Steel and Blood

“Denied. Your credit card is blocked, miss. Either pay with cash or leave,” the elderly man said, once again looking at me with disapproval, as if I were about to rob his pathetic, almost godforsaken gas station on the outskirts of town.

The truth is, I don’t care about the measly cash in his register. All I want is a damn pack of mint gum to cover up the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Because if my mother finds out I was smoking at Diana’s party, she’ll lock me up at home for a month — and that’s the best-case scenario. In the worst case, they’ll escort me to and from university with security guards and take away my phone. And that’s the last thing I want.

“Maybe we could try again?” I smiled politely, though my left eye was already twitching from the effort of keeping up this fake calm.

The old man doesn’t understand that his gas station is the last place on my route where I can buy gum. Sure, I could ask Leon, my driver, to turn the car around and head back to the city center, but time is running out. My father told me to be home by ten sharp, and I’m already risking being late, forced to make a stop here.

“We’ve already tried three times, miss, and the answer is always the same. Your credit card is blocked. You can pay with cash,” the old man repeated, frowning even more, adding new wrinkles to his forehead.

“Do I look like someone who carries cash?” I shot back through gritted teeth, pushing my sunglasses up and looking at him as if he’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. Me? With cash? Please. I only use cards. But… right now I’m starting to think I might actually need to get myself some cash and a wallet.

My father really did block my credit card. I used to think he was bluffing, but now I see he was dead serious. And somewhere inside me, something twisted uncomfortably, like a spoiled part of me was offended by my father’s actions.

Time was running out. My head was a little foggy from too much alcohol, my eyes stung from the harsh fluorescent lights, and the annoying hum of the drink machines only made things worse. My feet were killing me in these uncomfortable designer heels. The short metallic cocktail dress barely covered my backside, and the irritating fabric texture made me want to tear this thing off and be left in just my underwear. And if I were drunker than I am now, I wouldn’t care — I’d strip right here. Or throw a tantrum, screaming that I’m the president’s daughter, and everyone in this town should be kissing my shoes and giving me whatever I want at the snap of my fingers.

But right now, I don’t have time for another performance that would get me trending online and ruin my family’s reputation all over again. No. Right now, despite the alcohol, I’m thinking more or less clearly about my priorities. That’s why I take another deep breath through my nose, shove my irritation deep down, hide my red eyes behind my tinted sunglasses, and say:

“I’ll pay with cash. Wait a couple of minutes.”

Grabbing my credit card, I head for the exit, cursing my father all the way. Stepping out of the store, I flinch slightly at the night chill and hurry over to the black Lexus parked by the fuel pump, where Leon is waiting. He’s an incredibly tall man of about forty-five with ash-gray hair, dressed in a strict black suit. He’s an ex-military man — now my driver and bodyguard.

“Leon, lend me some lira,” I huff, planting my hands on my hips. “My father blocked my credit card.”

“What do you need the money for?” Leon asks, his face impassive as he closes the gas tank and hangs up the pump nozzle.

“I want to buy some gum.”

“With all due respect, miss,” Leon says with a hint of a smile, “but you reek of tobacco and alcohol so badly that gum won’t help.”

“So what?” I insist stubbornly. “Maybe I was just sitting next to people who were smoking.”

“Your mother has a sharp nose,” Leon replies with a smirk, raising his eyebrows and giving me a sympathetic look. “Or have you forgotten she’s a world-class perfumer?”

I mutter a curse under my breath. Of course — how could I forget my mother’s legendary sense of smell?

Damn it.

I sighed, my shoulders slumping as the last of my bravado drained away. Leon was right. Again. But maybe... maybe this time I’d get lucky? After all, my mother, my father, and pretty much the entire household had spent the past week preparing for the annual traditional political soirée — an event the locals in Sardinia had dubbed The Aces’ Evening behind our backs. And perhaps, just this once, the universe would take pity on me and my mother would simply look the other way? After all, I had the whole night ahead — plenty of time to sleep it off and sober up. Hell, a lot could happen in one night.

“I remember perfectly well,” I agreed, tucking a few strands of my dark brown hair behind my ears. “Still, I need that gum. Maybe Lady Luck will finally smile on me today?”

Leon let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if my naïve hopes and stubbornness were more exhausting than his job as a bodyguard. Still, he nodded, opened the back door of the Lexus for me, and after I slid into the seat and shut the door, he headed into the shop. A moment later, he was hurrying back to the car.

“Here,” Leon said as he got behind the wheel and handed me a pack of mint gum. “The shopkeeper said you were very insistent on the mint flavor.”

“Thanks, you’re the best,” I replied with a satisfied smile, taking the gum and popping two pieces into my mouth. As soon as the cool mint flavor and sticky texture hit my taste buds, I let out a blissful moan and flopped lazily onto the back seat. I closed my eyes and finally kicked off the accursed heels as the car slowly pulled away from the gas station. God, what a relief!

“Leon,” I exhaled, raising my feet and massaging my aching calves.

“Yes, miss?” he replied.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much of a mess are my parents in right now? You were at the house before you came for me. So you’re the only one who can fill me in.”

Leon didn’t answer for a few minutes, and I was starting to think our relatively trusting relationship had regressed to where it was three years ago. But then he sighed and muttered:

“Seven out of ten. When I left to pick you up, your mother was yelling at the event organizer because the restaurant preparing tomorrow’s buffet had delivered a batch of expired seafood. And your father was, as usual, holed up in his office.”

“Shit,” I swore, closing my eyes and dropping my feet back onto the seat. “If Mom’s pissed off, she definitely won’t let me slip by unnoticed. Looks like I’m royally screwed.”

“I warned you yesterday that you shouldn’t go to this party, miss. But you’re terribly stubborn and headstrong, and you love defying bans. So yes, you’re royally screwed.”

“You know, your ‘support’ is really encouraging,” I grumbled, blowing a bubble with my gum. The truth was, Leon was a good person — sometimes he even covered for me with my parents. But it really got under my skin how blunt he was, how he always told it like it was — no sugarcoating, no flattery. Straightforward and honest. And if he agreed that I was screwed, then I really was.

Damn. The universe clearly didn’t want to cut me any slack. It had always been that way, as far back as I could remember. It was as if the cosmos was deliberately messing with me, serving up heaping portions of shit or setting me up for falls that came far too often. And this time, unfortunately, was no exception. But the universe could go screw itself — just for today. Because this wasn’t just another one of those heirs’ parties for the city’s most influential people. No, today was my boyfriend Dean’s birthday. And I was ready to endure any bad karma the universe could throw at me, but I wasn’t about to miss this day for anything in the world.

