Octavia
I sit opposite my father in his office in Florence, surrounded by marble and dark wood. I look at him and realise, with a chill that settles deep, that I don’t know this man at all.
My sister’s accident destroyed whatever illusions I had of him. I see him clearly now, for who he has always been.
“We need to talk,” I say.
He nods, impatient already.
“First, Ophelia,” I begin.
He doesn’t let me finish. “Your sister is fine. It was a simple accident. She’s alive. We have more important matters to discuss.”
My chest tightens dangerously, but I don’t let it show.
I ball my hands into fists beneath the table, my nails biting into my palms, keeping me in control through the pain. “I don’t like how easily you dismiss this.”
“I’m not dismissing anything,” he replies coolly. “Accidents happen. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“She was in a coma,” I snap. “For days.”
His jaw tightens. “I am well aware of that.”
“Then why did it take you so long to be there?” My voice trembles despite my effort to control it. “Why weren’t you at her bedside when you knew she was fighting for her life? Why didn’t you even let mamma call? I’m not talking about visiting, just a damn phone call.”
He offers no reply.
But she did call, eventually.
I don’t know whether it was Arlo or the Bratva, but I know they have leverage over my father.
Not only did Arlo force him to dissolve the marriage he’d arranged for Ophelia with that repulsive old bastard, he replaced it entirely, with himself.
And after that, my mother was suddenly allowed to call. I know that wasn’t a coincidence.
“There was nothing I could do,” my father says after a moment. “I had more important matters. The family relies on me. The shipments—”
“More important than your daughter?” My voice rises before I can stop it. “More important than knowing she was safe? That she was being treated properly?” I lean forward. “You left her. What if I hadn’t been there? What if Arlo hadn’t been there?”
I inhale slowly. “Do you want to know what I finally realised?” I say, my voice tight. “You care about me. Why, I don’t know. You even love mamma, in your own warped way. But you despise my sister. You’ve always held something against her, resentment, bitterness, whatever you want to call it.”
My jaw tightens. “You’re just a toxic, egocentric—”
He’s on his feet before the word is even out.
The slap comes so fast I don’t register it at first. Then pain bursts across my face, and tears sting my eyes from the shock.
He’s never hit me before.
For a brief second, he looks stunned himself, almost regretful. But pride takes over.
“Do not ever speak to me like that again,” he says coldly. “Know your place. Respect me, not only as your father, but as your leader.”
“Why do you hate her?” I whisper.
I think he won’t answer, but then he does.
“Your sister is weak.”
“She is the strongest person I know,” I spit. “She’s better than this world deserves.”
“She is soft,” he snaps. “And as I said, she is weak. She isn’t made for the mafia.” His voice hardens. “So she is treated exactly as she should be, a dutiful Italian wife. Meant to be shown off on her husband’s arm and warm his bed.”
“Don’t,” I snap.
My hands curl at my sides.
I’m ready to stab him for the things coming out of his mouth.
“Don’t ever use those misogynistic words,” I say. “About any woman. And especially not about my sister.”
“But you—” he continues, ignoring me entirely, his eyes full of pride. “You are strong. You are exactly what the Bellanti name needs.”
“I know about your extracurricular activities,” he adds suddenly. “About Death.” A pleased expression crosses his face. “And I must say, I’m proud of you. You have the heartlessness required to rule.”
My stomach twists.
“So that’s it,” I whisper. “She’s disposable. And I’m useful.”
He doesn’t respond.
I see he won’t, so I change tactics. “What does Vass have over you? Or is it the Bratva?”
His eyes darken. Something crosses his face, gone too quickly for me to name.
“What did he use to force your hand?” I press. “To make you agree to their marriage?”
“That is not your concern,” he says sharply.
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “It is, father. You keep making enemies, and when you finally step aside, I’ll be the one left cleaning up the damage. They’ll come for me once I take over,” I say evenly. “So I’d say it very much is my concern.”
And for the first time in my life, I don’t look at him as my father.
I look at him as a liability.