Chapter 3 - Don't Touch Me

Mira's POV

The black car glides through the tree-lined streets of Upper West Side, morning light filtering through the leaves. I watch the familiar iron gates of the Rossi estate come into view, and something hollow settles in my chest. Fifteen years I've looked at this place. But right now, it feels like I'm seeing it for the first time.

The car stops. I push the door open, gravel crunching under my feet. Each step toward the entrance feels heavier than the last. My fingers drift to the scar on my left wrist. That old habit when things get too real.

Deep breath. I smooth down the borrowed clothes. Try to look calm.

The front door swings open before I reach it. Henry stands there, eyes wide. "Miss Sawyer! Thank God you're back! We've been worried sick!"

I stop at the threshold. Really look at him. Henry's been here longer than I have. Always kind. Always proper. But even his concern feels distant now.

"I'm fine, Henry. Just needed some time."

His eyes catch on my face. The bruises. The split lip. "Your face! What happened? Should I call the doctor?"

"It's nothing. Someone helped me. I just need to rest."

Home. The word tastes wrong. This place was never really mine, was it? Fifteen years of pretending. Fifteen years of believing I belonged.

I step inside. Marble floors. High ceilings. Crystal chandelier. Everything exactly where it's always been. Voices echo from the sitting room. Isabella's anxiety cutting through the space. Marco's irritation bleeding underneath.

They're fighting. Of course they are.

Isabella bursts into the hall. Relief floods her face when she sees me. Worry. Something else I can't name.

Marco follows, whiskey glass in hand. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Eyes bloodshot. He looks like he hasn't slept.

Good.

I stand there. Spine straight. None of that careful posture I used to have around him.

Marco walks closer. I can smell the alcohol. He tries for concern. Fails. "You're back. Good." A pause. "Don't make a big deal out of this, okay? The family doesn't need more drama."

I meet his eyes. My voice comes out flat. "Don't worry, Marco. I won't bother you anymore."

He frowns. Confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. Thanks for the lesson."

His hand reaches for my arm. Instinct, maybe. Or habit. But I step back before he can touch me. Fast. Clean.

His hand freezes in midair. The confusion shifts to annoyance.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I'm trying to—"

"Don't touch me."

The words land between us like broken glass. Marco stares at me. Actually stares. Like he's seeing someone new. Someone who isn't the Mira who waited by the door. Who made his breakfast. Who smiled when he walked in after three days of silence.

That Mira's gone.

Isabella moves forward, hands raised. "Mira, dear, you must be exhausted. Why don't you go rest? Marco was just worried."

I turn to her. Keep my face polite. Distant. "Thank you, Mrs. Rossi. But Marco wasn't worried. He made that very clear last night."

I don't wait for a response. Just turn and head for the stairs.

Behind me, Marco's voice rises. "Mira! We need to talk about this!"

I stop halfway up. Don't turn around. "There's nothing to talk about. You made your choice. I'm just finally accepting it."

My feet carry me up the rest of the stairs. Steady. No hesitation. Not like before, when I'd stop at the sound of his voice. When I'd turn back because maybe this time would be different.

Below, Isabella's voice drops low. "Let her go. She's been through something. Give her time."

Marco's response comes sharp. "Time? She's acting like a completely different person!"

Good. Let him wonder.

The door to my room closes behind me. I lean against it. Eyes shut. Breathe.

This room. Every corner memorized. The way morning light hits the window. The faint scent of lavender from the closet. The view of the garden where I used to watch Marco smoke on the terrace below.

Fifteen years in this room. And now it feels like someone else's.

I walk to the mirror. Force myself to look.

Bruises bloom across my cheekbone. The split lip. And lower, on my neck, marks that tell a story I'm still trying to understand.

This is me. Twenty-two-year-old Mira Sawyer. For the first time in fifteen years, I don't belong to anyone.

Ten years. I loved Marco for ten years. Woke up early to make his breakfast. Memorized everything he liked. Appeared when he needed me. Vanished when he didn't. I thought that was love. I thought someday he'd finally see me.

But last night, when he said "keep her," all those years collapsed into nothing. Every breakfast. Every careful smile. Every time I pretended his indifference didn't cut straight through me.

Then that stranger appeared. L. He saved me like Vincent saved me fifteen years ago. But it felt different. Vincent gave me shelter. But L made me feel like something more than a victim waiting to be rescued.

I'm not that girl anymore. The transformation from girl to woman didn't come from Marco's hands. It came from a stranger whose name I don't even know.

I reach for the necklace on my dresser. The one Marco gave me. The one that was supposed to come with a ring someday. My fingers trace the cold metal. Then I open the drawer and drop it inside. Deep in the back where I won't see it every morning.

The new phone sits on the nightstand. Screen blank. No messages. Nothing.

I pick it up anyway. Stare at the empty screen.

Who are you, L?

Voices erupt downstairs. Loud. Sharp. Isabella's anxiety bleeding into every word.

I sit up. Hesitate. Then walk to the door. Moving to the staircase landing, I stay in the shadows. The voices carry up from the sitting room below.

"Marco, you need to keep a low profile! Do you understand how serious this is?"

Isabella's voice. Strained. Almost breaking.

"I know how to handle my own business, Mother."

Marco. Defensive.

"Your business? The family is falling apart under your leadership! We've lost thirty percent of our territory in three years!"

The words echo through the house. My fingers grip the railing.

"That's not my fault! The Valentinos have been—"

"The elders don't care whose fault it is! They've already made the decision. They've called your Uncle Luca back from Sicily!"

Crash.

Marco's glass hits the floor. Shatters.

"What? Luca? That old ghost? Nobody even remembers him!"

"He's not a ghost! He's your uncle, Vincent's brother! And he's been running the European operations for twelve years. The elders think he's more capable than you!"

Luca. The name echoes in my head. Familiar somehow. But I can't place it.

"More capable? He got exiled because he was too violent! Father sent him away because he couldn't control himself!"

"He wasn't exiled, Marco. He was sent to prove himself. And he did. The European business has tripled under his management. While you've been losing ground."

Silence. Then Marco's voice comes back harder. Scared underneath. "So what? Let him come. I'm still Vincent's heir. They can't just—"

"If Luca comes back and proves he's better, the leadership will go to him! Blood relation doesn't matter if you can't protect the family!"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Then I'll make sure he knows this is still my territory."

I press closer to the wall. Heart beating faster. Luca. Uncle Luca. Vincent's brother. Twelve years in Europe. Coming back now.

Why does that name feel like—

"Isabella, you've spoiled him too much."

The voice comes from above. Behind me. Low. Magnetic. Cold as winter wind.

Everything in the sitting room goes silent.

I freeze. Every muscle locking up. Then slowly, I turn.

The staircase curves upward. At the top, a figure steps out of the shadows. Dark three-piece suit. Each step deliberate. Controlled. The hallway light catches his face as he descends.

Gray-green eyes. The scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Strong features that look carved from stone.

The breath stops in my chest.

No.

My bag slips from my hand. Hits the floor with a dull thud.

It's him.

L.

My heart slams against my ribs. Once. Twice. So hard I think it might break through.