Octavia
An accident.
A car accident.
The words sit heavy in my chest, crushing the air from my lungs.
She’s alive.
Stabilised.
But she’s in a coma.
In a fucking coma.
And it feels as though the walls are closing in from every side.
Whoever caused it will pay.
When I open my mouth to say as much, Arlo looks at me and tells me it’s already been handled.
Whatever that means.
I don’t care whether it was reckless driving or a genuine mistake. Someone nearly killed my sister, and I will accept nothing less than blood.
I’m sitting in a chair beside her bed now.
Machines hum softly. The room smells sterile and wrong. My sister lies motionless, her skin too pale on top of the white sheets.
Markev is at my side. He hasn’t left once.
And I can’t stop the tears. They keep falling from my eyes no matter how hard I try to contain them.
I should be stronger than this, especially with Adelaide and Isaak here—an heir to the Bratva watching every crack, and every weakness. I shouldn’t let them see me break.
But I can’t.
I can’t stop crying, and I can’t make them go away.
For some reason, Adelaide refuses to leave my sister’s side, which means Isaak doesn’t leave Adelaide’s.
Not long ago she threatened my sister’s life, and now she stands here as if she cares.
I don’t understand it.
I clench my fists as confusion turns into anger.
Arlo is a mess. Anyone with eyes can see it. He looks completely gone, struggling to keep himself together. His eyes are bloodshot, his temper gone, snapping at everyone around him.
When the nurses and doctors tried to keep him away from Ophelia, he bought the entire damn hospital.
And then there is my family.
My father still isn’t here.
My mother texted once, and then disappeared. I know what that means. He must have taken her phone.
I don’t expect her to be here, even though I know how desperately she wants to be near her daughter. But he would never allow it.
I still don’t understand the extent of his control over her. He dictates where she goes, what she says, even who she can speak to.
He controls her phone, her movements, her fucking life.
She lives in a gilded cage, and my chest hurts when I think about it.
But what can I do?
Ophelia and I used to talk about it, about the day he would finally step down, about how we would help her then. We told ourselves it would be different. That we would make it different. I don’t know anymore if that was hope or self-deception.
My father was informed about the accident. I told him myself. I told my mother as well. She fainted while still on the phone with me.
He only asked whether Ophelia was alive.
That was all.
I grit my teeth every time someone asks where he is. I keep repeating the same lie, over and over.
He’s on his way.
But is he?
What kind of father takes this long when his daughter lies unconscious in a hospital bed?
I replay every excuse he’s sent me, again and again, until it all adds up and the truth is clear.
I was blind for years.
I tried to convince myself their differences were small and manageable. I never wanted to see how deep it really went.
To him, she was always something to be traded.
Negotiated.
Used.
I don’t know whether I truly didn’t see it, or whether I chose not to.
I was given choices, real or pretend, but still choices.
She never was.
I should have noticed the signs, but I was too wrapped up in my own battles to look closely.
As I stare at my unconscious sister, I know that if it were me in that bed, he would already be here.
That truth hurts more than anything else.
I failed her.
I should have seen the way he treated her. He isn’t abusive, or at least, I hope he isn’t. If I ever discover he laid a hand on my mother or my sister, I would kill him myself. Father or not.
But he never bothered to hide how much he favoured me. Or how little he cared for her.
He arranged Ophelia’s marriage to a man older than himself, and I knew even then it was a form of punishment. There were plenty of young, powerful Italian men within the mafia he could have chosen instead.
Again, I was blind to it.
Maybe it was too much to see at that age. Maybe I was already burdened with more than I could carry, and I chose not to look too closely.
Or maybe I simply didn’t want to know.
I would never have allowed that marriage. I promised my sister as much. I knew I was meant to take over the family one day, and I fought for time wherever I could find it. I convinced him to delay the wedding until after we finished the academy. It bought us a few years.
He was prepared to marry her off at eighteen.
Fuck.
It was all right in front of me, and I didn’t see it.
The door opens.
Luigi Bellanti steps inside at last, finally gracing us with his presence.
His eyes flick immediately to Markev’s arm around me, his jaw tightening.
But he stays quiet.
Then his eyes meet Arlo’s, shifting briefly to Ophelia before returning to him. If looks could kill, Arlo would already be on the floor.
They exchange a few quiet, loaded words before Arlo follows him out into the corridor.
I consider stopping them.
But this is between them. I will defend my sister with everything I have, but I can see it too, Arlo loves her.
I know she loves him too. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking, because I want happiness for her so desperately it hurts. But I’ve seen the way she looks at him, and eyes don’t lie.
She didn’t confide in me, not that I expected her to. After everything that happened, after the weight that’s been thrown at us for years, slowly pulled us apart.
If Arlo truly wants my sister, then he needs to fight for her.
I turn back to Ophelia and take her hand.
“Come back,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“I need you, Lia.”