3. Adriana
ADRIANA
There's a knock on my bedroom door at ten in the morning, three sharp raps that make my stomach clench before I even have a chance to open my eyes. I know immediately that it's nothing good.
Gio only sends someone to get me when I've done something wrong, and usually there's a punishment waiting. It's always when he wants to remind me exactly how powerless I am in this house that used to be my home.
I sit up slowly, my heart already racing.
The morning light is filtering soft and golden through the gauzy curtains next to my bed, completely at odds with the dread pooling in my gut.
Outside my window, the estate grounds stretch out in manicured perfection, all the way out to the high walls that keep me trapped here like a prisoner.
"Miss Santoro." Marco's voice comes through the door, flat and inflectionless. He's one of Gio's men, and he gives me the creeps—he has dead eyes, and hands that have killed more people than I want to think about. "Your brother wants to see you in his office."
My throat tightens. "Now?"
"Now."
I don't ask what it's about. Marco wouldn't tell me even if he knew, and asking questions only makes things worse. I learned that years ago.
"I'll be down in five minutes."
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. It only barely helps to manage the panic that always lives just beneath my skin, always ready to surface.
What did I do?
I run through the past few days in my mind, searching for the infraction. I haven't asked to leave the estate. Haven't spoken out of turn. Haven't done anything that could be construed as defiance. But there's always something. Gio always finds something.
I dress quickly in dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt, pulling my hair back into a ponytail.
My hands shake as I tie it, and I have to start over twice before I get it right.
In the mirror, I look pale and tired, the dark circles under my eyes permanent now, etched into my face after ten years of this.
Ten years of being a prisoner in this house, wondering every day if it'll be the day someone finally goes too far.
I walk downstairs on legs that feel unsteady, my hand trailing along the banister for support.
The house is quiet this morning. Most of Gio's men are probably still sleeping off whatever they did last night.
The ones who are awake watch me pass with expressions that range from indifference to something that makes my skin crawl. I've learned not to make eye contact.
Gio's office is at the end of the east wing, in what used to be my father's study. The door is heavy oak imported from Italy, with brass fixtures that gleam in the overhead light. I knock once, softly.
"Come in."
His voice is smooth, and he sounds like he's in a good mood. That's how I know this is going to be bad.
I push open the door and step inside.
The office isn't much different than how my father left it—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive desk that dominates the room.
Behind it sits my brother, looking every inch the mafia boss he's become.
At thirty-five, Gio is handsome in a cold, sharp way.
He wears his dark hair slicked back and is always in an expensive suit with a gold chain at his throat and a luxury watch at his wrist. My father preferred to keep his wealth subdued, but my brother likes to show off how much money he's not only inherited, but also made in the three years since my father died.
"Adriana." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I sit. I have to pick my battles, which these days are essentially none of them. At least when it comes to myself. I'll fight for my son's safety, but for my own, I've learned to keep quiet and do and say what Gio asks. It's better for both me and Matteo that way.
My hands fold in my lap, fingers twisting together. The leather chair is cold against the backs of my arms, and the office smells like cigar smoke and expensive cologne. My father's scent used to linger here. Now it's just Gio's.
He doesn't speak right away. He just watches me, his expression giving away nothing, although I know he's looking at whatever he sees and finding it wanting. The silence stretches out, deliberate and oppressive, until my heart is hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
Finally, he picks up a piece of paper from his desk. "Do you know what this is?"
I shake my head.
"This is a receipt from the pharmacy." He sets it down, turning it so I can see the numbers. "Three hundred and forty-seven dollars. For medication."
My stomach drops. "Matteo needed his inhaler," I say quietly. My son's name feels dangerous in my mouth, knowing it will draw Gio's attention to him. "He was having trouble breathing, and we were out of refills. The doctor said—"
"I don't care what the doctor said." Gio's voice is still pleasant and smooth. "I care that you spent over three hundred dollars without asking my permission first."
"He couldn't breathe—"
"So you stole from me."
My eyes go round, and my breath catches in my throat. My pulse kicks up into high gear. "I didn't steal. I used the household account, the one you said I could use for necessities—"
"Necessities that I approve." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
"You don't get to decide what's necessary, Adriana.
I do. This is my house. My money. My rules.
And maybe if you hadn't birthed such a weak, simpering little boy, he wouldn't need an inhaler to breathe.
Maybe he'd be able to function without being medicated. "
I feel my eyes burn, but I fight back the tears.
I know Gio wants to see me cry, and the only power I have is preventing that satisfaction.
Under the tears, too, there's anger, burning through me at every word.
I want to scream at him and throw something, tell him that our father would be ashamed of what he's become, of how he treats his own sister, his own nephew.
But I know the latter isn't true, after what happened on my eighteenth birthday, and my father didn't treat Matteo any better. He's a bastard child after all, a product of my violation at best—in my family's eyes—and my sins at worst.
And fighting back, screaming and yelling and throwing things, will only make things worse. I learned that early on, when I nearly lost Matteo because my father beat me so badly. That was the first lesson in keeping my mouth shut.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "It won't happen again.
I'll make sure to run it by you first." The words make me feel sick.
Gio could say no, and deprive Matteo of his medication, and then what?
What could I possibly do about it? My brother would say no just to see how far he could make me go, just to see me crawl and beg and what I'd promise to do if he said yes.
"No. It won't." He stands, walking around the desk to lean against it, arms crossed. He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "Because you're going to learn what happens when you steal from me."
My heart stops. "Gio, please—"
"I have some men in a warehouse right now. Three of them. They were stealing from me. Skimming off the top of shipments, thinking I wouldn't notice." His smile is terrible. "I noticed."
I don't want to know where this is going. I don't want to hear what comes next. But he tells me anyway.
"They deserve to die, obviously. Can't let that kind of disrespect slide. But I've been thinking about how to make it educational." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm an insect under glass. "Matteo's nine now, isn't he?"
No. No. My hands are shaking. I don't want Matteo to be a part of this. I don't want him to ever hold a gun, or take a man's life, or make someone bleed. And certainly not now, not when he's still so young…
"He's old enough to start learning the family business.
Old enough to understand what happens to people who steal from the Santoros.
" Gio's voice is casual, like he's discussing the weather.
"I think I'll take him to the warehouse.
Let him watch while my men take care of the thieves.
Or maybe—" His smile widens. "Maybe I'll put a gun in his hand.
Let him pull the trigger himself. Break him in early. "
The room spins around me, and I feel like I can't breathe. I stare at my brother in absolute horror as the words sink in. He's going to take my son. My nine-year-old baby. And he's going to force him to watch men die, or worse—force him to kill them himself.
"No," I gasp, any shred of dignity or pretense that I have any upper hand in this situation vanishing. "No, Gio, please. Please don't do this. He's just a child—"
"He's a Santoro. It's time he learned what that means."
"Please." The tears well up now, and I let them. I don't care about pride or dignity or anything except keeping my son safe. "Please, I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just don't—don't take him there. Don't make him—"
I can't even finish the sentence. Gio watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles.
It's the worst thing I've ever seen.
"Anything?" he asks softly.
I nod frantically. "Yes. Anything."
"Interesting." He pushes off the desk, walking back around to his chair. "You know, I have a man who did me a favor recently. Caught those thieves I mentioned. He deserves a reward."
My stomach churns with dread.
"I think some photos would be appropriate. Nothing too explicit—just enough to show my appreciation." He opens a drawer, pulls out a phone, and slides it across the desk toward me. "Go to your room. Take some pictures. You know the kind I mean."