“With all due respect, miss,” Leon suddenly says, his voice jolting me out of the swamp of my own thoughts and back into reality. I blink, slightly disoriented, and turn my head to look at the slightly graying back of his head.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m used to telling the truth straight out, and you really aren’t in the best position right now. And I’m not just talking about your current state, but also the fact that your father ordered me to escort you to his office as soon as we arrive at the mansion.”

My eyes widen in surprise and shock, and my pulse quickens as something unpleasant, like fear, scratches at my ribs and spreads a chill through my veins. Fuck, this is… This isn’t good! Damn it, this is really not good, if you want my honest opinion. My father only gets hyper-protective when he’s completely lost it, and it seems like today is one of those days. But… why? I hadn’t done anything critical in the last week; I’d been behaving almost like the model Cavalli daughter. So why?

“Shit,” I nervously swallow, feeling a wave of goosebumps crawl up my arms, legs, and back. And in my chest, fear pulsed with a poisonous, burning sensation.

Moments when I was truly afraid of my father weren’t frequent, but they were seared into my memory. My very being, my body, remembered every place, every time, every event when his heavy hand would swing through the air and connect with my flesh. Did it hurt? Absolutely. Did I love my father? Yes. But it always seemed like he never loved me back — except for the forced affection he displayed at important political meetings and soirées. As far back as I can remember, my father was always ready to berate me for the smallest mistakes and punish me, while my mother never rushed to stop him. No, she preferred to pretend she didn’t notice the bruises on my face and body every time my father decided I’d messed up one too many times.

And maybe that’s stupid and wrong, but they’re still my parents, and I love them.

But with every new conflict, every misunderstanding, it starts to feel like the roots of my love for them are psychologically warped, twisted into something ugly. Those roots have turned my love into a kind of sick dependency and made me a compliant, weak victim of domestic abuse. My love has perverted roots, poisoned by my parents and by my own… weakness in front of them. Because every time I pull another stunt and ruin my father’s reputation, I naïvely hope they’ll finally notice me. Notice my pain, my need for them to be there. For their arms around me, for their support. But it seems that scheme doesn’t always work the way it should. Because instead of taking off their politician masks and shedding the facade of perfect elite society members, they only dive deeper into that filth and hide behind a high stone wall — a wall I’m powerless to break down.

And that hurts more than anyone could ever imagine.

I sigh, placing my hands on my stomach and staring out the window as the Lexus’s bright headlights slice through the night, illuminating the dense forest on either side of the empty road. I try to shut out the rapidly mounting, dangerous anxiety gnawing at me beneath my ribs and recall how the party went. I remember the feel of Dean’s lips and hands on me, Diana’s smile and laughter, the leap from the second-floor balcony into her family’s pool, and how good it sometimes feels to lose yourself in the thumping bass, a crowd of half-familiar faces, and the haze of alcohol.

The rest of the journey passes in relative silence on my part, aside from my gum-chewing — a habit Leon apparently couldn’t stand, judging by the fact that he switched on the radio, letting quiet music fill the car’s interior. And when the forest gives way to views of luxurious villas and mansions with high fences, I swallow nervously again, trying to calm my racing heart.

It took exactly twenty minutes for our car to climb the hill, navigate the winding turn, travel a few more meters, and stop in front of the heavy, massive gates and security post. The guards let Leon through without a word, though I did notice one of them glance into the car, spot me, say something into his radio, and then… then the heavy gates began to slide open, revealing the huge, white, modern mansion: a luxurious garden, a fountain in the center of the driveway, and night lamps illuminating the grounds.

Leon pressed down on the gas, and the car moved forward, bringing me closer to the place I’d long since stopped calling home and started calling a cage. In just two minutes, the car stops on the driveway directly opposite the front entrance, where our butler, Victor, is already waiting. Well, that’s it. Freedom and that fleeting, false sense of life are over. Reality has begun. My palms were sweaty. My pulse quickened. Fear and anxiety clenched my throat, making it hard to breathe or think clearly. The alcohol wasn’t helping either; it only amplified my panic about what was coming.

Leon turned off the engine, and I heard the unhurried click of Victor’s shoes approaching.

I took another deep breath. Then another. And another. Over and over until I managed to wrestle control of my emotions and calm my frantically pounding heart. But the anxiety — it hadn’t gone anywhere; it was still sitting inside me. I’d just learned to muffle its voice, at least in moments like this. There are three possible scenarios for how this could play out, and even though I already know every possible version of each one, you can never be a hundred percent sure about anything. Especially when it comes to something as unpredictable as human behavior.

There’s a click of the lock, and Victor opens the door on my side, letting the night air slip into the cabin and dispel the cocoon of warmth and comfort that had enveloped me during the drive. I feel another wave of goosebumps on my skin, and I can’t tell what’s causing them: the cold wind on my skin or my fear, which has broken free and is now coiling around me like a snake.

“Welcome back, miss,” Victor says politely, holding the car door open.

But me? I’m still in a daze. It feels like chains of anxiety have bound my legs and are dragging me down, making it impossible to move or escape. I’m not ready. Fuck, I’m not ready to face the hatred and disappointment in my parents’ eyes again! Not when I’m this vulnerable. I’m scared. I… I don’t want to be hurt again.

My heart starts pounding wildly again, and my eyes well up with tears.

Damn it.

No.

No.

Calm down.

I just need to breathe. I just need to put on a mask, admit I’m wrong again, agree with everything they say, lower my head, and be the obedient girl. Yes. That’s the safe, tried-and-true strategy.

"Come on, Gianna, you can do this. You’ve done it before; you can do it now. It’ll only take a couple of minutes for this to be over. You can handle it," I tell myself, taking a deep breath and letting it out, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m like a cornered, wounded animal. Maybe that’s exactly what I am. This house is a cage, this family are predators, and I’m the weak one.

I take another deep breath, then open my eyes, take off my sunglasses, sit up, grab my shoes, and move toward the open door, fully aware that every minute of delay could cost me dearly. Just then, Leon says:

“Do you want me to go tell them you’re here and that you went to your room?”

I look at him in surprise, manage a weak smile as a soft, warm surge of something bright flickers in my chest, but still shake my head with a touch of sadness:

“They’ll still come check on me. Besides, you might get in trouble because of me, and I don’t want my father to fine you or fire you. Other people shouldn’t suffer because of my actions. Besides, if he fires you, who’s going to drive me around and carry my shopping bags? You know not many people can handle my character, and you’re the only one who’s lasted this long?”

Leon looks at me over his shoulder, smirks, nods, but there’s still concern in his eyes. He’s witnessed my breakdowns after arguments with my parents more than once, listened to me, and helped me cope with my emotions. Deep down, I’m glad there’s someone in my life who sees me not just as a spoiled, capricious rich girl. Someone who sees the real me and cares about me while everyone else turns a blind eye to my pain. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I’d give anything for Leon to be my father.

