The kitchen was nothing like the rest of the house.
It wasn't gold-framed and echoing.
It was warm.
Soft lights under marble counters. Dark wood cabinets. A long island in the center. It smelled faintly of coffee and something baked earlier that day.
It felt almost... normal.
Darina stood at the sink, gripping a glass with both hands like it was the only stable thing in the world. The cold water hit her throat and she swallowed greedily.
One glass.
Then another.
Her hands were still trembling.
She hated that he could probably see it.
Alessandro leaned against the counter a few feet away, arms folded, watching quietly. Not staring. Not judging.
Just... there.
The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was careful.
She set the empty glass down and exhaled shakily.
"I'm Sorry," she muttered.
"For what?"
"For... that." She gestured vaguely, meaning the hallway. The crying. The collapse. All of it.
"You buried your mother three days ago," he said evenly. "You do not need to apologize for grieving."
Her throat tightened again at the word mother.
She stared at the marble countertop instead.
"I didn't know she had a whole life before me," she whispered. "Or... that she left this."
Alessandro didn't correct her this time.
"She made it sound like we were just... us," Darina continued. "Like that was enough."
"It was," he said quietly.
She looked at him.
"For you."
The words hit differently than anything else he'd said.
Her breathing stuttered slightly again.
"And now I'm here," she murmured. "In the middle of something I don't understand."
His jaw tightened faintly.
"You do not need to understand everything."
"I know you hate them," she said softly. "The Volkovs."
She chose her words carefully. She didn't know those men. She had never met them. They were just a last name. A shadow in conversations she wasn't allowed to hear.
"I don't even know them," she admitted. "But I know you hate them."
Alessandro's expression shifted — colder now. Sharper.
"Yes."
She swallowed.
"And I'm somehow connected to both sides."
"Yes."
No comfort in that answer.
Just truth.
Her fingers curled slightly against the counter.
"I don't want to be in the middle of that."
"You won't be."
She looked up at him quickly. "You can't promise that."
YOU ARE READING
Blood Between Us
Teen FictionHer mother's sons. Her father's sons. Her half-brothers raised to rule, raised to destroy each other. To them, she isn't just blood-she's possession, weakness, leverage... and the one thing neither side will surrender. As rivalry turns ruthless and...
