Worth Keeping

Erin’s pov.

The words “We’ll see if you’re worth keeping” keep echoing in my head long after he says them.

I can’t tell if they’re a promise or a warning. Maybe both.

The air in the office feels heavier now, like every breath is borrowed. Michele doesn’t look at me anymore. He’s focused on his son, the quiet boy still curled up in his lap, small and unreadable. I should say something, thank him, maybe but my throat’s too tight. The sound would probably come out wrong anyway.

Then one of the guards steps into the doorway. Tall, stone-faced, built like someone who’s never smiled in his life. Michele gives him a slight nod. That’s all it takes. The man gestures for me to stand.

“Follow me,” he says.

I move fast, almost tripping over my own feet. I can feel Michele’s eyes on me one last time, cold and calculating, before I step out of the office. The door shuts behind me with a soft click, but the sound slices through the quiet hallway like a blade.

The guard walks ahead, his stride steady. I keep a few steps behind him, not too close, not too far. The house feels different now that I’m inside, quiet, but not peaceful. The kind of quiet that listens. Every wall, every shadow feels like it’s watching me. I’m scared to breathe too loud.

We climb a staircase that curves upward, lined with silver railings polished so bright they catch the faint light of chandeliers. The carpet beneath our feet muffles everything. It feels like walking on clouds, expensive, soft, unreal. I don’t belong here. Every step reminds me.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretches long and narrow, with several doors on either side. The guard stops halfway down, opens one, and steps aside.

“This will be your room.”

I hesitate before walking in. The room’s not huge, but it’s clean, too clean. A single bed, plain white sheets, a wooden dresser, and a small window overlooking the backyard. The walls are empty, pale gray, with nothing to give it life. It smells faintly of polish and something sterile, like no one’s slept here in years.

“There’s a bathroom through that door,” the guard says, pointing. “You’ll get your uniform tomorrow morning. Don’t leave this floor without permission.”

I nod quickly. “Yes, sir.”

He studies me for a moment, like he’s memorizing my face, then steps back into the hall. “Dinner’s in an hour. Someone will come get you.”

Then he’s gone. The door shuts, leaving me alone.

For a long time, I don’t move. I just stand there in the middle of the room, the silence pressing down on me. My fingers shake. My heart’s still racing from the office, from Michele’s voice, from everything. I feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s dream, a dangerous one that could turn into a nightmare at any second.

I drop the crumpled poster onto the small table near the bed. It looks out of place here, like a dirty secret sitting in a room too clean for it. My whole life changed because of that stupid paper.

I sit on the bed. It dips under my weight, soft enough to make me uneasy. I sink forward, elbows on my knees, hands over my face. I can still feel the heat of Michele’s eyes, the sharpness of his words. He said it like a threat, but also like a challenge. We’ll see if you’re worth keeping.

Worth keeping.

The words taste bitter and strange in my mouth.

What if I’m not?

What happens then?

I already know the answer. I’ve seen enough tonight to guess what Michele does with people he doesn’t need anymore. That woman screaming at the gate, her face flashes in my head again. Her voice, the way the guards dragged her like trash.

That could be me. It probably will be me.

The thought hits hard. I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars. My chest aches, but not from fear this time. It’s something else, some mix of exhaustion and shame that sits too deep to name. How did I end up here? I used to drink whiskey on balconies with city lights beneath me. Now I’m praying to survive a single night in a house where even silence feels dangerous.

A knock breaks through my thoughts.

It’s soft, careful.

I lift my head, frozen for a second. Then the door creaks open, just a little. A small face peeks in, the boy. Michele’s son.

He’s holding a stuffed animal, something worn and gray that used to be a rabbit. His big brown eyes meet mine. They’re nothing like his father’s; softer, curious, but guarded too.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, half-hidden behind the doorframe.

“Hey,” I say quietly, my voice rough. “You can come in.”

He hesitates, clutching the rabbit tighter, then steps inside. Barefoot, tiny steps that barely make a sound on the floor. He stops a few feet away, looking me over like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real.

I smile weakly. “You’re… Luca, right?”

He nods once, still watching me.

I clear my throat. “I’m Erin.”

Another nod. Still silent.

This kid’s got his father’s calm. Scary calm. The kind that makes you forget he’s just a child. But there’s something else too—loneliness. I can see it in the way he holds that rabbit, in the way he looks at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me.

I glance around the room, searching for something to say, but the walls are empty, and the silence keeps growing.

“You can sit, if you want,” I offer, gesturing to the edge of the bed.

He doesn’t move. His eyes drift to my hands instead, to the small cuts and bruises on my knuckles. Then, in a voice so soft it almost doesn’t reach me, he asks, “Does it hurt?”

