Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Olivia
Sophie sat on the only bed in my rental, knees tucked to her chin, eyes red like a rabbit's.
"I won't allow it." She said it again, voice choked. "Oli, you can't marry a guy like that."
I sat beside her, reached to hug her, but she pulled away. My hand froze mid-air, then dropped, clutching the sheet.
"Sophie—"
"You know who the Viscontis are?" She cut me off, turning, those green eyes just like mine, brimming with tears. "Mafia, Oli! They kill, smuggle, do all kinds of illegal shit! And you're marrying into that!"
"I know."
"Then why—"
"But I got no choice." My voice stayed soft. "Castro's guys are watching you. How long do you think they'll wait? A month? Two? Or till you graduate high school?"
She bit her lip, tears spilling.
"You said two men at the school gate yesterday," I went on. "You know what that means? They're done just threatening me. They're coming for you."
"Then we call the cops—"
"Won't help." I cut her off. "Cops can't touch this. You know that, Sophie."
She dropped her head, shoulders shaking. This time I hugged her, and she didn't pull away, leaning into me, crying quietly, stifled, like she feared being heard.
"Sorry." I rested my chin on her head. "Sorry, it's all my fault. If it weren't for me..."
"Not your fault." Her voice muffled. "It's Dad. All him."
We held each other, silent for ages. Outside, neighbors downstairs argued, things smashing. The building's walls were thin—you heard footsteps upstairs, TV next door, that endless moldy stink in the hall.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'd leave this place.
Leave where I'd lived three years, leave Sophie, head to somewhere I couldn't even picture.
"Will he treat you right?" Sophie asked suddenly, voice tiny.
I froze.
"Yeah." But my voice wavered.
"How do you know?"
"Because," I paused, "Because he's marrying me. If he didn't care, why bother?"
Even I didn't buy it, but I had to sell it to Sophie. Had to make her believe I'd be fine, so she wouldn't worry, wouldn't do something stupid.
"Plus," I added, forcing lightness. "He's actually... kinda hot."
Sophie lifted her head from my arms, staring in disbelief.
"What?"
"I mean," I felt sheepish. "He's good-looking. Tall, built, got that... you know, manly vibe."
"Oli!"
"Just telling it straight!" I said. "And he promised you the best education. Any school you want, study whatever. You won't have to—"
"I don't care about that." She cut me off. "I care about you."
My throat tightened.
"I'll be okay," I said. "Really. He just needs a kid, a wife. I give him that, he gives us safety and a future. Fair deal."
"And you?" She asked. "What do you want?"
I went quiet.
What did I want?
No debt. No sixteen-hour shifts. Sophie in school, worry-free. This baby with a shot.
As for me...
I hadn't thought about myself in forever.
"I want you to be well," I said finally. "That's enough."
Sophie cried harder. I held her, patting her back over and over, like Mom did when she was around.
"And you know?" I tried sounding upbeat. "If he's marrying me, he must like me, right? Why else pick me? New York's full of women."
"Because you're pregnant," Sophie mumbled.
"Yeah, but more than that. Sophie, that night on stage, it wasn't just me performing, but he picked me." I said. "Maybe we're meant to be. Maybe it's fate."
The words felt fake even to me. But I had to say them. Had to make her believe, make her not worry.
"Everything'll be fine," I said. "I promise."
Next morning, a black sedan pulled up downstairs.
I stood at the window, watching, fingers gripping the curtain. Sophie behind me, silent.
Doorbell rang.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my packed suitcase—nothing much, some clothes, books, a photo of Sophie as a kid.
"I'll call you every week." I turned to her. "Study hard, don't wander, if anything—"
"I know." She cut in, voice choked. "You take care too."
We hugged again. Tight, like she wanted to melt into me. I hugged back, smelling her shampoo, memorizing it.
She let go, stepped back, and looked at me.
"Olivia."
"Yeah?"
"If you're not happy," she said, "come back. We can run together. Another city, another country. I'm not scared."
I looked at her. Seventeen, chin set like a grown-up.
"Okay," I said.
The doorbell rang again.
I pinched her cheek, grabbed the suitcase, and headed to the door.
Hand on the knob, I glanced back.
She stood there, tears falling, but forced a smile. Shaky, lips trembling.
"I love you," I said.
"Love you too."
I opened the door and walked out.
The manor was bigger than I imagined.
The drive took nearly an hour, through Brooklyn, Manhattan, past iron gates with cameras, stopping at a massive building. Not a house—a castle. Gray-white stone walls, tall spires, a garden ridiculously huge.
I sat in the car, staring, mind blank.
This was where I'd live?
"Miss Adrian?" The driver said. "We're here."
I snapped out of it, nodded, and pushed the door open.
A middle-aged woman in a black uniform stood at the entrance, face blank, hands clasped. She eyed me up and down, lingering on my coat, jeans, and cheap suitcase.
