2. Olivia
Olivia
T he secrets we keep, they say, can either set us free or hold us captive.
In my situation, there's no way in hell that the former can ever be the case. Not even in my wildest dreams. I guess it's safe to say that I'm not only weighed down by my guilt, but I'm also a captive of this dark memory that haunts my sleep almost every night.
Or at least that's what my confidence and composure make people believe.
However, deep down, I'm not as fierce as I appear to be and I often hide my anxiety under competence and professionalism.
I'm already a renowned lawyer, and I’m hell-bent on keeping the Bellanti syndicate out of trouble—that’s my role in the family.
All of my siblings have something that's unique to them, something that's beneficial to the family. And this is mine—using the law to protect the Bellanti syndicate at all costs.
To the rest of the world, Olivia Bellanti is so put together, organized and always elegant in her professional attire and designer medicated glasses. That's what they see on the outside—a classy woman with natural beauty and perfect manicure.
Truth is, beneath the confident exterior is a scared little girl weighed down by a burden too heavy to bear alone. Yet I've convinced the world that I'm resilient, and in no need of anyone's help whatsoever.
But it's not true. It's just an act, a mask to conceal my own insecurities, to hide the horror of what I've done.
In my office, I exhale sharply, my manicured fingers rubbing my eyes as I sit in my chair. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, mingling with the smell of aged paper and old books.
Floor-to-ceiling windows filter warm, golden light into the space, showcasing a stunning city skyline view.
Credentials and accolades adorn the walls, including my fancy law degree in the city’s prestigious law school.
On a nearby shelf sits a framed photograph of myself with esteemed colleagues and judges.
On one side of the office, a bookshelf tower laden with law books, articles, legal tomes, and dog-eared copies of classic literature.
My sleek, modern desk, made of polished mahogany wood, is in immaculate order. On top of it, my laptop sits open with a lit screen. There is also a PC, and a few carefully arranged files, a silver penholder, and a simple, yet elegant clock decorates the table.
As I adjust in my chair, skimming through some case files, a single knock on my door shifts my focus. My brown eyes dart toward the door where I see my Father Luca Bellanti and my brother Matteo, both waltzing in with majestic steps.
Matteo's short black hair simmered in the soft lights, his cold gray eyes meeting mine in a split second. My 36-year-old brother wears his signature tailored gray suit impeccably.
Matteo used to be the family fixer. Now he's assumed the role of Don, taking over the position of our father.
My brother's analytical and perfectionist nature makes him the perfect candidate for the position of Don—head of the Bellanti syndicate. The new Don, standing at 6’1” always exudes an aura of confidence, power, and authority with his angular features and imposing frame.
Father walks toward my desk with a deliberate slowness, his cane thumping out a steady rhythm on the floor. He has a limp from an old bullet wound that affected his movements and posture—now; he relies on a cane for support.
But make no mistake, the man is still as deadly as a serpent.
Just like Matteo, Father's tattoos snake out from beneath his sleeves, hinting at a history etched on his skin.
As the two men halt behind my desk, I rise to my feet, a warm, courteous smile playing on my lips. “Father, Matteo,” I greet them with a respectful nod. “What're you—what’re you doing here?” I stutter, my eyes shifting across the two of them, my brows knitting together in bewilderment.
“Pleasure to see you too, sis,” says Matteo with a hint of sarcasm as he sits in one of the luxurious, cream-colored chairs in front of my desk.
Father does the same, a faint grin lining a corner of his lips. “Is it a crime to stop by and check on my daughter?”
I scoff, subtly scratching my forehead. “Absolutely not,” I say, settling back in my chair.
I stare at the two of them for a moment, squinting my eyes as I try to figure them out. I know my family all too well. Father doesn’t just stop by to check on anyone unless he has a reason to. The man is deliberate, and he does everything with purpose.
“Okay.” I chuckle lightly, breaking the moment of silence. “Why are you really here?” I ask, my gaze shifting between the two of them. “We all know there's a reason you ‘stopped by.’” I air-quote the phrase and lean back in my chair.
Father clears his throat, his hand resting on his cane as he looks right at me. “Well, let's just say that the recent events happening in your life these past month have us… concerned.” The slight pause comes when he steals a glance at Matteo before facing me again.
“Concerned?” My brows arch reflexively.
“The bloodied dolls on your doorstep are getting out of hand,” Matteo chips in, his stony gaze pinned on me.
My heart stops for a moment, but I don't flinch. I know he's right, this isn't random. But I'm so fucking afraid that if my family digs deep enough, they just might find the truth. I'm not ready for that yet.
In the past month, outside my door, I've stumbled upon dolls and toys stained with blood on three different occasions. The last time was just two weeks ago, and the toy was a replica of my old college car.
I'm too afraid to make sense of all of this because that would mean admitting that someone knows about my past. The mere thought of it alone makes my skin crawl.
