Chapter 2: Lillian

Eight years earlier...

My feet were killing me—literally killing me. Every step felt like fire shooting up my legs, like the soles of my shoes had fused with the pavement, dragging me down with every movement. It felt like I had been walking for hours, and truthfully, I probably had. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t turn around. I just needed to get away, away from everything.

Dad was getting worse—so much worse—by the second. His paranoia had evolved into something more volatile, more desperate. He had taken to ripping apart the house, tearing open drawers, peeling back floorboards, shaking down furniture in search of any scrap of hidden cash. And he found some. Of course, he did. He always did. But that only made it worse. It fed the cycle. It made him meaner, jumpier, more dangerous.

I knew then—without a doubt—it wasn’t going to be a pleasant weekend at home. It was going to be loud, maybe violent, filled with accusation and silence. The kind of silence that buzzes in your ears and weighs on your chest, reminding you with every breath that this wasn’t a home anymore. It was a battlefield. And I needed to get out.

I needed peace. I needed quiet. I needed air that didn’t reek of stale beer and cigarette ash. I needed to feel safe. I wanted to be somewhere I wouldn’t get in trouble just for existing, somewhere I could maybe—maybe—breathe without being berated, without constantly bracing for impact.

That’s why I stopped in front of the towering wrought iron gates. They loomed above me like guardians of another world, tall and imposing—easily twice my height, maybe even more. They were supported on either side by thick white brick columns that looked solid enough to withstand a hurricane. At the top of each gate was a circular emblem, and within that emblem was a large, unmistakable G—the infamous mark of the Gallo family. Everyone in town whispered about that letter. Everyone knew what it meant.

“Move along, little girl,” a burly man growled from the side. He was dressed head to toe in black, a pair of reflective sunglasses hiding his eyes. His voice was low and gravelly, matching his intimidating appearance. The way he stood, firm and unyielding, only made the tension in my shoulders spike higher.

“I’m here to see my brother,” I said quickly, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. “He told me if I was ever in trouble to come here.”

“There are no brothers here,” he barked without hesitation, already making the motion with his hand to wave me off, like I was just some pest on the sidewalk.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I needed to get past these gates. I needed to step beyond the barrier between my life and something—anything—better. I just knew that if I could get through, if I could reach the other side, I would be okay. I’d have a place to rest my head, a hot meal, maybe even a shower that didn’t come with a broken faucet and cold water.

“Yes, there is,” I said, my voice growing more firm, more desperate. “My name is Lillian Caraway.” He froze. That stopped him. “And my brother’s name is Jeremy Caraway. I know he’s in there.”

“You’re Lillian Caraway?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow just above the rim of his sunglasses, his expression shifting slightly.

Jeremy must’ve mentioned my name. The hesitation in his voice told me everything I needed to know. My heart leapt. I started nodding vigorously. “Yes! I’m Lillian Caraway. My brother is in there, and he told me to come here if I ever needed anything. Please—I’m begging you, sir.”

He didn’t respond right away, but then I saw him reach up and press a finger to his earpiece. He spoke into it in a low mumble, the words too quiet to catch. I clamped my mouth shut, holding my breath like my silence might somehow help my case. I stood perfectly still, shoulders tight, back straight, like if I could show him I wasn’t a threat, he might just let me through.

“Yes, sir,” he finally murmured into the mic before walking over to the column that held the gate’s control panel. A buzzing sound filled the air, low and mechanical, and then the massive gates slowly began to creak open. My heart thudded hard in my chest.

“Welcome to Gallo Manor, Miss Caraway,” he said, nodding once as the iron doors revealed the long path ahead.

“Thank you,” I replied with a grateful smile, hoisting my backpack higher onto my shoulders and stepping forward, gravel crunching beneath my aching feet.

The road ahead was long and winding, laid out in clean, perfect gravel, stretching all the way up to the main house. Towering trees lined both sides, forming a thick, quiet canopy. It felt secluded, hidden from the world. The noise of the highway seemed to fade behind me with every step I took, swallowed up by the dense woods. The silence wasn’t scary here—it was peaceful, like the trees themselves stood guard over this place.

As I pushed through the thick belt of trees, Gallo Manor came into full view. It was even more majestic than I remembered from the stories—massive and commanding, with tall brick walls the color of sand and gold. The architecture was timeless, as though it had stood for generations, watching the world change around it. Grand white columns supported the third-floor balcony, and flower boxes lined the porch, softening the edges of what otherwise might have looked like a fortress.

But not everything was warm and welcoming.

More men stood at the front of the house—guards, like the one at the gate. Their black clothing matched, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. But it wasn’t their presence that made me nervous. It was the rifles they held in their hands. Serious weapons—military-style, the kind that could empty a clip in seconds. They didn’t smile. They didn’t flinch. They just watched.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand straighter. As I moved around a large stone fountain, its clear water trickling into a perfectly sculpted basin, I realized the driveway formed a perfect circle—a roundabout for the elegant cars I imagined parked there.

“Lil!”

My head snapped up toward the manor.

There he was—Jeremy Caraway. My brother. My protector. My best friend once upon a time. A man I hadn’t seen in six long years. He looked so different now—taller, broader, carved out of something tougher—but his bright blue eyes hadn’t changed. They gave him away instantly.

“Jer!” I called back, breaking into a run. I didn’t stop until I collided into his chest, and his now-muscular arms wrapped tightly around me.

