Chapter 5
Chapter Five
VIOLA
Isit at the ornate dresser in my bedroom, the antique mahogany piece that’s been the silent witness through four years of my nightmare.
The mirror reflects back a woman I barely recognize anymore.
Grief finally crashes over me—not for Salvatore, that cold, controlling sadist who doesn’t deserve a single tear, but for my own fate, the cruel wreckage he’s left with his passing.
It hits like a wave, pulling me under until my chest aches with the weight of it.
Bonafanti’s sleazy offer is still echoing in my ears.
I’ve caught the sly looks in the past, and I knew the cheap insults would come, but I did not expect a proposition so soon.
I better prepare myself for more. They will keep coming.
I won’t be able to accept any of them. Not one.
Even the thought of lying with any of them brings a wave of nausea.
I was young and na?ve when I was bullied into this godforsaken marriage to clear my father’s debts.
My mother and sister kissed me and thanked me for securing the future of my family.
I gave up everything for that fragile promise.
My freedom, my body, my dreams. All of it sacrificed on the altar of family loyalty.
And now, if I go back to my father’s house, the threats and emotional blackmail will all begin again, because I know he has fallen deeply in debt again.
I shake my head in wonder. Am I really being thrown out on the street with nothing?
Not a single asset in my name, and the money in my current account will last a month if I am really frugal.
It makes my heart break in a way I didn’t think possible, a sharp, fracturing pain that radiates through my ribs and leaves me gasping softly.
How can I fight this?
The question burns through me as I stare at the stricken woman in the mirror.
Her eyes are red and puffy. Rage bubbles up hot and fierce, making my hands tremble where they rest on the cool surface of the dresser.
I want to scream, to shatter something, to demand what’s mine after everything I endured.
But how? How do you fight the will left by the biggest mafia Don in the country, the one that owns the police and the law on their payroll?
Fuck, I curse bitterly under my breath as I grab a tissue from the box beside me. I wipe at my eyes, wiping furiously, but the tears just won’t stop falling, fresh ones welling up quickly.
Someone knocks on the door, polite but insistent, cutting through my anguish like an unwelcome intrusion.
I hurry to reach for my sunglasses on the dresser, ready to hide the evidence of my unraveling.
But then I stop, mid-motion, the glasses hovering in my hand.
What is the point? How long before I’m thrown out of this house?
Days? Hours? Why the hell should I care about keeping up appearances anymore?
The fight drains out of me, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
I don’t respond, but the door creaks open anyway, and Daisy, one of the servants, slips in quietly.
I like her. She has a sweet face with a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and she has been here since the day I arrived.
She feels familiar, a small constant in my cold world, and for a fleeting moment, her presence calms the storm inside me just a little.
Her face registers shock for a split second as she takes in my tear-streaked reflection, my swollen eyes and the way my shoulders are hunched forward. But she recovers quickly, and her expression softens into genuine sympathy.
“I know this is a bad time,” she says softly, her voice hesitant, fingers twisting the edge of her crisp white apron. “Please… the master’s son requests your presence downstairs.”
Irritation flares hot in my chest, sharp and immediate, but I try not to let it show, keeping my tone even.
An audience is the last thing I need right now.
I want to be alone with my thoughts. I want to tell her I’m not ready to go downstairs yet, but I dare not refuse a direct order from Salvatore’s son.
I find myself nodding my agreement. Daisy takes her leave with a small curtsy, the door clicking shut behind her softly.
Mario is just two years older than me, yet he’s always acted like he was itching to take over from his father.
An arrogant man with shockingly cruel eyes, maybe even worse than his father.
I feared him instinctively and kept out of his way.
Now… I can’t help the flicker of dread that stirs inside me. What does he want from me?
I can’t think of any reason he would want to see me.
It wouldn’t be sexual. I literally belonged to his father.
Stepmothers are off-limits even in their twisted world.
The thought brings a reassuring comfort.
It would be ugly if I had to reject him.
Very ugly. In fact, I might not come out of it alive.
I wipe the tears from my face, repair my make-up, and slide the sunglasses back on. Straightening my back with deliberate effort, I roll my shoulders back. Be strong, I tell my reflection silently.
You’ve survived worse. You can survive this.
I draw in a shaky breath, rise from the dresser, and head downstairs. The weight of what’s coming presses down on me like an invisible hand.