“Are you really worried about some doll on my doorstep?” I ask, my tone casual and dismissive, my brows arched in disbelief. “C'mon, for all we know, a prankster is behind this,” I add, my confidence masking my concern.
“It happened three times, Olivia,” Matteo says, his tone stem and solemn. “Three times,” he repeats, his eyes never leaving mine. “This is no prankster.” He glances at Father, then adds, “We're dealing with a stalker.”
My breath logs in my throat, and my jaw tightens ever so slightly.
Matteo says, “Your life might be in danger and that's a risk we're not willing to take.” He draws a deep breath. “You need to be under 24-hour protection.”
I snicker, trying to play it cool, like my heart isn't hammering in my chest.
Father looks at me and says, his voice smooth. “I have the perfect solution for the situation.”
“And what's that?” I ask, curiosity taking the better of me.
“A bodyguard,” he declares, eyes pinned on me.
My brows shoot up, mirroring the surprise flickering in my gaze. “A bodyguard?”
“Got a better idea?” Matteo asks me, reclining in his chair.
I'm speechless at the moment, and my mouth can't seem to produce any meaningful words.
Finally, I find my voice. “Come on, that's ridiculous.” I give a wry chuckle. “I can't have a bodyguard…it'll be weird having him…you know…follow me around and stuff,” I object, shrugging my shoulders.
“Well, he's highly trained, and I can promise you he'll be inconspicuous,” Father says, a faint grin playing on his lips.
“You won't even know he's around,” Matteo adds, his expression softening slightly.
I pause, watching them in silence. These two have decided already and there is nothing I can do or say that'll change their mind. None whatsoever.
“I don't like this,” I grumble, letting out an exasperated groan.
“You don't have to,” Father says, his eyes locked to mine. “But it's necessary.”
“And it's not really a request,” Matteo chips in, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“I'm well aware, thank you very much, big brother,” I reply, my tone light and somewhat playful. After a moment of hesitation, I give in, like I had a choice. “Fine.” I sigh quietly. “I'll do it your way.”
Matteo and Father look at each other and smile.
“Who is this so-called bodyguard, anyway?” I ask, my tone tinged with passive curiosity.
“Why don't you see for yourself? He's right outside,” Father says, nodding toward the door.
“Wait, you brought him here?” My eyes widen in shock and I rise to my feet. “How can you bring him to my workplace without telling me first?” I grumble, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor as I make my way to the door.
I grab the handle and open the door. As I step outside of my office, I freeze, my breath hitched in my throat. I swallow hard, unable to tear my gaze off this familiar face.
This man, clad in a black suit that clings to his rigid body, towers over me, his familiar cologne invading my senses. I stand there, transfixed, rooted to the floor as I glare at him with furrowing brows and blazing eyes.
I should have known it was him when Matteo had said I wouldn't even know when my the bodyguard was around me.
My blood boils as his intense dark eyes stare into mine, his expression softening ever so slightly.
“Marco,” his name falls off my lips, my voice low, dripping with venom and disdain.
Marco Esposito was an Elite Security Specialist, a former Bellanti security guard and also my former lover. He's half a decade older than me, but we had a good thing going on while it lasted. Until he abandoned me three years ago, vanished without a trace.
He still looks as handsome as I remember, with an athletic build and short black hair that stresses his ruggedness.
His presence stirs up mixed emotions within me.
And as I glare at him, I can feel my hands and feet trembling.
A surge of anger jolts through my body, a deep scowl settling on my face.
Before he can say a word, I cut him off, shaking my head as I withdraw from him. “No. Hmm. Mmm.” I walk back into my office and face my father and brother. “Marco Esposito? Are you kidding me?” My voice rises a little higher than normal.
They exchange glances.
“Why are you so upset?” Matteo asks, his eyes narrowing. “Marco isn't a stranger to the family, and there's no one better to keep you safe.”
“Well, I don't want him,” I blurt out disdainfully.
Father rises to his feet, drawing nearer to me, his cane thumping against the floor. He stands before me, calm and collected. “I don't remember ever seeing this much hatred in your eyes, child,” he says.
I clench my jaw, my heart pounding like a drum. But I say nothing.
Father stares at me in silence and then says, “Marco is great at his job.” He sighs and places a hand on my shoulder. “Let him do what he knows how to do best…let him keep you safe.”
Like I said, it’s not like I can really refuse, anyway. I hate Marco for all the pain his abandonment has caused me, but I can't go against my father.
“It's settled then. Marco resumes work immediately,” Father says, patting my shoulder before heading out. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Matteo and Father exit my office, leaving me to my spiraling thoughts—my pain and hurt. Just when I thought I was getting over what Marco put me through, this happens.
As they leave, Marco stands outside my office as I hold the door open, glaring at him.
He tries to speak, but I'm not interested in hearing anything he has to say, so I slam the door shut in his face.