venetio offered a brief nod, understanding in her eyes as she took over, tucking a throw over Chiara with a calm that I hadn’t been able to muster yet in my panic.

I sat beside her in a love chair, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

Chiara’s eyes were unfocused, dilated, and canted to the view outside the ceiling-to-floor windows.

Her hand tucked under her chin, her body in a coil of self-protection.

Still, she showed no sign of acknowledging me, and I had never felt so helpless.

Every instinct wanted to fight, fix, and make this right.

Yet all I could do was be by her side, and I hoped that somehow, some way, she would return to me.

‘Chiara,’ I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ‘I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen.’

She didn’t respond, didn’t blink, didn’t even stir.

I vowed to stay for as long as she needed to get her better.

Watching over her and praying that she would let me into her soul again one day.

Not as the man who caused her pain but as someone who wanted to make things right.

I leaned back, running a hand over my face, the exhaustion starting to hit me.

But I had zero time to rest. Not yet.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I moved to the patio’s edge, where the sea stretched.

The dark, churning expanse mirrored the turmoil in my chest.

I called my brothers, needing to update them—on everything.

On the business, on the situation in Naples, on Chiara.

When my brother Alessio answered, I caught the tension in his voice. ‘How is she?’ he asked without preamble.

‘Not good,’ I growled. ‘She’s not herself. The doctor prescribed some meds, but she’s still not responding. Mrs. Venetio is with her now. Fotto ! It’s driving me mad.’

A pause fell on the line, then a soft chuckle from Lorenzo in the background. ‘This girl, she must be one of a kind, huh? Donna molto bella . Rio doesn’t go out of his way like this for just anyone.’

‘ Stai zitto! ’ I snapped, my tone harsher than intended. ‘This isn’t funny. She’s—’ I stopped, biting back the frustration gnawing at me all day. ‘She’s important to me, OK? I can’t let anything happen to her.’

The teasing vanished.

‘ Scusa, fratello ,’ Lorenzo called out his apology.

‘We get it, Rio,’ Alessio said, his voice quieter now. ‘We’re worried about you. We know this isn’t easy.’

‘We’ll come to you,’ Lorenzo added in a growl. ‘We’ll get the plane ready and be with you by morning.’

‘I don’t need you to—’

‘Too bad,’ Alessio interrupted. ‘We’re family. You’re not doing this alone.’

I closed my eyes, the tension in my shoulders loosening a fraction. This was how it had always been. We fought, we argued, but when it came down to it, we always had each other’s backs. Always.

‘What she doesn’t need is you clowns milling about staring at her like she’s in some sort of circus show,’ I muttered, rubbing my temples. ‘Give me a few days, weeks for her to get better, then I’ll let you know, and you can haul your asses here. Per favore .’

‘Fine,’ Lorenzo conceded. ‘Hang in there, fratello . She will improve, and when she does, please tell us.’

I hung up, letting out a slow exhale.

I glanced inside the villa, where Mrs. Venetio was adjusting Chiara’s bedclothes, ensuring she was comfortable.

I wanted to rage at someone, anyone, even at the shadow of the looming Vesuvius.

Yet I couldn’t permit this to break her—or us.

I’d face this battle like all others throughout my life.

This time, it wasn’t just the family legacy on the line.

It was my leonessa , the woman I was falling hard for.

She didn’t speak for days.

Not a word.

She lay in bed, still, cocooned under the covers like the world outside ceased to exist.

Mrs. Venetio brought her trays of food—simple meals that should’ve comforted her—but Chiara would not eat unless I fed her.

At the worst part of the catatonia, her eyes dilated even more, and she had some death grip on things she got hold of.

She made random shifts and slow movements, like circling the pillow with her finger, clutching a blanket, and refusing to let go.

It was dreadful, and I became traumatized, rooted beside her at each moment.

Each passing minute stretched into eternity, and the knot of worry twisted tighter in my chest.

I slept restlessly, waking every so often to check on her and make sure she was still there and breathing. But each sunrise was the same.

After taking her medication, she’d stay curled up, eyes distant, unmoving, and her heart spirited to a place where I couldn’t reach.

By the time the fifth day rolled around, I was at my wit’s end.

Mrs. Venetio was a saint, doing everything she could to keep her comfortable, but I could see the worry in her eyes, too. It wasn’t only me.

That morning, as I stood by the window, staring out at the sea, trying to find peace in the waves, I heard a shift behind me.

It was subtle, a tiny sound, a brush of bare soles on the ground. It was enough to make my heart jump. I turned, and there she was, emerging from the covers for the first time in days.

She was unsteady on her feet, frail, like a ghost of the woman I knew, but her eyes locked onto mine for the first time.

I froze at the eye contact.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until that moment. There was something so simple, yet so profound, in how she gazed at me.

A second later, I tracked to her and held my arms out.

She stepped into my embrace.

‘ Grazie Dio !’

My growl, the weakening of my knees, and the lurch through my soul were evidence of the palpable relief that went through me.

Limbs shaking, tears pricking my eyes, I stroked her back and whispered into her hair.

She still didn’t speak, but she held on tight to me.

The day wore on, and I tried everything—talking to her, sitting by her side, holding her hand. She would glance at me, sometimes nod, but no word came from her lips.

I was desperate.

At my wit’s end, it hit me like a punch to the gut—art.

It was what pulled her out of her despair before.

In one of our late-night conversations, which felt like another lifetime ago, she mentioned how painting saved her during her darkest days.

My soul lurched with hope, and I didn’t waste a second.

I went into town and bought high-end drawing supplies similar to those in her studio: paints, brushes, sketchbooks, pencils, and canvases.

When I returned, I set up the patio overlooking the sea. It was one of the most stunning views in the world: the endless horizon, the soft crash of waves, and the faint silhouette of Vesuvius in the distance.

I wanted to give her something beautiful that could draw her out of the fog.

When I showed her the setup, she just stared, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t touch the supplies.

Didn’t even react.

My heart sank. I thought I’d failed again.

More than anything, I feared how I was falling for her and how she meant everything to me.

The following day, I woke up to find the bed empty.

Panic flared for a second before I heard the soft scratching of pencils.

I followed the sound to the patio, and she was—sitting in a chair, legs crossed under her tush. Her back to me, gazing at the ocean as her hand moved steadily across the page.

She was drawing.

It wasn’t much—a simple sketch of the horizon, but it was something.

I pressed a fist to my mouth to stem the exultant shout I wanted to let out.

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to break the spell.

Instead, I watched her, my heart swelling with relief and something more profound. Something I wasn’t ready to name yet.

The change was subtle over the next few days, but it grew.

She started sketching and illustrating more, little by little. As the art flowed, so did her spirit. The house began to feel lighter and warmer as if her presence was finally starting to seep back into it.

Mrs Venetio and I took turns ensuring she knew she was not alone.

We didn’t push or force her to do more than she was prepared for.

We worked around her, offering encouragement, getting her to the bathroom, bringing meals, and sitting with her in silence when she needed it.

Making sure she was aware of our quiet support so she’d heal at her own pace.

And through it all, I stayed by her side.

Every night, I held her, and slowly, the fear that gripped my heart began to loosen.

Witnessing her recovery and returning to her first love of creative expression changed something in me.

My feelings for her were growing deeper than I’d ever expected.

I wasn’t only protecting her out of guilt anymore. I wanted to nurture her because I had fallen for her. Hard.

I would never again let anything hurt her again.

Not as long as I breathed.