"Miss Adrian," she said. "I'm the housekeeper, call me Elsa. Follow me."
She turned and walked, no extra words.
I wanted to bring my suitcase, but the driver stopped me, so I followed empty-handed.
Through a huge foyer, marble floors cold underfoot, walls with massive oil paintings—classical stuff I didn't get. Crystal chandeliers hung, every piece catching light, stinging my eyes.
Upstairs, down a long hall. Carpet so thick it swallowed ankles. Floor-to-ceiling windows every few steps, sunlight spilling in, casting mottled shadows on walls.
"This is your room." Elsa stopped at a door and pushed it open. "Mr. Visconti specified south-facing. This one."
I stepped in.
Huge. Bigger than my whole apartment. Four-poster bed, white linens. Windows, curtains half-drawn, sunlight pouring in, view of lawn and distant woods.
Windows.
Sunlight.
I stood by the window, staring out, hit with a weird feeling—not happy, not sad, just empty, hollow.
"Luggage will be brought up." Elsa's voice behind me. "Bathroom on the right, closet empty. Dinner at seven in the downstairs dining room. Mr. Visconti sometimes joins, but not always."
I turned. "Is he here today?"
"He's busy." Tone flat. "Miss Adrian, a few rules I need to tell you."
Rules.
I looked at her.
"First, some areas in the manor are off-limits. The second floor east wing is Mr. Visconti's private space, third floor is the family elders' offices, basement is security. No entry without permission."
"Second, your movements are mainly in this room, downstairs living room, dining room, and garden. If needed, ring the bell by the bed, someone will come."
"Third, when Mr. Visconti is home, don't disturb him. He'll call if he needs something."
"Fourth, and most important—" She eyed me, gray eyes cold as stone. "Remember your place. You're here because he needs the child in your belly. Nothing else. Understand?"
I nodded.
"Understood."
She seemed satisfied and dipped her head. "Dinner at seven. Someone will fetch you."
She left.
Door closed behind her.
I stood in the massive room, hearing my own breath.
Then I went to the window, pushed it open.
Cold air rushed in, grass and earth scents. I breathed deep, hand on my belly.
"Baby," I said. "It's okay. We got windows now."
Over the next few days, I barely saw Ezio.
Breakfast came to the room in the mornings, lunch and dinner too. Food fancy, plated nice, but bland—steamed chicken breast, boiled veggies, white rice, some nameless soup.
No spice, no fried, nothing I craved.
Third night, I couldn't take it.
I carried the plate of boiled broccoli downstairs, found the kitchen.
A cook in a white uniform cleaned the counter. She saw me, paused.
"Miss Adrian?"
"Can I get something else?" I said. "Like... spicy?"
She frowned.
"Nutritionist says no spice. Bad for the baby."
"Just a little," I said. "I really need it. Please."
"No." Firm. "Rules. Meals are for the fetus's optimal growth, not your selfish cravings. Do your part, Miss Adrian."
That hit like a slap.
I stood there, holding the plate, speechless.
"Go back to your room." She turned away, kept cleaning. "Don't make trouble."
I turned, walked out.
In the hall, I saw Ezio leaving the study.
Dark suit, sleeves rolled to elbows, collar open. Looked like he'd just finished a meeting, face tired.
I stopped.
"Ezio?"
He looked up and glanced at me.
Cold eyes, like a stranger.
Then he looked away, kept walking, and passed me without a word.
I stood there, watching his back vanish down the hall.
Chest ached sharp.
I didn't know what I'd expected—a hello, a smile, even just a look.
But nothing.
Back in the room, I set the broccoli on the table, sat on the bed, and stared out the window.
Sky dark. Garden lights on, stretching tree shadows long.
Hand on my belly.
"We're okay," I whispered. "I promise."
But even I didn't know how much that promise weighed.
Weather was nice today, a rare sunny day.
I'd been cooped up in the room for days, going stir-crazy. Needed fresh air, so I snuck out, found a swing deep in the garden, and sat down.
Sun warm on my skin. I closed my eyes and finally relaxed.
Nearby, a gardener trimmed branches. He glanced at me now and then, but said nothing.
Phone rang.
Ella.
I answered, voice as light as I could. "Hey?"
"Olivia!" Her voice exploded through. "Where the fuck are you? Sophie said a car picked you up, took you where? Marriage? What guy? Spill—"
"Ella, Ella, Ella," I laughed, cutting her off. "Slow down, I hear you."
"Then talk!"
I breathed deep, eyed distant clouds.
"I got married," I said. "To a rich guy. Living in his huge manor now, garden, pool, people cooking and cleaning. Can you believe it, Ella? It's paradise."
Silence on the line, two seconds.
"You're lying." Ella said.
"No."