“Are you sure everything will be okay?” Leon asks again, raising his eyebrows, which causes a few wrinkles to appear on his forehead.

“Yes… At least, I hope so,” I sigh and press my lips together. “Otherwise, I’ll text you if I decide to run away.”

“I’ll be waiting, miss,” he nods. “Be careful.”

I nod again and climb out of the car; my bare feet touch the stone pavement, and the cold immediately licks at my skin, but that’s nothing compared to what awaits me within the walls of this luxurious home.

“Hello, Victor,” I offer the elderly man a weak smile. He merely nods in response, closes the car door, and hurries over to open the front door for me. I hesitate for a moment as every fiber of my being screams at me to run, but once again, I silence that voice, square my shoulders, lift my chin proudly, and walk forward.

The warmth and screaming, ostentatious luxury that many are afraid to display greet me inside the house. Many, but not my parents. Expensive paintings bought at overseas auctions or from collectors? Marble? Gold? Expensive carpets? Huge chandeliers with diamonds? A damn fireplace and a grand piano? Expensive leather furniture? Collections of fine wine? All of this has surrounded me since childhood. This isn’t a home; it’s a goddamn museum. Three floors, ten rooms — hell, there’s even a mini-gym. And in the garage sits a huge collection of rare and modern, insanely expensive cars. Needless to say, my mother has her own personal laboratory and a planetarium here. This really isn’t a home, but a trophy museum for my parents. A place that was supposed to bring safety and peace only brings the oppressive feeling of a gilded cage. Nothing more. I’ve never felt warmth, affection, or any sense of homey comfort here.

I follow Victor down the corridor, nodding to the servants we pass, and on the way, I stick my gum to the sole of my shoe. We go up to the second floor, and I try to suppress the nausea rising in my throat as the scent of peonies and green tea wafting through the house hits my nose. My mother loves this scent; I’ve hated it since childhood.

“Victor,” I ask quietly as we head down the wide corridor toward my father’s office.“

“Yes, miss?” the elderly man replies without even glancing at me. Annoying old man.

“How mad are they?”

“I can’t say; I haven’t seen them since about eight o’clock.”

“Shit,” I whisper, snorting, and Victor clicks his tongue in disapproval.

He’s a staunch opponent of profanity and probably the only person in my life who’s never used foul language. Even when Victor was angry, his reprimands were incredibly cultured, which always amazed and amused me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he was a descendant of some royal dynasty.

After walking down the long corridor, we turn the corner and head for the door guarded by two men. I swallow nervously, clenching my free hand into a fist and taking a deep breath, trying not to panic. Damn it, I now regret not getting completely wasted because right now I’d give anything to avoid this conversation. But it’s too late. If I decided to be responsible — well, almost responsible — I need to accept my fate.

Victor stops a few steps from my father’s office door and gestures for me to go ahead, extending his arm as if to say, Your personal road to hell is open. My father’s guards give me indifferent looks. I purse my lips and approach the door but stop when I hear my parents’ muffled voices from inside the office.

“I’m almost certain he’ll remove me!” my father growls, followed by a muffled thud, as if he’d struck something heavy against his desk. I flinched. Even standing on the other side of the door, I already understood just how furious my father was.

“Why would you think that, Carlos?” my mother’s calm, almost weary voice responds quietly.

“He made it clear he doesn’t approve of me as the ruler of Sardinia! And all because of what? Because I signed a major deal with a big French tourism firm without his knowledge?! That greedy bastard won’t tolerate my independence, but in reality, he’ll be the one taking the lion’s share of the revenue!” My father boils over more and more.

“One can understand Vincent,” my mother says, maintaining remarkable calm. “He owns that sea route, and cruise ships could interfere with commercial vessels. But I don’t think he’ll remove you as president. After all, in all ten years of your rule, Sardinia has flourished. There haven’t been any major clashes, and we’ve started attracting foreign tourists and businessmen. Vincent is hot-tempered but a wise leader. He bases his decisions not on rumors but on facts, data, and analytics. I don’t think he’ll remove you just because you acted without his knowledge. Besides, this deal will benefit both Sardinia and Capri. If you lay out the pros for Vincent, the worst he’ll do is limit your power.”

“You think I like this?!” my father snaps back, unfiltered rage and hatred in his tone. “Like being some bastard’s lapdog and doing everything he says?! And not having the right to make any decisions?”

I roll my eyes and almost imperceptibly snort at my father’s fake drama, causing one of the guards to glance at me sideways. How much poison does my father spew on this subject? A lot. But in reality, it suits him just fine. However, every couple of months he needs to throw a tantrum about it. Probably so no one — not even us or the servants — thinks he’s a spineless worm who actually enjoys groveling before those stronger than him. Because someone who truly hates it does everything to break free from under their master’s thumb — fights for real independence — but that... that’s not my father.

Silence hangs in the office for several minutes, and I’d already relaxed, thinking my mother wouldn’t needle him again by pressing his sore spots as she always loved to do. Part of me was ready to shout in victory because the upcoming meeting promised to be somewhat bearable. But all my hopes crashed into the abyss when my mother’s voice cut through the silence:

“For all these twenty years you’ve been happy to be the Barbarossa clan’s lapdog,” she retorts. “First you groveled before their father; when the old man died, you started licking Vincent’s boots! So what’s the difference? Why put on this show when you don’t do a damn thing to take real power for yourself?! You sit in that chair and like having the appearance of power, but you’ll never be like Vincent Barbarossa or Dereant Giordano! You don’t have the guts to go against them, so stop these hysterics. Who are you trying to prove something to? Everyone knows the truth, Carlos; they’re just afraid to say it out loud.”

“Why you...” my father begins, but then, by chance or fate’s whim, wanting to hear more details, I leaned against the door a little harder, and it gave way. I literally tumbled into the office, barely catching myself before falling and breaking my beautiful nose. I grabbed the back of the nearest chair with my right hand; my shoes fell from my left hand as I dropped to one knee.

Shit! The universe was sending me huge signs today that it wasn’t on my side.

A heavy silence fell over the room. I let out a nervous giggle; my cheeks were burning; my heart was pounding like I was running a marathon. I giggled again — either glad I hadn’t fallen flat on my face or relieved no one was rushing to grab me by the scruff of the neck for eavesdropping.

“Well, well,” my father spits out. “Drunk as usual?”

I snort, grunt, and get to my feet, hissing slightly as an unpleasant muscle pain shoots through my legs. I straighten up proudly, run a hand through my hair — which reaches just below my collarbones and down to my chest — lean my hip against the chair, cross my arms over my chest, and look at my parents.

