Chapter 5 Mikayla
Mikayla
Relief didn’t feel the way I thought it would.
I’d imagined it crashing over me—violent and desperate, like air after drowning. Instead, it arrived quietly and settled in my chest, warm and uneasy, like something borrowed I’d eventually be asked to return.
I sat alone in the room they’d given me. Calling it a guest room felt generous. There were no personal touches, no soft attempts at comfort, no decorative pillows silently judging my life choices. This was a room for temporary problems. A holding space.
For people no one had decided what to do with yet.
Me included.
The blanket smelled faintly of old detergent and nothing else. No cologne. No memory. Just clean fabric that had never known commitment. Either no one had ever slept here before me, or anyone who had hadn’t stayed long enough to leave a trace.
Neither option was comforting.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was what safety felt like now. It didn’t feel like freedom. It didn’t feel like peace.
It felt like a pause.
Temporary.
The story of my life.
I pressed my palms to my knees and breathed—slow, deliberate—just to prove I still could. No one was chasing me. No organ music thundered like a funeral march for my freedom. No priest cleared his throat.
I wasn’t getting married.
The thought landed gently, then expanded until my chest ached with it. I had escaped. Somehow, impossibly, I’d slipped free of a future handed to me like an invoice I’d never agreed to pay.
And right on cue—because my brain is efficient if nothing else—guilt followed.
George’s face surfaced uninvited. Pale. Tense. The way his hands had shaken when he’d straightened my veil, whispering just get through today like today was the problem, like tomorrow didn’t exist.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
He had always been like this. I’d just been too young to see it.
After my mother died, George stayed. Everyone said I was lucky. He could’ve left—taken his things and walked away—but he didn’t. He remained in the house my mother had owned, slept in her bed, ate at her table, accepted sympathy meant for both of us.
I mistook that for love.
At fifteen, grief blurs lines. Gratitude fills spaces where judgment should live. I told myself he cared because he hadn’t thrown me out. Because he’d stayed.
I never questioned why.
Once, he’d held me through nightmares and promised no one would ever hurt me while he was alive.
Sweet. Comforting.
Deeply ironic.
Because as I got older, the pattern sharpened. Everything George did served him. Affection came with conditions. Safety came at a cost. I learned how to be agreeable. Useful. Quiet.
I needed him. He knew it.
And somewhere along the way, the man who claimed to protect me became the one shaping the hurt—always with an excuse that sounded reasonable if you didn’t look too closely.
I stood and went to the bathroom before I could spiral any further.
The shower was hot enough to sting. I welcomed it. Let the water hit bruises I’d forgotten about, grounding me in pain I could understand. I stood there longer than necessary, steam fogging the glass, thoughts drifting without landing anywhere dangerous.
When I stepped out, I felt… steadier.
I wrapped myself in a thick bathrobe hanging behind the door and tied it tight. The fabric was soft, unfamiliar, and mercifully neutral. I picked up a brush, hesitated, then gave up on the idea of taming my curls properly.
So I braided my hair.
It was mindless. Familiar. Over. Under. Tighten. Repeat. By the time I finished, my breathing had evened out. I didn’t look better—but I looked functional.
That would have to do.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
I still didn’t think to run.
Instead, I wondered what happened next—and that scared me more than panic ever had.
Eventually, curiosity won.
I stepped into the hallway, half-expecting armed guards or someone clearing their throat ominously. Instead, I found nothing. Just quiet. Expensive, deliberate quiet.
My body protested the moment I decided to move, sharp and insistent, as if to remind me that the pain wasn’t imaginary. Still, the doctor had checked me thoroughly—no breaks, no fractures. Just swelling and bruising. He’d even told me I should walk around gently, to keep my body from getting stiff.
The house revealed itself slowly—stone floors cool under my bare feet, ceilings too high, windows too large. No clutter. No photos. No warmth. A place designed for power, not living.
I wandered past rooms meant for negotiations, not memories. Past a dining table long enough to seat a small army.
No one stopped me.
That felt… significant.
Then I heard laughter.
Male voices, easy and unguarded. The sound startled me more than silence ever could. It felt wrong in a place like this. Like danger had taken the afternoon off.
Then came the sharp slap of cards hitting wood.
Naturally, I followed it.
The room opened into a den—low ceiling, leather chairs, a battered table marked by years of use. Four men sat around it, sleeves rolled up, cigarettes abandoned in an ashtray, cards spread like this was the most normal thing in the world.
They all looked up at once.
I froze.
They stared.
“Well,” one of them said slowly. “You’re awake.”
“Devastatingly observant,” I replied.
Three of them snorted. One choked on his drink.
“I got lost,” I added. “Which is impressive, since I wasn’t trying to go anywhere.”
“You’re in Gianni’s house,” the youngest said eagerly.
Gianni. Ah.
“That explains the decor,” I said. “Very controlled minimalist with murderous undertones.”
That earned a proper laugh.
“Careful,” a dark-haired man warned. “You’re talking about the boss.”
I blinked. “Are you not going to shoot me for that?”
They exchanged looks.
“Nah,” one said. “He likes you.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.”
A chair scraped back. “Sit,” the man said. “You’re making Dunn nervous.”
“I am not nervous,” Dunn muttered. “I’m focused.”
“You’re sweating,” the man corrected.
“I’m Larry,” he added, then gestured around. “That’s Dunn. That’s Enzo. And that feral puppy is Angelo.”
Angelo beamed.
I sat carefully.
“So,” I said. “Minions? Henchmen? Loyal band of morally questionable brothers?”
“Lieutenants,” Larry said. “Minion has a yellow connotation.”
“Want in?” Dunn asked, sliding a card toward me.
“I don’t know the rules.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Neither do we.”
I smiled, heart racing.
For what it was worth, if I was going to be a complication, I had every intention of being a happy one.