Chapter 16
Alina
Raffaele’s proposal echoes in my ears like a fever dream.
Marriage.
To the man who owns me.
The absurdity of it should make me laugh, but the possibility of returning to the bakery lodges in my throat like a fishbone. Sharp, painful, impossible to ignore.
Onyx lifts his head from his perch on the pillow, yellow eyes tracking me as I pace the length of the room. The rhythm should be soothing, but my heart refuses to slow, hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“He wants to marry me,” I tell my cat, who blinks at me with mild interest before stretching and repositioning himself. “Why would he want that? It doesn’t make sense.”
When the sky turns light instead of dark, I’m still no closer to an answer. No matter how I look at it, I can’t make heads or tails of it. The why keeps gnawing at me.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear Susan knock, and I’m only pulled out of my head when the door opens.
“Here you go,” she says, placing a tray of food on the bed. “Mr. Russo thought you’d like to eat in your room until he’s back.”
I’m so stunned all I can do is look up at her.
As she goes to leave, I finally find my voice. “Susan,” I call. When she halts her movement, I ask, “Can I have a pen and some paper?”
Nodding, she promises to bring some when she comes to collect the tray, which doesn’t happen until lunch, when she brings me more food I can’t possibly stomach. This time I’m not being obstinate or stubborn. My nerves make it hard to swallow my spit, let alone any food.
My fingers smooth out the crumpled paper as I sink onto the bed with the pen. Mom always made a list of pros and cons for big decisions, and right now, it seems better than just debating with myself.
I draw a line down the middle of the paper, writing ‘Pros’ and ‘Cons’ in careful letters at the top of each column. The familiarity of the exercise grounds me, even as the subject matter sends anxiety crawling up my spine.
Even though I now have the tools, I find it hard to put words on paper. I’ve never had to make a list for something that feels so unreal.
Marriage… to my captor. If that doesn’t qualify as surreal, I don’t know what would.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Just write something. Anything.”
Pros:
Return to the bakery
Complete freedom (maybe? Eventually?)
Knowing where I stand (kind of?!)
Cons:
Marrying a criminal
What would he expect from me as a wife?
Sex?
It feels stupid to even write the last one. He mentioned children, so sex is a given. Besides, I can’t imagine someone like Raffaele being celibate. Just as I think that, another thought hits me. Will he cheat on me? And is it even cheating if it’s not a love marriage?
Yes, I decide. If I’m to be married, if I’m to give vows, I want it to matter. I won’t tolerate cheating. I know I’m not a catch by any means. This isn’t me being self-deprecating, but I know the score.
Shaking my head, I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking of more things to add to the list. I have plenty of things I want to ask him about, but until I know the answer, I can’t decide if they’re pros or cons.
Turning the paper over, I start writing down the list of questions.
Will I ever be truly free?
What if he gets tired of me?
Will he take a lover?
How can I earn any freedom as he mentioned?
Do I get to make decisions for myself?
Is there anything I’m not allowed?
When will he want children?
Can he change his mind and sell me later?
Tears gather in my eyes as I think about my future children never knowing their grandmother. But before the first one can fall, anger stirs inside me. My mom is the reason I’m considering marrying into the mafia.
The mafia she borrowed money from.
I know the shame would destroy her if she were still alive. She’s not, though. And her debt is what landed me here in the first place.
The anger and sadness sharpen into something dangerously like resentment. I loved my mom—I still do—but her choices have consequences I’m living with. That I’ll keep living with, either as Raffaele’s prisoner or his wife.
“This is insane,” I mutter, crumpling the paper again and throwing it across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands near the wastebasket. A failed attempt at basketball that feels like a perfect metaphor for my life right now.
I get up and retrieve it, smoothing it out to stare at my childish list. As if marriage to Raffaele Russo could be reduced to bullet points. As if any of this makes sense in a world where a person can own another.
Hours pass as I move from the bed to the window to the bathroom and back again. My mind circles the same questions without finding answers. Eventually, I crawl into bed, knowing sleep will be as elusive as it was last night.
I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as clouds pass over the moon outside my window. Onyx nudges my hand with his head, demanding attention. I stroke his fur absently, grateful for his presence. At least I’m not completely alone in this.
“What should I do?” I whisper to him.
