33 | Join Ciara in hell
I wake slowly, my body heavy, my mind thick with exhaustion.
The room is quiet except for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. My head pounds with the remnants of last night's drunkenness, and when I move my hands, a sharp sting shoots up my arms.
I wince, my eyes fluttering open fully, and I look at my hands.
Bandages.
Thick, white wrappings cover my hands, tight against my skin. Panic flickers inside me, but before I can sit up, a voice pulls my attention.
"You're awake?"
I immediately search for the voice and I see Luciano.
He's standing by my bedside, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes watching me with a concerned expression. Next to him, the personal doctor is packing up his medical bag, his face carefully neutral as if he doesn't want to be in the room any longer than necessary.
"What happened?" My voice is hoarse, my throat dry. "Why are my hands like this?"
Luciano exhales, slow and measured, as if he's choosing his words carefully.
"You got drunk," he says flatly. "You crashed into a vase, shattered it, and cut up your hands in the process."
My fingers twitch instinctively, but the sharp sting reminds me that there are stitches beneath the bandages. The ache in my skull and the soreness in my body confirm his words.
"I called the doctor," Luciano continues, his tone firm, controlled. "He had to take the glass out and stitch your hands. You're fine now."
I stare at my hands, feeling something sour churn inside me. Fine? I don't feel fine. I feel wrecked.
"Don't do that again," he says suddenly.
I blink up at him, his voice snapping me out of my thoughts. "Do what?"
"Get drunk and hurt yourself."
I let out a bitter laugh. "It wasn't on purpose."
"I don't care." His jaw tightens, and for a moment, something flashes in his eyes, something dark, something possessive. "Just don't get drunk again, Aurelia."
The room is too quiet.
The doctor stands, murmurs something about keeping the wounds clean, then excuses himself, leaving me alone with Luciano. The door clicks shut behind him, and the weight of the silence between us settles heavily in my chest.
Luciano doesn't move. He just watches me, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Why did you get drunk?"
I scoff, looking away. "I felt like it."
"Don't lie to me."
I press my lips together.
"Chase told me about your drinking problem," he says. "That's why I hid all the alcohol in the house."
Figures. Chase has always been the responsible one, always trying to save me from myself. It's ironic because he, of all people, should know that I can't be saved.
Luciano steps closer, his voice softer now, but still demanding. "Tell me what made you upset enough that you needed to drink the pain away."
I shake my head, refusing. "Oh, so now you're my therapist?"
"Tell me." His voice leaves no room for argument. It's like he would stand by my side all day until I told him.
I sigh, rubbing my temples with my bandaged hands, wincing at the sting.
"I thought about my parents," I admit, my voice hollow. "I thought about my mom and how she never cared about me. I thought about-"
Luciano's face darkens instantly as he cuts me off. "You don't need to worry about your mother anymore."
His words make me pause. A strange chill runs down my spine. "Why?"
He looks at me, his gaze steady, unwavering. "Because I'm holding her hostage."
My heart stops.
"I'm holding herhostage because of you."
The air in the room shifts, suffocating, thick with something heavy, something unspoken.
"You're fucking lying," I whisper, but my voice is barely audible.
Luciano doesn't blink. "I don't lie to you, Aurelia."
A sharp inhale rattles through me. My pulse pounds against my ribs, my mind racing to process his words.
"You-" My voice catches, and I swallow hard, searching his face for any sign of dishonesty.
There's none.
"Why?" My voice is barely more than a breath. "Why are you holding her hostage? Ciara would be rolling in her grave if she knew about your actions."
Luciano moves closer, standing at the edge of my bed, his presence overwhelming, suffocating.
"Because she never deserved to be your mother," he says simply. "Because she hurt you. Because she saw you as nothing more than a bargaining chip."
A cruel laugh bubbles in my throat. "And you think you're any different?"
He doesn't flinch. "I never pretended to be good, Aurelia. But I would never let anyone hurt you. Not her. Not your father. No one."
A war wages inside me, hatred, confusion, something dangerously close to gratitude because I have waited for someone to get rid of my mom.
I stare at him, my voice quiet, defeated. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me, Luciano."
He kneels beside my bed then, his hand reaching out, hesitating just for a second before his fingers brush against my cheek. His touch is warm, steady, grounding.
"I want you to stop trying to destroy yourself," he murmurs. "I want you to see that you're not as alone as you think you are."
I close my eyes, because looking at him hurts too much.
"I want to take you out somewhere tonight, if you'll let me," he says, his voice calm yet firm.
"Where?" I ask, blinking my eyes open and looking up at him.
"A place that will prove I'm serious about this marriage." That's all he offers before rising to his feet.
"And if I don't want to go?" I challenge, my heart beating a little faster.
"You won't want to miss this, Aurelia. I can promise you that." Luciano's words linger in the air as he strides toward the door, leaving me alone in my bedroom.
I stare after him, uncertainty settling in my chest. Should I go... or should I stay?
────??────
I decided to go because Luciano words were stuck in my mind. You won't want to miss this, Aurelia.
Luciano had taken me to a restaurant, one that he owned. The restaurant is loud and crowded. Smoke lingers thick in the air, curling through the dimly lit room like ghosts of sins past.
It's the kind of place where people don't ask questions, where blood and business mix freely, where alliances are made and broken over candlelit tables and whispered threats.
I sit in the front row, my chair positioned directly in front of the small stage in the corner.
