19 | I welcome the sting of reality
I woke up earlier than I planned, not because of an alarm or any responsibility, but simply because I'd had a good night's sleep.
The soft sunlight slipped through the curtains, lighting up the room with a gentle warmth.
I blinked a few times, disoriented for a moment before I remembered where I was. Stretching lazily, I sat up, still feeling the last traces of sleep lingering in my body.
The clock on the wall showed it was almost noon. Damn, I'd slept longer than I thought.
But the best part? Luciano wasn't here.
We had separate rooms, and even though his was just a few doors down, it felt like miles apart. The silence of my space was a relief, a chance to breathe without the weight of his presence looming over me.
I was thankful for that peace.
Dragging myself out of bed, I grabbed a simple black dress and slipped it on without much thought. It was neat, good enough for the day, but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.
I headed out of my bedroom and as I moved through the hallway, a distant sound caught my attention. Voices. Low murmurs at first, then rising steadily as I drew closer to the living room.
My steps faltered, my stomach tightening. I wasn't sure why, but something in my gut told me that this moment was about to break me.
I stepped closer to the grand living room, the massive double doors standing open, the sound of laughter spilling out into the hallway.
As I crossed the threshold, my eyes landed on the scene in front of me, and it took everything I had to keep my composure.
Luciano was sitting in an armchair, and sitting across from him, was my mother.
The woman who had humiliated me in front of everyone, the one who had thrown wine in my face only weeks ago. Her icy blue eyes met mine without hesitation, a look of complete indifference in them.
She was sipping from a cup of coffee, a casual, almost comfortable expression on her face, as though nothing had happened. As though she hadn't thrown my dignity into the dirt and wiped it clean with her careless cruelty.
The tension in my chest only grew as I took in the scene, my mother and Luciano, both as if they shared some secret, some understanding. It was as if nothing was out of place.
Was he just going to let her get away with this? Was he really just going to sit there, laughing with her, as though her disrespect hadn't been offensive and intentional?
I felt the anger rising in me like a storm, dark and overwhelming.
I thought he would deal with her. I thought he would punish her for what she did, for humiliating me. For disrespecting the Don's wife. But no.
The fact that she was Ciara's mother only made it worse. It was as if that alone excused everything, her insults, her cruelty.
I felt my heart crack just a little more as I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching them.
Luciano should have punished her, shown her the consequences of her behavior. But instead, he seemed to enjoy her company.I didn't know what hurt more, the fact that he hadn't protected me, or the realization that I had expected him to?
I began to bite into the skin around my nails, a nervous habit I can't seem to break, but it doesn't calm the storm inside me. Instead, it only makes me more restless.
I can't stand it. I need to escape.
I turn without warning and walk to the kitchen, my movements stiff with tension.
I don't know why I'm doing it, but I open the cupboard and pull out the tea kettle.
My hands are shaking, and I can feel the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me, suffocating me. But the rage is too much to hold back now. It's all I can think about.
I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove, the hum of the burner beneath it a dull sound in the background. It's a slow burn, but my anger rises faster than the water.
When the kettle finally whistles, I grab it, my hands steady but my heart pounding in my chest.
I make my way back to the living room, my feet barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. I step inside, and they don't even notice me at first.
Luciano's laughing. My mother's talking. They're completely unaware of what's coming.
Without a word, I pour the boiling water over my mother. The scream that erupts from her mouth is jagged, full of pain and shock, and it cuts through the air, sharp and unforgiving.
She stumbles backward, clutching her face as the burn of the water sears her skin. Her coffee tumbles from her hand and spills across the carpet, staining the expensive fabric.
I don't feel regret.
I feel control.
Her frantic cries only fuel my rage, but I don't stay to watch the aftermath.
I turn on my heel, my chest tight with every step, and walk straight out of the house. The cold air slaps me across the face, and I welcome it.
I welcome the sting of reality.