Chapter 10
He stood by the window like he belonged to the shadows. Tall. Dressed in navy and black. Eyes like flint–cold but observant. Hands clasped behind his back like a soldier. He looked maybe mid–thirties, younger than I expected. Clean–shaven, broad shoulders, and… tired. That kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from years of seeing the worst in people and still showing up the next day.
My father gestured with a lazy sweep of his hand. “Doris. This is Lucien Falco. Son of my late business partner. A widower. No heir. From today forward, he is your shadow.”
I didn’t blink. Just looked Lucien in the eye. “I don’t need a shadow.”
Lucien tilted his head slightly, voice low, smooth, but definitely not warm. “Good. I don’t need a babysitting gig. But here we are.”
I snorted. “That’s supposed to make me feel safe?”
My father chuckled. “You don’t have to like him. You just have to outlive your enemies.”
“Lovely,” I muttered.
Right on cue, the doors opened and my brothers strolled in–Matteo first, then Enzo. Like always, walking a step apart, never at ease, but loyal in their own violent way.
Matteo pointed at Lucien with his espresso. “He’s not just some watchdog, you know.”
Enzo grinned, half–tilted. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer too. Mafia–trained. Buried three companies last year in court without firing a single shot.”
“He’s ruthless inside the room,” Matteo added, sipping. “Deadlier outside it.”
“Also,” Enzo leaned in a little, like sharing gossip, “he volunteered to protect you. Crazy, right?”
I crossed my arms. “Why?”
Lucien finally stepped forward. Not fast. No swagger. Just calm. Collected. “Because your father’s right. You don’t have time to waste trusting the wrong people. And because someone like your husband doesn’t walk away clean. Ever.”
His voice wasn’t trying to impress me. It wasn’t charming or flirtatious. It was just… real. Honest in the way that made me bristle.
I studied him again. “You know what kind of mess this is, don’t you?”
He nodded once. “I know exactly what kind. And I don’t flinch.”
I should’ve said no. Sent him back. Told my father I’d rather walk alone like I always have.
In that second, I realized something bone–deep: he wasn’t here to make me feel safe. He was
here to make other people feel unsafe. And maybe… maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.
Still, I folded my arms. “Fine. You can follow me around. Just don’t expect me to start smiling or needing help every time a window creaks.”
Lucien shrugged. “Good. I don’t do small talk.”
My mouth lifted–just a little. “Then we’ll get along just fine, Falco.”
He didn’t blink. “We’ll see, Rossini.”
5:17 am
Lucien gave me a damn schedule. Like I was one of his junior lawyers or a dog that forgot where the house was.
Breakfast at 7. Training at 9. Lunch at 12. Therapy–yes, therapy–at 3. Dinner at 6. Lights out by 10.
I stared at the paper like it was a death sentence.
“What the hell is this?”
Lucien didn’t even look up from his laptop. “Structure. You’ve been coasting on rage. That burns out.”
“I raised son in hell. Don’t babysit me.”
He closed the laptop slowly, calm as a storm brewing. “Then raise yourself now, Doris. Because you’ve been dying slowly since you left them.”
I hit him.
No hesitation. No warning. Just the full swing of a woman who’d had enough, whose bones still remembered swinging frying pans at rats while Edmund wined and dined women in Italy.
My knuckles slammed into his jaw with a satisfying crack. He didn’t move. Not a twitch. Didn’t even put his hand up. Just took it.
I stood there breathing hard, half–expecting him to bark back or shove me or walk out.
But Lucien?
Lucien just sighed.
“Feel better?”
I wanted to scream. Wanted to flip his laptop off the table. Wanted to throw a chair through the
window. Instead I stormed out.
–
But the next morning, that stupid green smoothie was sitting on the counter with a sticky note that said: ‘If you pass out mid–training, I’m not carrying you.‘
I drank it.
Didn’t even gag.
Two hours later, I showed up in the Rossini gym wearing leggings and a scowl. I was sore before
we even started.
Lucien stood by the mats, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Warm up. Ten minutes. You’re not twenty anymore.”
“Neither are you,” I muttered.
“I’m not the one who spent thirty years running a prison from a kitchen.”
That one stung. I shoved past him to start stretching.
Day one was brutal. Every squat burned. Every jab he made me throw felt like dragging weight from my past.
He was a bastard about form. “Lower. Core tight. You’re not dancing, Doris.”
“I was a dancer.”
“Were. Not anymore.”
I grunted. “God, you’re worse than childbirth.”
He didn’t smile. “Not trying to be liked. I’m trying to make sure you don’t fall apart before court.”
I hated how right he was. Hated more that part of me needed this. Not just the sweat, not just the routine, but the presence of someone who wasn’t afraid of my darkness.
When I collapsed after push–ups on day four, I stayed on the floor. Breathing. Shaking. Wanting to cry but refusing to. Lucien sat beside me, handed me a towel. Quiet for a while.
“You lost thirty years,” he said eventually. “You can’t erase it. But you can outrun the version o you they made.”
I didn’t say anything.
Couldn’t.
But the next morning I drank the smoothie again.
And I didn’t complain when he corrected my form.
He touched my shoulder once–gentle, steady–to adjust my posture, and for a second I froze. Not from fear. From reminder. Of who I used to be. Who I could still become.
Weeks passed.
My punches got cleaner. My back stopped aching when I walked. I stopped snapping at Lucia when she folded my clothes wrong.
I looked in the mirror one night before bed, towel around my neck, sweat still drying on my skin. My arms looked stronger. My eyes clearer.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t see a woman surviving.
I saw a woman preparing for war.
Chapter 10
