Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Nine
Settimo’s POV
The television filled the bedroom with music.
Lisa’s voice floated softly through the room, accompanied by the roar of thousands of cheering fans. The performance had ended minutes ago, yet the older woman still hadn’t changed the channel. She rarely did whenever Lisa appeared.
Settimo stood by the window with both hands clasped behind his back.
He had been standing there long enough for the tea beside him to grow cold.
"You’ve been unusually quiet." Her voice pulled him from his thoughts.
He turned.
She was watching him now instead of the television. There was a gentle smile on her face, one that only appeared when she was trying to coax something out of him.
"What is it?"
He didn’t answer immediately. She knew that silence. After decades together, she’d learned every version of it.
"If it’s bothering you this much," she said softly, patting the space beside her, "then say it."
Settimo walked over but remained standing. His fingers rubbed absently against one another.
"It’s about..." He hesitated.
"...our grandchild."
The smile disappeared from her face.
"I want that child far away from me!" The words burst out before she could stop them.
She shoved the blanket aside and tried to stand so abruptly that her balance gave way.
Settimo caught her before she hit the floor.
"My love..."
"No!" She struggled weakly against him, breathing faster with every second. "No..."
Her hands had begun trembling.
Settimo wrapped both arms around her.
"Listen to me." His voice remained calm despite the panic rising inside him. "She’s not Marco’s biological daughter."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Our grandchild won’t share Marco’s blood."
She laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. "He raised her." Her voice cracked.
"I’ve heard what she has done. I’ve heard the stories." She looked up at him, tears already gathering. "She’s the carbon copy of her adoptive father."
Settimo stroked her hair gently. "Ahmet and Markus were also raised here."
She didn’t answer.
"If our daughter had lived..." His own voice softened. "...she would’ve had the same choice." He looked toward the window. "If she had wanted this life, I believe she’d have become much like Asli." He sighed. "That’s what we do."
His gaze drifted to his own hands. "None of us remains innocent after choosing to carry a gun."
His wife closed her eyes. "I know." The words came out exhausted. "But Marco ruined our lives."
Her shoulders shook. "I still haven’t recovered. How do I recover from that?" Another tear escaped. "He killed my precious baby."
Settimo lowered his head.
"He killed my best friend... your best friend." Her breathing became uneven. "He burned their Villa to the ground."
She looked at him with eyes that still carried grief after all these years.
"So tell me... How do I accept a daughter he raised? You should know better."
Settimo didn’t answer. How could he? Ever since Marco murdered their daughter...
Nothing had truly been the same. The nightmares never left. Some nights she’d wake screaming. Others she’d simply cry until dawn.
And on the worst nights...
She would stand by the bedroom window for hours.
Waiting.
Watching the gates.
Praying that somehow their little girl would walk back into the Villa.
Just once. Just long enough for her mother to hold her.
Settimo had watched every one of those nights. He had never cried in front of her. Someone had to remain standing. Someone had to carry what was left of their family. She often mistook that strength for indifference.
She never knew he sometimes stayed in his office until morning because he couldn’t bear listening to her cry while pretending not to.
No matter how many years passed, neither of them had healed.
Then Ahmet...
He closed his eyes briefly.
Why would Ahmet do something this foolish?
His thoughts drifted to the young woman.
Asli.
He saw her again exactly as she’d stood in his hall the previous night.
Demanding blood samples and demanding answers as if he knew a place she could belong.
At first he’d assumed she already knew who her parents were and was just dead.
But then...
She’d admitted she didn’t even know her own age.
That memory refused to leave him, neither did the desperation in her eyes. He’d never seen anyone look so lost while trying so hard not to appear weak.
His physician had already told him his own DNA result was negative.
He’d accepted it.
If she truly belonged to one of the men from his Villa... someone whose bloodline they thought had ended...
Then perhaps...
Perhaps he could give that family something back.
Accept their daughter. Give her somewhere to belong. Because despite everything she’d become, he hadn’t seen Marco in her eyes. He’d only seen a young woman searching for home.
"I don’t want to talk about this anymore." His wife’s voice broke his thoughts.
She wiped her cheeks. "I’m finally in a good place. I’ve finally managed to let go. I know she’d never come back to life."
Settimo looked at her for a long moment. "There’s still a child on the way, my love. That child will need someone aside from her mother."
She remained silent.
"And..." He hesitated. "...there’s a possibility her parents came from this Villa."
Her head lifted immediately. "What did you say?"
"She came here last night."
His wife frowned.
"Demanding DNA samples from everyone. Every result came back negative." He paused.
"So either her parents died without leaving another blood relative or they left this Villa years ago." His mind drifted toward old records. "There were many children reported missing so many years ago. I’ve already ordered every record from that period to be brought to me. I want to know who she belongs to. It could be Marco stole her from her parents."
Something changed in his wife’s face; her anger softened and the fear retreated. Only sorrow remained. "The poor girl..." The words slipped out before she realized she’d spoken them.
Settimo smiled. It was a small, tired smile.
He’d known compassion would find its way back to her eventually.
"Philip also told me she has left Marco."
His wife looked up sharply.
"They escaped."
Her face drained of color.
"It means Marco will come after her."
She grabbed his wrist.
"They’ll kill her. And our unborn grandchild." Her voice trembled. "Do something."
Settimo looked away. "Just like he killed my brother."
The guilt settled heavily in his chest.
"I still ask myself why I agreed to let him become our spy inside Marco’s Villa."
His jaw tightened.
"Why did he have to volunteer?"
His wife reached for his hand.
"You couldn’t have known. He believed it was the only way."
Settimo nodded bitterly.
"And then..."
A humourless smile crossed his face.
"I watched his son make the same decision."
"Markus volunteered too."
"No matter how much I warned him, he still went."
His shoulders sagged.
"At least he came back alive."
He stared at nothing.
"But we both know Marco won’t stop hunting him."
His voice dropped lower.
"His father wasn’t that fortunate. He blamed himself after Marco killed our daughter."
Silence settled between them.
"If he hadn’t gone to confront Marco..." Her voice cracked again. "...he would still be alive."
She swallowed hard.
"That’s why we agreed never to tell Markus his father died. He still believes his father disappeared while searching for evidence. He still has the hope that his father is alive and just ashamed to return without our daughter."
Her fingers curled tightly into the blanket.
"If Markus ever learns Marco murdered him, he’ll go after Marco too."
Settimo nodded slowly. "And if Ahmet ever discovers we aren’t his biological parents..."
His wife looked at him.
"...and then learns Marco killed his real parents..."
Neither of them finished the thought.
Because they already knew where it would end.
"No."
She shook her head immediately.
"We can’t tell them. We must protect Ahmet too. He mustn’t know he’s adopted."
Settimo closed his eyes.
"No. We can’t tell him."
His answer came barely above a whisper.
"We shouldn’t."
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