He blinks at me slowly, then turns three circles before settling back against my side. No help there.
The darkness presses around me, and I pull the blankets higher despite the warmth of the room. Soon, I’ll have to give Raffaele my answer. Right now, all I can do is wrestle with impossible choices and try to find the path that hurts the least.
Sleep finally claims me somewhere in the early hours, my dreams a confused tangle of wedding dresses and locked doors, of the bakery and chess pieces moving on their own across a board.
The first rays of morning light creep across the hardwood floor, reaching for me like hesitant fingers. I’ve been sitting in this window seat for hours, watching the world wake up outside—a world that hasn’t noticed my absence.
Raffaele is coming back at some point today.
Unless I’ve counted the days wrong, it’s March fifth and I’ve been here for twelve days. And in that time, not a single person has raised the alarm. At least not as far as I know.
No police cars with flashing lights have come to Raffaele’s property. I’m sure there are no search parties combing the neighborhood, and no desperate pleas on the evening news.
Just… silence.
The kind of silence that wraps around your throat and squeezes until the truth sinks in. I’ve made myself so small that I’ve become invisible.
Behind me, Onyx stretches on the rumpled bedsheets, his black fur catching the sunlight. At least he misses me when I’m not around.
My fingertips trace patterns on the cold glass as I stare at the perfectly manicured grounds of Raffaele’s estate. Snow still blankets much of the lawn, but there are patches of green emerging, stubborn and determined.
Spring is coming, with or without my permission.
I catch my reflection in the window. As I stare into my own eyes, I try to recall when I became this person. This woman who’s spent her entire life trying not to take up space.
Even before Raffaele, I was shrinking myself. Wearing clothes two sizes too big to hide my curves. Speaking softly so I wouldn’t interrupt. Standing in the background of every family photo, if I appeared at all. Making myself convenient, undemanding, invisible.
“You’re taking up too much space,” Sabrina had complained once when we were teenagers, squeezing past me in the narrow hallway of our apartment. “God, just suck it in or something.”
I’d pressed myself against the wall, trying to make my body smaller, feeling the shame burn in my cheeks. Later, I overheard Mom talking to her.
“That wasn’t kind, Sabrina.”
“What? It’s not my fault she’s fat.”
“Honey, don’t say things like that about your sister.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Later that same day, Mom said to me, “She doesn’t mean it. She’s just going through a phase.”
But she never outgrew that phase. And Mom had never stopped making excuses for her.
The memory shifts, blurring into another. We were both teenagers, and Sabrina was already beyond beautiful. She walked into my room without knocking. Her eyes landed on the shoes I’d bought for the winter formal—my first school dance where I actually had a date.
“Cute,” she says, running her fingers over the pointy ends. “Can I borrow these on Friday?”
My stomach drops. “I was going to wear them to the dance on Friday.”
Her face hardens. “So? You can wear something else. Tyler Matthews asked me to go with him, and I need something new.”
“But I don’t have any other shoes,” I try to protest, my voice already shrinking. “And I’ve been saving for the shoes for months.”
When Mom walked in on our argument, I’d been certain she’d take my side. They were my shoes. I’d paid for them with money I earned working extra shifts at the bakery.
Instead, she’d placed her hand on my shoulder, her eyes pleading. “Just let her have this one, Lina. There’ll be other dances.”
I’d given in. Of course I had. I always did.
Sabrina wore my shoes to the dance with Tyler Matthews. Two days later, I found them on her floor, one heel broken off. I never made it to the winter formal, and she never thanked me, apologized, or replaced the shoes.
There were a hundred moments like that. A thousand. Each one teaching me the same lesson. My wants, my needs, my very existence were negotiable. Something to be accommodated only when convenient, sacrificed when not.
Even after Mom got sick, nothing changed. Sabrina still came first. When Mom needed rides to appointments, Sabrina was always too busy with her social life. When Mom needed someone to hold her hand when she was scared, it was always me.
“Your sister’s having a hard time accepting my illness,” Mom would say, making excuses. “She processes grief differently than you do.”
But when did anyone consider how I was processing grief? When did anyone make excuses for me?
Never.
It was as though I wasn’t allowed to be shocked and scared when she was diagnosed with ALS in August. Or when her health declined so fast she had to stop working in the bakery in September.