Chapter 13: Echoes of the Boy He Was

The morning was cool, the sky layered in soft gray. Mara found Elias near the old stables, a place she hadn’t yet explored. He stood with his back to her, staring at the empty stalls as if seeing ghosts.

“You’re quiet this morning,” she said.

He didn’t turn. “Quiet is when you hear the most.”

She stepped beside him, following his gaze. Dust motes danced in the slanted light. “What do you hear?”

“Footsteps that don’t match the guards’. A door that clicks open too often. A maid who hums when she’s nervous.” He finally looked at her. “You notice the small things, you stay alive.”

“Is that today’s lesson?”

“Today’s lesson is how to listen.”

For the next hour, he didn’t teach her to fight or fall. He taught her to be still. To notice the rhythm of the house—the pattern of patrols, the sound of certain footsteps, the way certain doors closed.

It was exhausting. Her mind, usually racing, had to slow down, to focus. To hear what wasn’t being said.

Halfway through, she felt a presence.

Damon.

He stood under the archway leading back to the main house, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just watched.

Elias didn’t acknowledge him. “Again,” he murmured, his voice low. “Tell me what you hear now.”

“The gardener’s shears have stopped. A car door closed near the gate. Isla is singing in the kitchen.”

“And?”

“And… your breathing changed when he arrived.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Elias’s lips. “You’re learning.”

When she glanced back, Damon was gone.

He found her later in the hall near the library, his hand gentle but firm on her arm, guiding her into a shadowed alcove.

“You’re learning quickly,” he said, his voice low.

“Elias is thorough.”

Damon’s eyes darkened. “He’s loyal to a fault. But his loyalty is to this house. To an idea. Not necessarily to you.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Don’t trust him more than me.”

The words were quiet, but they felt like he was jealous.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I know what it looks like when someone is gathering pieces for their own game.” His gaze was intense. “You trust me. Only me.”

She held his stare. “Trust isn’t given blindly, Damon. It’s built.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say more—to argue, to demand. But he simply nodded, his jaw tight, and walked away.

That night, Mara couldn’t sleep. The silence Elias had taught her to appreciate now felt heavy, full of unspoken threats.

She slipped from her room and wandered the halls, her bare feet silent on the cold marble.

She found herself outside a room she’d never entered—a small sitting room draped in velvet, untouched by time. On a side table, half-hidden by a lamp, was a silver frame.

Inside it, a photo of a woman with Damon’s eyes.

She was beautiful, with a soft smile and a quiet strength in her gaze. Mara picked it up, her thumb brushing the glass. This was his mother. The woman Rafael had taken from him.

“She always liked you.”

Mara jumped, nearly dropping the frame.

Damon stood in the doorway, his expression unguarded, raw.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s alright.” He stepped into the room, his movements quiet. “I don’t come in here often. It’s… easier to remember her from a distance.”

Mara looked back at the photo. “she is kind.”

“She was.” His voice was rough. “Too kind for this world.”

He stood beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel his warmth. For the first time, he wasn’t the Don, the protector, the predator. He was just a boy who missed his mother.

“I keep this to remember what I’m fighting for,” he whispered. “Not for power. Not for revenge. For my parents and for you Mara. Who ever dares to touch you will says their last prayer.”

Mara’s heart ached. In that moment, she saw the boy he’d been—the one who’d lost everything and built walls to keep from losing more.

She set the frame down carefully. “She’d be proud of you.”

He let out a soft, broken sound. “No, she wouldn’t.”

And before she could respond, he was gone, leaving her alone with the ghost of his vulnerability.