I blink. “What?”

He points to my hands. “Your skin.”

“Oh.” I look down. My hands do look bad, scratched, raw from running and falling. I hadn’t noticed how much they stung until now. “A little,” I say. “It’s fine.”

He walks closer, slow and cautious, then sets his rabbit on the bed. His small fingers reach out, touching my hand gently. The simple kindness of it almost breaks me. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect him to care.

“You should tell Papa,” he says quietly. “He can fix things.”

Papa.

The word sits heavy in the air. I think about Michele—the way he looked at me, the way everyone in this house seems to hold their breath when he walks by. Fix things.

Yeah, I bet he can. Just not in the way Luca means.

I smile faintly, trying not to let the ache show. “Maybe tomorrow,” I tell him. “Right now, I think he’s a little… busy.”

Luca nods, still studying me. “You look sad.”

The words catch me off guard. I almost laugh, but it comes out more like a sigh. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I guess I am.”

He tilts his head, as if that answer doesn’t quite make sense to him. Then he picks up his rabbit and hugs it close. “You’ll be okay,” he says. “Papa said people who stay here are safe.”

For some reason, that doesn’t make me feel better.

Before I can reply, a knock comes again louder this time. A woman steps into the doorway. She’s middle-aged, sharp eyes, hair tied back in a bun so tight it looks painful. She wears a black uniform with a white apron, must be one of the staff.

“Luca,” she says softly, “your father’s looking for you.”

The boy glances at me once more, then nods and walks over to her. She takes his hand, but before they leave, he turns back and says, “Don’t be scared. Papa doesn’t like scared people.”

Then they’re gone.

I sit there for a while, staring at the spot where he stood. The words roll around in my head like stones. Papa doesn’t like scared people.

Guess I’m already off to a bad start.

Dinner comes and goes in silence. They send food to my room, a tray with grilled chicken, rice, and water. It’s good, too good. The smell alone makes my stomach twist with hunger. I eat fast, like someone might take it away before I finish. When the tray’s empty, I set it on the dresser and sit on the bed again, staring out the small window.

The sky outside is bleeding into darkness. The garden lights flicker on one by one, bathing the yard in a cold, silver glow. Somewhere below, I hear muffled voices, guards changing shifts, maybe. The low hum of engines. The sound of gates locking.

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My chest feels tight again. Every part of me wants to believe this was the right choice. But how can it be? I don’t know what I’ve gotten into. I don’t know who this man really is, or what he expects from me. All I know is that people like Michele Galetto don’t do anything without a reason. If he’s letting me stay, there’s a reason. I just don’t know if I want to find out what it is.

The lights dim. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimes. Ten. Maybe later. My body’s heavy, my mind foggy. I close my eyes, trying to rest. But it doesn’t last.

A noise wakes me.

It’s faint, distant. A door closing. Footsteps in the hallway.

I sit up, heart pounding. The footsteps stop right outside my door. Then, after a few seconds, there’s a knock.

Three short taps.

I freeze. “Yes?” My voice comes out small.

The door opens just enough to reveal him, Michele.

He stands in the doorway, half in shadow. No jacket now, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned at the top. His hair’s slightly messy, like he’s been working, not resting. His eyes find me instantly.

“You’re still awake,” he says.

I nod, unsure if I should stand or stay seated. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He steps in, closing the door behind him. The air in the room shifts. My pulse kicks hard.

“I wanted to see if you understood your place here,” he says quietly, moving closer. “My son doesn’t need chaos. You will speak to him with respect. You will follow every rule you’re given. If you touch anything that isn’t yours, you won’t make it to sunrise. Do you understand?”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

He studies me for a moment, and for some reason, that silence feels worse than the threat.

“Good,” he says finally. Then his gaze drifts to the poster on the table, the one that brought me here. He walks over, picks it up, unfolds the crumpled edges. His fingers smooth the paper like he’s examining something dangerous.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “didn’t come from me.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

He looks up, eyes cutting into mine. “If I find out who did… it won’t end well for them. Or for you, if you’re part of it.”

“I’m not,” I whisper. “I swear. I just saw it. I didn’t know it would lead here.”

He watches me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he folds the paper back up, sets it on the table again. “We’ll see.”

He turns to leave, hand on the doorknob, but something in me snaps. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s fear. I speak before I can stop myself.

“Why me?”

He pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “What?”

“Why let me stay? You could’ve thrown me out. You don’t trust me. So why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes linger on me, unreadable. Then he says, “Because desperate men don’t lie about who they are. And I need to know if that’s true.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit there long after he’s gone, the silence pressing against my chest. My pulse won’t slow down. His words replay over and over until I can’t tell if they’re supposed to comfort me or scare me.

Maybe both.