My father was sitting at his large desk as always, on his throne-like chair made of some rare wood, wearing a black shirt and dark burgundy jacket. His slightly graying hair was styled perfectly; his beard was neatly trimmed; that annoying stud earring still hung from his left ear. In the dim light of the office his slightly tanned skin seemed even darker; shadows lay under his eyes. An ashtray sat on the desk in front of him; next to it lay an open cigar case.

My mother stood by his desk, arms crossed over her chest, giving me a sharp, appraising look through narrowed eyes. Her lips painted with provocatively red lipstick were pursed; despite her furrowed brows there wasn’t a single wrinkle on her face. Her blue-black hair was pulled into an elegant bun; another diamond necklace adorned her neck; her designer ivory pantsuit only added to her severe image.

My mother shifted her weight from one foot to the other still glaring at me disapprovingly; I knew she’d already realized I was drunk. My father nervously drummed his tattooed fingers on the desk looking at me as if he were about to be sick from my presence here. And let’s be honest — they make me sick too. And it has nothing to do with alcohol; it’s because they only create an appearance of an ideal family but in reality they loathe each other yet still cling to this marriage out of mutual benefit. Perhaps each of them has lovers.

“It couldn’t be otherwise,” my mother finally says spitting her words through clenched teeth like a venomous snake.

“A little,” I reply keeping calm. “It’s not so bad. At least I’m standing on my feet and talking to you. It would’ve been worse if Victor had carried me in unconscious.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t throw up any minute,” my father rolls his eyes pressing his tongue into his cheek grimacing at disgusting memories from last month when I came home in a similar state and puked all over the living room carpet.

But back then I really had overdone it.

“Father’s right,” Mother joins in. “Just because you look somewhat sober doesn’t mean you’re in your right mind.” She grabs my chin with her left hand pinching my cheeks with her thumb and forefinger turning my head from side to side studying me closely; her nostrils flared as she leaned so close our noses almost touched; her concentrated vanilla perfume clogged up my nose making my stomach twist painfully as waves of nausea got stuck halfway up my throat.

She sniffed me like some kind of bloodhound! Hell I bet she could outdo the best tracking dogs if given a chance! It never took much for Mother to detect alcohol or tobacco hidden behind perfume or cause a scene at markets if some spice didn’t have enough pungency as claimed by the seller.

“Breathe,” she orders; I obey without question exhaling right into her face she winces.

“I seem to have warned you Gianna!” her grip on my chin tightens; I wince.

“It was just half a joint! And I didn’t even like it if that’s what you’re worried about,” I reply barely finishing when Mother slaps me hard across the face; burning heat prickles across my cheekbone making me jerk right instinctively reaching for injured cheek but stopping myself taking deep breath forcing myself temporarily shut off pain putting up defensive armor spikes.

This wasn’t first time happened before should stop being surprised every time like first… But damn how do people get used this? Every blow hurts not just body soul never get used never will.

“Don’t hit too hard,” Father calmly requests judging by short sigh spicy aroma tobacco he lit one Caribbean cigars. “There’ll be bruises.She needs look perfect tomorrow.”

“I don’t give a damn!” Mother roars turning head calmly straightening back facing her.*“I warned stay sober tonight Gianna didn’t listen!”

“You’re making too big deal out this,” reply equally calmly ignoring tingling cheek.*“Dean had birthday drank not much turning everything like drank tequila crate drank mojitos alcohol will wear off overnight rest tomorrow before starts told home ten arrived exactly ten what problems think don’t know what tomorrow requires?”

“Exactly You don’t understand shame us even hangover tomorrow could ruin lives told not drink didn’t listen! Forbade go party again didn’t listen! So tell why should treat adult girl behave like damn child deserves good spanking!”

“But seems empty head finally hint brain common sense,” chuckles place Father.*“She right dear came back time seems drunk enough can answer sarcasm worst case call narcologist drip recover evening sober up.”

“Doubt will happen.”

“Give chance dear maybe year really ruin disappoint us.”

“Already gave chances none lived expectations!”

“Suppose,” interrupt conversation.“Title ‘Disappointment Year’ goes record?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” roars Mother raising hand again but Father stops jumping place slamming palms table shouting:

“Enough!”

Mother freezes lips purse hand still raised motionless hold heavy gaze filled anger discontent proudly defiantly meet gaze though inside real Armageddon heart pounding wildly body shaking adrenaline surge try hide part even proud Father stopped Mother defended first time let done personal gain only.

Air thickens crackles strong tension walls press sides seems slightest spark blow place leaving ash charred bones becomes unbearably stuffy dense invisible darkness hangs heads dialogue family no battle characters principles.

“Go to your room Gianna” Father orders voice brooking no argument nod pick shoes floor turn leave office barely notice lips escape barely audible sigh relief.

Went better than expected considering slap leave Father’s office close door before step toward room loud voices parents explode silence hanging moment scream each other bad parenting methods reminding lousy daughter listen anymore nothing new learn simply hear let bark each other much want tired.

Pursed lips continue down corridor up third floor enter room lock door lean back against exhale loudly shoes fall hand automatically reaches injured cheek hiss unpleasant sensations overall hurt no just ache no pleased because bruise won’t form inside responds something dark unpleasant disgusting something invisible claws scratch soul wound heart.

Although anxiety subsides loneliness pity long become faithful friends don’t know why always hope parents tell reason hate treat toy embody unfulfilled ambitions don’t wait hug support say love twelve years tormented question wrong must reasons parents hate child reason?

Eyes fill crystal moisture teeth clench prohibit crying no only because break down rebuild know strong handle tough must able should.

“Okay calm breathe breathe” mumble leaning back against door close eyes take deep breaths suppress hysteria rising throat unclear alcohol finally full effect armor cracked opening real reason important must hold dreams strive freedom.

After all art pretending unmatched want achieve must clench fists strengthen armor move forward changing masks until break free cage.

Take few more deep breaths hysteria gripping steel vise finally dissolves breathe easier even unpleasant feeling burning stomach gradually subsides fingers stop trembling crystal moisture dries never spilled.

Good very good huff approach glass panoramic doors open step small cozy balcony often hide world company book music personal diary convenience brought chair bought small table favorite snacks mug beloved peach tea always hand right now wanted disappear escape.

Night air slightly burns skin cool feet freeze touching cold marble floor barely notice wind blows hair sides below darkness night sea noise rare signals passing ships laying hands edges balcony partitions look longing envy tiny twinkling lights hundreds thousands kilometers away lies Capri independent modern strong incredibly attractive luxury technology quality life freedom secret passion dream move start live full life control fate fulfill dreams.

