Chapter 2 Isla Pov

Welcome home 

That was what I was told, the instant I set foot into the De Luca mansion. However, the De Luca estate was nothing like the home I had lost. My parents’ house had been filled with warmth, voices rising and falling in laughter, the smell of my mother’s cooking, the sound of my father’s heavy footsteps in the hall. This place… it was grand. The silence was polished, sharp, and watchful. Even the floors gleamed as though they, too, were listening. It was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

The first nights were the hardest. I woke up often, crying into the silk pillows I was too afraid to stain. The ceilings here were too high, the air too cold. I was suffocating.

One night, when the sobs wouldn’t stop, Matteo slipped into my room. His hair stuck out in all directions, his eyes heavy with sleep. He didn’t say anything at first—just climbed onto the bed and sat beside me.

“You’re loud when you cry,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

I hiccupped, glaring at him through tears. “Then, leave me alone.”

“No,” he stretched out beside me, folding his arms behind his head like he owned the bed. “I’ll stay until you stop.”

And he stayed. Every night after, whenever the crying started, Matteo was there. Sometimes he told me stories he made up on the spot, about kings who hid treasure, or knights who never lost a fight. Other times, he just stayed quiet, his steady breathing enough to calm me.

Mrs. Serafina De Luca, Matteo’s mother, on her part, tried to fill the void left by losing my mother since they were close friends. She tried to shape me into something polished. Sometimes, she sat beside me at the piano, guiding me through the ivory keys. She was my tutor on days she wasn’t busy.

“Back straight, Isla,” she murmured one morning, adjusting my shoulders as I sat at the piano, one of my favorite things in the house. 

“I don’t like this.” I pouted, slouching again. It feels silly.

She smiled, smoothing my dress. It feels dignified, she corrected, tapping my spine with one delicate finger. “Try again.”

I huffed but obeyed. My small fingers stumbled over the keys.

“Wrong note.”

“I can’t do it!” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

She carefully wiped my hands away, her smile faint but kind. “You can. You just don’t want to. There is a difference, Isla.”

Her words sank into me, heavy as stone. Later, she placed a storybook in my lap. “Read aloud.”

The letters danced before my eyes. “This is too hard.” I mumbled.

“Nothing’s too hard for you.” She said firmly, pushing stray strands of hair behind my ear. “Say the first word.”

I swallowed, trying again. 

“Good.” She kissed the top of my head endearingly, looking at me with a proud smile.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months.

I learned to braid my own hair, but sometimes Matteo insisted on doing it for me anyway. His fingers were clumsy, tugging too hard, but I never stopped him. It became our ritual—me sitting cross-legged on the carpet, him muttering under his breath as he tried to get it right.

“Hold still,” he’d complain.

“You’re pulling too hard,” I’d whine, but secretly I loved it. Because it was him. Because it was ours.

Other nights, he would sneak sweets from the kitchen, stuffing them into his pockets with a conspiratorial grin. 

“Don’t tell Mama,” he whispered, breaking chocolate in half and pressing the bigger piece into my hand.

I never told.

We shared secrets like they were treasures. When other children at family gatherings sneered, he stepped in front of me, his small frame somehow carrying the weight of something larger, stronger. When I was scolded too harshly by a tutor, he argued back, chin tilted up like he wasn’t afraid of anyone.

He was my shield. My anchor.

For a while, I was convinced that I belonged in this rhythm of lessons, laughter, and stolen sweets Matteo snuck to me when no one was looking. It almost felt like family.

Almost.

Alessandro’s presence was the shadow that never left the room. He rarely spoke directly to me, yet his silence carried a weight sharper than words.

Once, Matteo and I were playing cards in the sunroom after our home lectures. For once, I was winning. He accused me of cheating, laughing as he flicked a card at my forehead. That was when Alessandro appeared.

He didn’t look at me, not really. His eyes lingered on the scattered deck, then on Matteo, cold and unreadable.

Matteo. With me.

Just that. Two words, hard and final.

My small victory vanished as Matteo scrambled to obey. He cast me one fleeting look, apology etched across his face, before the door closed behind him. I was left alone with abandoned cards, laughter fading into silence.

Although I couldn’t understand his subtle actions and gaze, I could feel them. They pressed against me like sharp glass.

One night, unable to sleep, I wandered the halls, barefoot and restless, trying to locate Matteo since he wasn’t in his room. That’s when I heard them—voices, muffled but clear enough—spilling from behind the library door.

“Alessandro, she is only a child,” Serafina said, her tone low but firm. “She has lost everything. How can you deny her warmth?”

“She is not one of us, Serafina.” His reply was clipped, cold. “Do not confuse duty with affection. Her parents gave their lives for me—this is repayment. Nothing more.”

My stomach twisted.

“Yet she looks at you as though she longs for a father’s approval,” Serafina pressed.

Silence. Then his retort, quiet but razor-sharp, “then she must learn disappointment early. It will save her later.”

The words struck harder than any slap. My chest burned, and in that moment, I couldn’t breathe.

I backed away before the floorboards gave me away, heart hammering against my ribs. That night, curled beneath heavy covers, I pressed my fists to my eyes until stars bloomed in the dark. Matteo and his mother might be kind to me, but now I understand.

I wasn’t their daughter.

I wasn’t Matteo’s sister.

I was a debt—living proof of loyalty repaid in flesh and blood.

Matteo came later that night, having heard from one of the maids that I had come looking for him earlier. I quickly wiped my eyes and slid under the covers, not wanting to speak with him.

“Hey, Piccola, you awake?” He whispered, slipping into the room without waiting for my answer. He was stubborn like that. He sat on the edge of the bed, tracing circles on the bed cover. Maria told me you came around. “Sorry, I was in the study.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, quietly. “What’s wrong?”

I stilled under the covers, trying to steady my breath. He knew I wasn’t asleep.

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I mumbled.

“You’re lying.” He leaned closer, pulling the covers from me. “You always bite your lower lip when you lie.” He lowered his voice.

I wanted to tell him—wanted to scream what I’d heard, but I couldn’t, the words were stuck.

“Promise you’ll never leave me.”

Matteo’s hands found mine in the dark, squeezing tight. “Never, Piccola. You’re mine to protect. Always.”