“I missed you,” I whispered into his shirt, my voice thick with emotion. I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry. But the tears came anyway, burning hot in my eyes.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, burying his face in my hair, grounding me like he always used to. “What are you doing here?”

“Dad,” I answered, keeping it as simple and emotionless as I could manage. The word alone seemed to strike a nerve in Jeremy. He stiffened in my arms—like his entire body suddenly forgot how to move. His breath caught in his chest, his arms hesitating around me.

“Can I stay here? Just for the night?” I asked, the question escaping me before I had time to second-guess it. I didn’t want to beg—not yet—but the weight behind those few words held everything I was too tired to explain.

Jeremy pulled away slightly, his hands still resting on my arms as his piercing blue eyes searched my face. I knew he wanted to ask a thousand questions—probably had a thousand more feelings racing behind his eyes—but before he could even begin to form an answer, someone else did it for him.

“Of course you can stay here, Lilliana.”

The voice came from just beyond him, smooth and firm like warm silk over steel. I looked past my brother and saw him—him—a man descending the steps of the manor with an effortless grace that seemed rehearsed but undoubtedly natural. He was the kind of man who didn’t walk—he commanded space.

He wore a pair of impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit pants that clung to his form with surgical precision, as though they had been sewn onto him. His crisp white button-down shirt was tucked neatly at the waist, hugging his torso in a way that emphasized both his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sleeves were casually rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms inked with vibrant tattoos—swirls of color and design that danced across his skin like living art.

It wasn’t just the way he dressed or the confidence in his stride. It was his presence. He knew who I was. He didn’t need an introduction; he didn’t ask my name. There was no doubt or curiosity in his voice—only certainty. And yet, though he clearly recognized me, I couldn’t quite place him. Something about him was familiar, but distant—like a name on the tip of your tongue or a dream you only half remember. I would’ve remembered those green eyes, though. Those piercing emerald eyes weren’t the kind of thing you forgot, and yet… I couldn’t match them to a memory.

“Are you sure?” Jeremy asked, glancing over his shoulder toward the man.

“Of course,” the man answered, his voice firm but calm as he approached. He stopped just inches from me, standing so close that his height cast a soft shadow over me. He looked down, his green eyes locking onto mine with quiet intensity. “Are you in any kind of trouble?” he asked, his voice gentler this time.

I swallowed hard. My throat was suddenly dry, and I hoped my teenage hormones would disappear with the lump forming in my throat. “No, sir,” I replied quickly, shaking my head, trying to keep my voice steady.

I had no idea why I called him sir. It slipped out before I could catch it, a natural response to the overwhelming presence standing before me. Strangely enough, he seemed to like it. His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something close.

“Good girl, Lilliana,” he said, his eyes dropping to the worn backpack slung over my shoulder. “How long are you planning to stay?”

I glanced down at my scuffed sneakers, not sure what to say. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. All I knew was that I wanted to stay with Jeremy—maybe forever. I wanted to feel safe again. I wanted to stop running.

“You’ll stay the weekend, then,” he decided for me, before I even had the chance to respond. My eyes lifted, locking with his once again. There was no space to argue—just that same commanding energy. “Come on, fiorellino. Follow me.”

Fiorellino. I didn’t know what the word meant, but the way he said it sounded both tender and final. Without waiting, he turned and headed back into the manor.

I looked to Jeremy, silently pleading for some direction, some sign that this was okay. But he didn’t speak—he just stared after the man, then gave me a subtle nod.

So I followed.

He walked fast, his strides long and decisive. I had to practically jog to keep up, the weight of my backpack bouncing behind me with every hurried step. The grand manor loomed around me, but I didn’t have the luxury of absorbing it—no time to gaze at the intricate woodwork or the gold-framed portraits that lined the walls. My focus was on my feet, making sure I didn’t trip or stumble or embarrass myself.

After what felt like countless stairs and an endless number of hallways, the man came to an abrupt stop. I nearly walked right into him, only saved by Jeremy’s hand grabbing my shoulder just in time.

“I assume,” the man said, turning slowly to face me again, “that you brought your school supplies and a change of clothes?” His voice remained calm, though something about it felt heavy—measured.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, my voice barely a whisper. It cracked anyway.

He nodded once. His eyes studied my face, unreadable and unwavering. Then he leaned to the side, opening the door beside him.

“This will be your room for the weekend,” he said. “There’s a private bathroom and a balcony. Meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—will be brought to you here. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to press the button next to your bed. Someone will be sent to assist you.”

He paused, holding up one finger.

“There is only one rule,” he said, voice shifting just slightly—firmer, colder. “You are not to leave your room. Is that understood, Lilliana?”

I froze. My heart pounded. I probably looked like a deer caught in headlights, my brain too overloaded to process everything all at once. But I still nodded, fast and frantic.

“Use your words,” he said. There was no cruelty in his tone, but no patience either.

“Yes, sir,” I said again, this time louder, though my voice still stammered at the end.

He held my gaze a moment longer, his green eyes scanning every inch of my face. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my skin prickling under his attention. Then his jaw tightened—just slightly—as if he were biting back a thought.

“Good night, fiorellino,” he finally said. With that, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared down the hallway, his steps echoing softly as he left.

Jeremy lingered for just a second, glancing back at me with a look I couldn’t quite read—equal parts guilt, concern, and something else. Then he followed the man.

I would later learn that the man’s name was Dante Gallo. And that this moment—this strange, charged encounter—was neither the first nor the last time I would ever see him.