Capri path freedom friendly state Sardinia historical partner many spheres however many locals know here Sardinia sit people pleasing leader Mafia Capri people like Father years rumors actions controlled gray eminence Vincent Barbarossa leader largest biggest Mafia group Capri however direct evidence anyone wants spread rumors risk severe punishment imprisonment nobody yes Father does everything keep power looks pathetic even tomorrow evening turn lavish spectacle please those higher status strength indicator independence willpower demonstration how deeply entrenched puppet system moments damn glad inherited Mother character sea noise below calms cheek still tingles don’t feel depressed earlier no mere sight distant lights night Capri minutes alone somehow strange way helped recover feel much better anxiety ribs subsided fear replaced light melancholy restless thoughts replaced dream images hope rekindled heart giving strength give up dreams key cage know reach need teeth gnaw path wait tolerate road dreams easy bumps smooth ride make winner game otherwise because distant shimmering lights await greater surrounds right live free life tomorrow demonstrate parents exemplary daughter prove self can defy system start building bridge freedom save believe fairy tales princes creator destiny tomorrow take first step nobody stop me.

***

This morning in Sardinia was different from all the others. The temperature had dropped by an unusual five degrees, and the air felt strangely heavy, as if saturated with the scent of gunpowder and smoke. It was as though the very atmosphere was bracing itself, amplifying the tension before the main event of the day. On the surface, Sardinia’s familiar paradise still seemed intact, but if you listened closely and looked carefully, you could see how fragile and false that illusion was—and today, it was cracking at twice the speed.

Today, local entrepreneurs would be at each other’s throats, fighting for the right to enter the reception hall of the town hall, while smaller traders would compete for a chance to showcase their products at the exhibition. Peace in Sardinia? Not today. Every local knew this wasn’t just another evening, though behind their backs they called it “The Aces’ Night.” It was a unique opportunity to strike lucrative deals and grab a tasty morsel that promised immense profit. And many truly didn’t care that sometimes this evening ended with a shootout on the outskirts of town or news of a fresh body found in a ditch. After all, this evening was supposed to symbolize peace—but in the end… it only symbolized greed.

Despite the frequent bloody incidents, each year the hype around this gathering of the ruling elite from three countries only grew. It was considered not only the center for making crucial decisions but also a kind of bridge to peace between two neighboring countries that had been in a status quo for the last fifty years. However, this event had long ceased to be the center of anything truly important. All decisions had already been discussed and made in advance, and the live broadcast on the internet and television was nothing but a show. In reality, “The Aces’ Night” was an arena where the heads of neighboring mafia families, investors, potential buyers, and clients—coveted by two rival clans—converged. It was a place where they displayed their superiority over each other in every possible way. This evening was an arena for predators who were used to playing by their own rules.

And we… We are just intermediaries between them, sardines crammed into our own tin can, unable to afford anything and forced to close our eyes to the fragile guarantees of peace and security. As long as my father is in power and allowed to rule, as long as yachts dock in our ports and there are investments and demand for our local flavor, people will turn a blind eye to everything. And that irritates me the most, even though I myself am one of those who silently swallows the consequences of this event.

When my mother’s displeased voice rings out from outside, scolding the gardener for an unevenly trimmed bush, I sigh and sit up in bed, realizing that the final, fragile thread of my somewhat good mood and hope for a normal morning has been severed. If my mother is yelling first thing in the morning, it means her mood is vile, and she’ll take it out on me all day, spewing her venom until evening so she can be falsely polite with the guests later. It’s not that I want to be her punching bag, but I promised myself that today I’d be perfect and give my parents exactly what they want—a model puppet named Gianna. But deep beneath my ribs, my very essence screams—no, howls—that I should defy them and prove I’m not their toy. Yet today, when there’s a unique opportunity to lay the foundation for my bridge to freedom, I’ll swallow my pride and silence that inner voice. I’ll let them walk all over me if it means I can start my journey to freedom.

I get out of bed and step onto the balcony, lazily stretching as I enjoy the cool sea breeze that tosses my hair about, and bask my face in the sunlight, savoring this quiet moment of my own little sanctuary. I take a deep breath and exhale, feeling the atmosphere around me grow heavier and heavier, how the air becomes electrified and crackles with tension, and how my hands tremble slightly.

Am I scared? More than ever.

Will I show it? No.

I’m not afraid to sacrifice my pride today if it means I can start moving forward. I can wait at the bottom as long as I need to before I begin to rise. I can be broken, afraid, and writhing in pain—but I’ll pretend everything is fine if I have to. This mask helps me get through each day, and I’ve grown used to the fact that my armor only activates when I’m on the edge.

Living a lie has become second nature to me.

But why, then, am I so anxious? Why does this nasty, heavy, burning feeling that something bad is about to happen refuse to leave my chest? It gnaws at my soul, triggers an alarm inside me, and squeezes me so tightly that it becomes hard to breathe?

Maybe it’s just natural fear and anxiety before a big step forward, before change? Perhaps. But still… This strange premonition is much deeper and stronger; it’s soaked in a kind of pain and despair whose roots reach deep into the darkness. It’s as if something inside me already senses that a powerful storm is coming—and I will be its victim. I can’t understand what this feeling means or where it comes from. But it scares me, sends shivers down my skin, and reflects back in my head as chaotic, anxious thoughts. And if this continues, I might snap… And then everything will go wrong.

I bite my lower lip so hard that my teeth break through the thin skin, bringing a stinging pain and a faint metallic taste to my mouth. Shit! I flinch and grimace, distracted by the slight pain, and press my fingers to my injured lip. This isn’t the first time my anxiety has unintentionally turned my lips into a mess. And I know it’s bad, but at least it’s the only anchor that keeps me from drowning in the whirlpool of my anxious thoughts and brings me back to reality. Just like now.

I blink rapidly, wince, and hurry to the bathroom to treat my lips and start getting ready before my mother arrives to scold me.

At least there’s one genuinely good thing about this morning that I’m willing to thank the universe for. The fact that I don’t have a hangover after last night’s party. It would’ve been a hundred times worse if my head was splitting and I couldn’t even get out of bed.

After freshening up and treating my lips, I look at my reflection in the mirror, and my lips curve into something resembling a smile. Pathetic. That’s exactly how I’ve felt my whole life. Pathetic, but not powerless. No. Despite all the shit I have to deal with, I can still find that tiny spark inside me that gives me the strength to keep going.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, adjust the messy bun on top of my head, and give my reflection one last critical look, searching for flaws that could set my parents off. But apart from slightly red eyes, everything seems fine: the same pale skin and barely noticeable freckles, oval face, slightly upturned nose, and dry, pale-pink lips. The only thing that might “ruin” the picture is my eyebrows and eyelashes, which have lost their shape after the last beauty treatment, but I don’t worry about that. Mother will drag me to the cosmetologist and every beauty expert in town today anyway, so by evening I’ll be a perfect doll.