I know this place well, by day, it's one of Luciano's most exclusive restaurants, but by night, it's something else entirely. A meeting ground for the underworld, a place where power shifts hands as easily as a glass of wine, where lives are bartered like currency.
A waitress approaches, her eyes darting nervously to Luciano before settling on me.
"What can I get for you, Mrs. Costa?"
"Champagne," I say, my voice flat, my fingers tracing the edge of the linen tablecloth.
Before she can turn, Luciano speaks. "She'll have a Coke with ice."
I shoot him a glare, but he doesn't look at me. His fingers tap against the table in a steady rhythm, his expression unreadable.
The waitress nods and leaves, and I lean forward, my voice low and sharp.
"Are you seriously babysitting me right now?"
Luciano doesn't answer right away. Instead, he picks up the menu, scans it as if this is nothing more than a casual dinner. Finally, he speaks. "What we're doing tonight requires a clear head."
I sit back, crossing my arms. "And what exactly are we doing here?"
He exhales slowly, his dark eyes finally meeting mine. "You'll see."
I hate when he's secretive. It makes my skin crawl, makes my stomach twist with unease. But I don't push him, not yet.
The waitress returns, placing a glass of Coke in front of me, and surprisingly a glass of juice in front of Luciano. No alcohol.
I tilt my head. "You're not drinking either?"
His lips quirk up, just a fraction. "Not tonight. It wouldn't be kind to you if I was the only one drinking."
I take a sip of my Coke, the ice clinking against the glass, and lean back in my chair.
Around us, the atmosphere hums with quiet violence.
Men in expensive suits exchange hushed conversations, their expressions cold and calculating.
A woman in a red dress sits on a man's lap at a nearby table, her fingers trailing up his chest as if she owns him.
And then, the lights dim.
A man steps onto the stage, his presence commanding instant silence. He's dressed in a sharp black suit, his voice smooth as he speaks into the microphone.
"Welcome, esteemed guests," he says, his lips curling into a smile. "Tonight, we bring you something... special."
There's a ripple of interest through the crowd. My grip tightens around my glass.
"Tonight," the man continues, "We have a guest with us, a traitor, a disgrace."
A door opens at the side of the stage, and a guard steps out, dragging someone with him.
A masked figure.
The person stumbles, barely able to stand, their body weak, their breathing painful. They're in bad shape, their clothes torn, their movements sluggish.
The host gestures to the captive. "This woman has wronged many, but tonight, we give you the choice of what should happen to her and how her end would be."
The guard rips off the mask and my world stills.
It's my mom.
Her face is swollen, bruised, her once-pristine hair tangled and dirty. She looks... sick. Weak. Broken.
"You told me you you were holding her hostage, why is she here?" I murmur to Luciano, my voice barely above a whisper.
Luciano doesn't look at me, his gaze glued on the stage. "I wanted you to watch her die the way she made you suffer."
The host turns back to the audience. "What should we do with her? Do you have any wonderful suggestions?"
A man from the back calls out, "Shave her head!"
A murmur of approval moves through the room because everyone knows how much Mrs. Nash loved taking care of her long blonde hair, every wife was jealous of my mom's hair, they even tried to cut it.
A second later, another guard steps forward, yanking a pair of clippers from his pocket.
My mother screams, thrashing, but she's too weak to fight. They drag her to a chair, force her down, and with one swift movement, the first lock of hair falls to the floor.
I watch her suffer since I know how much she loved her hair. It was her vanity, her pride. Something that linked her to Ciara because both of them had blonde hair.
She screams again, curses, pleads, but no one listens, instead the crowd laughs.
The guard has finally cut off most of my mom's hair and he finally takes a haircut razor out and shaves her hair so that's she is bald.
She cries and cries but nobody will come to save her, she now understands my pain that I endured throughout my childhood, the way she made me feel hopeless and abandoned by the people around me since nbody came to help me.
"Cut off her hands!" someone suddenly else yells.
More approval comes from the crowd because all of us are deciding her fate.
The guard doesn't hesitate. He forces her arm against the table. My mother shrieks as a sharp blade comes down. Blood splatters. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the room.
The crowd roars in approval.
She sobs now, slumping forward, her body shaking.
Throughout the night, more and more gruesome suggestions are shouted, each one stripping away another piece of her until there's barely anything left of her body.
The host turns back to the audience again. "And now... one final decision."
I raise my hand.
A hush falls over the room. The host's gaze flickers to Luciano for approval.
Luciano nods once before the host gestures for me to step forward.
Luciano hands me his loaded gun and I take it without hesitation.
I stand with the gun in my hand. My legs are steady. My heartbeat is slow.
As I walk up the stage, my mother lifts her head, her face contorted in agony. Her lips tremble, but no words come. Maybe she wants to beg. Maybe she wants to curse me.
I don't give a fuck.
I stand over her, looking down at the woman who brought me into this world. The woman who never wanted me. The woman who only hurt me.
I press the gun to her forehead as she lets out a choked sob.
I lean in, whispering the last words she'll ever hear.
"Join Ciara in hell. You both deserve each other."
And then, I pull the trigger.
The sound rings through the restaurant. Blood splatters across the stage.
For a moment, there's silence until the applause ripples through the crowd.
I lower the gun, my hands steady, my breathing calm.
I don't regret killing my mother, because how can you mourn something you never knew or had? I never experienced a mother's love because I never had a mother to begin with.