I snort, feeling my stomach twist and growl like a hungry whale, demanding food. Honestly, I barely remember if I ate anything at the party yesterday. But judging by how starving I am, my hand must have reached for the shot glass more often than for the fancy buffet. So the fact that I don’t have a hangover—and that my body reacted so well to alcohol and no food—surprises me even more.

I leave the bathroom, slip on my slippers, and head out of my room. I go downstairs, straight to the dining room, barely dodging the bustling servants. Even though “The Aces’ Night” will be held at city hall, Mother makes the staff clean the house from top to bottom every year, claiming any guest might want to inspect the head of Sardinia’s mansion at any moment. So I watch with a twinge of regret as the servants meticulously dust, carry boxes of decorations, and gardeners turn Mother’s flower beds and gallery into works of art. Even poor old Victor, whose job is usually just greeting guests and serving drinks, is running around the first floor with boxes of expensive crystalware today.

I stifle a yawn and stop outside the dining room, hearing my parents’ voices. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders and back, trying to calm my nerves. Stay calm. Just breathe. I repeat to myself like a mantra: You can do this. It all has meaning. It’s all for your future.

Feeling the anxious knot in my chest start to unravel and the invisible weight lift from my shoulders, I take another deep breath and walk into the dining room, immediately slipping on one of my usual masks—the obedient doll. Father and Mother are already seated at the long oval glass table set for three. As always, they sit strictly opposite each other at the head of the table. As far back as I can remember, my parents have never wanted to sit next to each other. Probably the only times they’re forced to share the same space are during public appearances and events. And every time, sitting between them, I feel like a fragile moth caught between two deadly flames.

“Good morning,” I clear my throat and hurry to my seat, right in the middle of the table. I pull out my chair, sit down, take a glass of water, and sip it slowly. The dining room is as quiet as always, broken only by the muffled hum of a lawnmower outside and the gentle clink of dishes.

“Good morning,” Father says, looking up from his phone and giving me a scrutinizing glance.

He looks exactly as his status demands—like he just stepped off the page of National Politics & Business World. Perfectly pressed suit, neatly styled hair. His skin practically gleams with cleanliness, and his wrinkles and bags under his eyes are barely visible.

I nod and finish my water just as a restrained but sharp voice comes from my left:

“You look better than I expected.”

I glance at her nervously and offer a slight smile.

“Yeah, this time I actually feel great,” I snort, lifting the lid off my plate and looking at the contents, barely suppressing the urge to roll my eyes in irritation. Every damn year, on this very day, the chefs make this damn cheese-and-spinach omelet with toast as some kind of historical tribute to the day they decided to hold this political summit. Mother always calls this breakfast “traditional,” but to me it’s just nonsense she made up to force me and Father to eat what she thinks will keep our skin looking healthy.

“I hope you threw up before coming down for breakfast,” Mother adds, and I wince.

Thanks a lot for ruining my appetite—and for yet another reminder of what a loser I am! Can’t she go even a minute without finding fault with me or reminding me of my mistakes?

“Dear,” Father interjects. “Bringing that up at the table is, at the very least, inappropriate on your part. I’ve barely started eating.”

“What did I say that was so wrong?” Mother snaps back, frowning and taking a sip of water from her glass.

“You could have at least avoided mentioning the vomiting incident, especially at the table! How am I supposed to eat this crap now without imagining it’s Gianna’s puke?” Father retorts irritably, carelessly tossing his fork aside, leaning back in his chair, and folding his arms across his chest. I grimace again because now, thanks to him, I can’t see anything on my plate but something else—something disgusting.

Just a fantastic breakfast.

“Silently!” Mother barks, then fixes me with a piercing stare that seems to go right through me, sending cold chills down my spine. “And you,” she continues, clenching her hands into fists, “eat faster. We’re expected at the beauty salon by ten. And don’t you dare pull a stunt like last time! And don’t even think about trying to run off. I won’t allow my daughter to disgrace me and my family by showing up looking like a cheaply dressed prostitute in a short, shiny dress and clown makeup! If necessary, I’ll personally handcuff you to myself, and no one—*do you hear me?*—no one will help you, especially not Leon. Understood? We’ve had enough of your antics disgracing us all over town; Father barely managed to hush up the scandal you caused at the boutique last week! This time, I won’t give you a chance to tarnish our name and reputation!”

Damn, what a speech. She must have held her breath the whole time she was pouring out her venom. Probably the longest speech she’s given me in the last week. What an honor!

“I wasn’t planning anything like that,” I reply after several minutes of tense silence, shrugging carelessly and returning my attention to the plate in front of me. My soul feels slightly anxious as the atmosphere around us begins to thicken again, like a storm cloud. But surprisingly, I remain relatively calm.

“I hope not,” Father interjects. “I’m really counting on you to have finally come to your senses, Gianna. Everything must go perfectly today, without any mishaps. This evening is very important—not just for me, but for all of us.”

I bite back another sarcastic comment about how he cares more about himself and his position than about the people of Sardinia. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my spoon and, pushing away my unwanted worries, start eating, trying to mentally prepare myself for the very difficult and eventful day ahead with my mother. Because she is the embodiment of the devil himself—obsessed with her sick standards of beauty and reputation. For her, this is another chance to show how perfect she is. And that automatically elevates her ego and status to the heavens, reminding ordinary people of their place in Sardinia’s social world. But for me… it’s just an expensive, fake play where I’m cast in one of the lead roles.

Probably almost every girl dreams of spending a day with her mother now and then. But not me. For me, this day is like one of the nine circles of hell. I’d give anything to get as far away from my mother as possible. But today, for the sake of my own goals, I have to be an obedient daughter. And I have no choice but to swallow my true desires, strengthen my inner armor, and let her take the lead.

Well, this day promises to be anything but easy.

The rest of breakfast passes in relatively calm surroundings—if you don’t count my parents’ displeasure as their phones keep ringing with calls from assistants and organizers. Mentally, I congratulated myself for leaving my phone in my room; otherwise, things could have gotten even worse.

After breakfast, Mother orders me to change my clothes, and I obey without objection. And this time, I don’t just throw on whatever I find first. No. If I didn’t want to provoke even more of her anger, I had to meet her expectations—even in appearance. That’s why instead of my usual jeans and hoodies, I pulled a tweed checkered suit and a light white blouse from the depths of my closet.

I quickly changed, put on my shoes, grabbed my purse, and left my hair down. There was no point wasting time on styling it since the salon would be taking care of that first thing.

After packing everything I needed into my purse, I went downstairs and hurried to Mother, who was waiting for me by the exit. She scrutinized me from head to toe with a searching, intense gaze and pursed her lips. Her face remained impassively calm. She nodded as if satisfied with my choice and opened the door, saying:

“Let’s go, or we’ll be late.”

She walked out of the house and hurried to the black Lexus where her personal driver and security were waiting. I followed her and looked around hopefully for Leon—but he wasn’t there. A certain sadness settled under my ribs and shattered any hope that I might at least get a little distraction today. Apparently, Leon had been relieved of his bodyguard duties today.

I sincerely hope that tonight I’ll be able to see him and share how my day with Mother went. And I know he’ll listen and understand without judging me. After all, he knows more about my relationship with my parents than anyone else. I trust him as if he were my godfather. It’s amazing how sometimes you can feel such a close spiritual connection with someone who is essentially a stranger to you—while with your own family you feel only an abyss.

Settling into the car, I fasten my seatbelt and pull my phone from my purse, unlocking the screen. I scroll through hundreds of notifications from social media, messengers, and marketplaces, spending the entire ride to the city cocooned in my own safe little world.

As we enter Aurona, the capital of Sardinia, I send Dean a message saying I’m looking forward to seeing him at the official reception tonight. Then I lock my phone and tuck it away. It’s time to slip back into character—the perfect daughter.

I gaze out the window, catching the curious glances of passersby at our motorcade. Aurona, the historic capital of Sardinia, was a place where civilization seemed to have frozen in time, even as it struggled to move forward. Unlike Capri, Aurona had none of that expensive modern architecture or glass skyscrapers. No, it preserved its authentic, ancient look: narrow streets, cobblestone sidewalks, ochre and sand-colored buildings rarely more than three stories high, their rare balconies draped in ivy. Apart from the plastic windows, almost every building kept its historical appearance, and the city services actively maintained this tradition. After all, this local historical charm attracted far more tourists than any modern architecture ever could.

Aurona was also rich in old city squares, where street concerts were held in the evenings, and sometimes exhibitions or fairs took place, especially before holidays. All the offices, shops, and even the local mall were housed inside historic buildings. No one cared about neon signs or expensive cars parked next to ancient facades, or that many people preferred trams and bicycles. There was even a horse-drawn carriage rental for tourists.

Honestly, I can’t imagine Aurona filled with modern buildings. No. I loved Aurona just as it was. Even its outskirts, with the old mansions of wealthy families. And I knew that if you drove a little further, closer to the port settlements, you’d find old wooden houses and villages where people worked in the port, in agriculture, and brought their produce to the local market and city bazaars. That’s why Sardinians always had access to natural products, which significantly reduced the incidence of various diseases. Trade, services, medicine, and other important economic sectors all blended perfectly with the local ancient charm, creating a sense of coziness.

However, for me, Aurona was not a place where I could be free. When your father is the president, everyone knows you—whether you want them to or not.

When our motorcade stops in front of a tall three-story building with the sign "La’ Rose. Cosmetology Clinic and Beauty Salon", I sigh and purse my lips as I see salon staff pouring out of the doors. They line up in a long row by the main staircase, smiling so widely it sometimes gives me chills. So fake, so polite—all just to please my mother and earn some extra money. Pathetic. But that’s just how society works. Those with power and money are treated like kings, and everyone strives to please them.

Two cars, one in front and one behind us, also stop. Security pours out and rushes to our car—not only to open the door and offer a hand, but to cordon off the area. As I step out of the car, I put on my invisible mask again, smile, and wait for Mother, who doesn’t keep me waiting long. Then we walk into the salon, where we’re greeted not only by the staff standing at attention but also by the director himself, who comes out to welcome my mother while we’re escorted by security. I greet everyone politely and keep my back straight, as befitting a lady. Though all I really wanted was to relax for a minute and stop being perfect. But since today I’m playing my role, I have to hold it together.

I wait as Mother finishes her conversation with the craftsmen, and then two girls come to collect me, leading me into the first room where my preparations for the evening begin. And no, I’m not complaining—skincare is important, and I’m glad to receive the necessary treatments. But some of them, frankly speaking, I don’t need at all. Yet Mother is obsessed with having everything exactly as she wants it. Even people. That’s why I’ve resigned myself in silence to being polished to a shine today, as if I were made of porcelain.

Honestly, though, I don’t understand my parents’ obsession with appearing perfect, like true aristocrats fixated on luxury. Of course, appearances matter at events like these, but no one puts in the effort my parents do. For them, it’s as if every gathering is another chance to flaunt their wealth and dazzle the others. Though, frankly speaking, most of the guests couldn’t care less about diamonds or the label on the wine.

The guests don’t come to outshine one another, like a set of fine china taken out of the cupboard for a special occasion. No, they come for profit and opportunity. Not to scrutinize our manners, clothes, or jewelry, or the opulence of the decor.

The same goes for the leaders of the two dominant mafia clans from Capri and Sicily. I imagine they couldn’t care less about luxury. They come here to once again outdo each other, to renew their fragile, dangerous guarantees of peace. And to remind all of us, once more, exactly whose hands our lives rest in.

To be caught between two powder kegs, shackled and unable to escape—that is, perhaps, the worst fate of all. Because you never know when the fuse might be lit, and the explosion will come.

***

The next few hours pass in relative calm, if you don’t count the constant shuffle from one room to another for yet another cosmetic procedure. As I obediently let the professional cosmetologists tend to my skin, I pretended to be lost in my music, headphones firmly in place. In reality, I was straining to catch every hushed word exchanged by the staff. It was my way of passing the time, staving off boredom—and, of course, gathering the latest gossip. There’s always something more intriguing about hearing the opinions of those who watch from the sidelines.

A selfish, bitter part of me couldn’t help but relish the whispers about my parents. Some stories were worse than others, and damn, it felt good—listening to them get torn apart by the very people who witnessed their tyranny behind closed doors. I had to bite my tongue to keep from adding fuel to the fire, from turning that smoldering resentment into a full-blown blaze.

Most of the talk, of course, revolved around the upcoming evening. Rumors were swirling that this time, my father might actually be ousted as president, replaced by someone from Capri’s elite. No matter how quietly the salon staff tried to speak, their voices carried. But my feigned indifference, my relaxed posture, and the headphones gave them the illusion of safety. They thought I was oblivious. In truth, I hung on every word.

Now, lying on the treatment couch with a mask on my face and my hands resting on special supports, I maintained the charade, letting the staff believe they were in a safe space. This time, three masters were working on me at once.

“Did you hear the latest rumors?” the girl doing my manicure asked suddenly, not pausing in her work.

“Which ones?” replied the one massaging my scalp with some kind of device.

“I heard that this year, the head of the Sicilian mafia intends to take control of our southern port,” added the girl attending to my pedicure.

“No, I meant about the Capri delegation,” the manicurist clarified. “They say Vincent Barbarossa is coming himself this time, not sending his younger brother. Apparently, he wants to marry the daughter of the founder of ‘Global Reserve’ bank to get access to all of Sardinia’s finances.”

“And I heard he wants to marry…” the scalp masseuse suddenly fell silent, as if something—or someone—had stopped her. But after a few seconds, she whispered: “…her.”

I tensed imperceptibly, feeling the masters’ hands freeze for a moment. I heard their surprised gasps, and something inside me stretched taut and snapped still. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

Could it be… Were they talking about me?

“That would explain a lot,” the manicurist resumed her work first. “She’s the president’s daughter. If he marries her, he gets direct access to Sardinia. Sicily would be left with nothing. But that could spark an escalation—even war. And that’s the last thing anyone on all three islands wants. Besides… let’s just say, she’s no prize.”

“Shh!” the pedicurist cut her off, barely audible. “She might hear us.”

For several minutes, dead silence fell over us. The atmosphere grew heavy and tense. My heart quickened its pace, and I fought to contain the anxiety that was building in my chest, squeezing tight, triggering every alarm in my mind. I could listen to gossip about my parents all day, but when it came to me—when my name was linked with that of a mafia leader and marriage—it was different. My composure evaporated, replaced by fear and dread.

It was one thing to hear people talk about my deliberate antics; it was another entirely to hear my name mentioned alongside a forced marriage to a Capri don. This wasn’t just gossip. It was a threat. It was my personal powder keg. Being shackled by a forced marriage was the last thing I wanted in this life. Some might call it freedom—a shortcut—but it wasn’t. It was a new cage, a living nightmare.

And if I looked at this situation for what it was, the chances of my father and mother agreeing to such a deal were terrifyingly real.

Fuck.

I kept lying there, eyes closed, body relaxed, while a storm raged inside me. I could feel the masters’ eyes on me, studying me, as if they too were trying to confirm it was safe to keep talking in front of me. And damn it, I needed them to keep talking! I had to know where these rumors were coming from. I had to be ready for anything.

Suddenly, after a long pause, one of the girls broke the silence.

“Miss Gianna?”

“What are you doing?” hissed another girl in alarm.

“Checking if she can hear us!”she replied.

“She’s asleep,” concluded the girl massaging my head. “You really think she’d let us gossip about her and her family right in front of her? I doubt it. So… we can continue, but not too loud. No need to risk it.”

“Right,” the manicurist agreed with relief, resuming her work. “So… do you think Vincent would actually want to marry her? She’s… well, she’s got quite a temper. And considering all the stunts and scandals she pulls… She’s just another spoiled brat.”

"Do you think Vincent Barbarossa even cares about her character? Marriages of convenience never imply a genuine union. Vincent wants power, and for that, I think he wouldn’t mind taking her as his wife. After all, this marriage is only a formality."

"Yes, but," the pedicurist interjected. "Vincent Barbarossa has always been known for his impeccable reputation and image. He’s the type for whom that really matters. And she’s not the best match, considering her character. Besides, isn’t she dating Dean Westwood?"

"And who cares about that?"* the girl above me scoffed again. "If her parents force her into marriage with Vincent, this Dean will disappear from her life immediately. Who would dare to go against the president and the leader of the Capri mafia? I doubt their relationship is so strong that they’d be ready to repeat the story of Romeo and Juliet!"

Damn it! Did they really have to bring up my relationship with Dean? And when are they going to get to the point? It’s so infuriating!

"I still think,"* sighed the manicurist, "that these rumors were started by Vincent himself or his people, just to throw bait to Sicily. Remember last year, before the Aces’ Ball? There were rumors that Capri had bought a third of Sardinia’s lands and taken over three major ports. Remember the chaos? But in the end, it was just a clever game and manipulation. I swear, the way these bastards play with each other’s nerves will be the death of me!"

For a few minutes, silence fell over us again, and then one of the girls continued:

"You’re right. These are just rumors. Let’s not discuss things that might not even happen, or worry ourselves unnecessarily. But if you really want to talk about something… Better discuss how damn hot Vincent Barbarossa looks! Or his brother!"

All three girls immediately let out sounds like tortured moans, as if they desperately wanted something they couldn’t have. As for me? I just swore at myself like a sailor, trying to shut out their now meaningless chatter. I couldn’t care less how Vincent and his brother look! All I care about is my future and the rumors that hit me like a bucket of ice water.

On one hand, I understand that rumors don’t always match reality, and most of them are built on selfish lies. But the rational, anxious part of me latched onto them, holding on tight, rocking my emotional swing and speeding up the anxious mechanisms inside me.

On the other hand, I realize this could be a deliberate intimidation tactic from the Capri mafia. After all, those girls were right. Last year, someone spread a rumor that Capri had taken over part of Sardinia’s lands and ports. The rumor spread so fast that panic broke out. Many thought the peace guarantees were gone and war would begin. People prepared for the worst, the police couldn’t contain the chaos, and my father even had to bring in the military and make an official address before the public calmed down. Maybe this time, all these rumors are just another ploy to make everyone worry?

But still… I’m so anxious that a lump forms in my throat, and something poisonous burns behind my chest. Something claws at the armor around my heart, something like despair. Deep under my ribs, a bad premonition only grows stronger. It’s as if some part of me already knows a destructive storm is coming—one that will break me. And I wasn’t looking forward to it. Besides, if I remember previous years, Mother and Father never tried to make me look this flawless. But this time, everything is different. It really feels like I’m being prepared for something—or someone. And that only makes it worse.

Damn these rumors.

Even in my worst nightmare, I couldn’t imagine being forced into marriage. Curse it all! We live in a modern world where everyone has rights, including the right to choose! So why does arranged marriage still exist? And I will never, under any circumstances, marry just because someone else wants me to! For me, marriage is an act of the highest, unconditional trust between people. Because when you love sincerely and with all your heart, you can’t imagine yourself without the one who has taken you over and filled you completely. It’s a union where a tiny piece of consciousness dies out of love.

Love. I don’t know what it is. What’s happening between me and Dean can be called mutual attraction or lust, but not love. No. In all my twenty-one years, after reading hundreds of novels, I’ve never experienced anything like what’s described in books. Maybe I’m not even capable of love; it always seemed to me that love must be earned. And if all these rumors turn out to be true, and tonight my parents suddenly announce my engagement to Vincent Barbarossa… then I won’t just break. This time, I won’t be able to surface from the dark, cold, viscous bottom.

I’ll remain in darkness, locked in a cage, without choice or freedom. This is my personal hell, and I won’t be able to endure it.

Everyone has a limit. And I very much hope that tonight the universe will truly be merciful and allow me to keep not only myself but also my dreams of freedom.