4
997 Words
LIORA
I didn’t recognize him.
He stood in the doorway like he belonged there—tall, broad-shouldered, lanky, with a face carved from stone and eyes that didn’t blink. His coat was black, wet at the hems, and his gloves creaked as he tightened his grip around the gun at his side.
“I was beginning to think you’d outrun us.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The steel beneath it did the work.
I instinctively stepped in front of Fiorella. She was still trying to catch her breath, crouched beside a crate, clutching the crowbar like it could save us.
The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “How sweet.”
More men flooded into the container—silent, efficient. They had guns, their faces were covered. they were everywhere like a creepy mass of black cockroaches.
“Who ... who are you?” I asked, trying to sound strong, but my voice cracked halfway through.
The man’s eyes turned to me. “You don’t know me, but I know you. You, Miss Liora, belong to the boss. And this little…uhmm… expedition”—he looked at Fiorella with a sneer—“is a very expensive betrayal.”
He turned slightly, showing us the holster beneath his coat. “I’m Sylvester. Matteo Arcuri’s right hand.”
Fiorella stood. I noticed blood on her lip for the first time. I had no idea how it got there. “Then Matteo must not know what his dog is doing.”
Sylvester’s eyes glinted. “He doesn’t.”
And then, without warning, he backhanded her.
Her head snapped sideways. I gasped. She stumbled, caught herself, but another blow sent her crashing into the steel wall behind her. I rushed forward, but the men grabbed me—held me back like I was made of feathers.
“Leave her alone!” I screamed.
Sylvester looked at me. “You think you get to make demands?”
“I’m his bride!” I snapped. “You can’t hurt me.”
That made him pause. His eyes narrowed with something like amusement. “You’re right.”
Then he turned back to Fiorella.
I screamed as he grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the container wall. She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. But the wince she gave felt like a stab at my heart.
“Stop it!” I yelled, struggling. “Stop—please—she’s not—she was just helping me, it was all my idea!”
"That's not the magic word, princessa", he snickered, this time sucker punching Fiorella in the gut.
Fiorella groaned, her knees giving way as she sank to the ground.
“Please!” I begged. “I’ll go with you! Just stop!”
Sylvester hesitated. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and signaled to his men.
"There it is. That wasn't too hard."
They let go of me. Fiorella fell to the floor, coughing, bloody and half-conscious.
“You made the right choice,” Sylvester said.
I didn’t answer. I just sank to my knees beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Her fingers found mine—barely a squeeze. Then they dragged me away.
***
The boat ride was a blur of salt wind and silence.
The hotel was the opposite—too bright, too warm, too polished. Everything gleamed. The floor, the walls, the jewelry they handed me.
The sun was already out and my big day had begun.
Women buzzed around, applying makeup, adjusting my dress, fitting me into someone else’s dream. I felt like I was underwater—watching myself float through someone else’s life.
No one asked how I was.
No one asked why I looked like I’d been crying for hours.
They just powdered over the bruises like they weren’t mine and pretended my silence was elegance.
Then they left. The room emptied. I stood there alone in the mirror, a stranger in silk. I touched my reflection, expecting it to feel colder than glass.
The door creaked.
I didn’t turn.
His footsteps were soft. My father never made noise unless he wanted to.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly.
I stared at my reflection. I knew exactly what he would look like right about now, what his eyes would be screaming. I wasn’t sure how I felt but my eyes never left my reflection.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” he added. “You always had your mother’s fire.”
I still didn’t look at him.
“I’m sorry,”
The tears came silently—no sobs, just the slow surrender of strength. He stepped behind me and gently rested a hand on my shoulder.
“I never wanted this for you,” he said. “But you’re here now. It’ll be fine.”
I flinched at the word. Fine. As if this was a scratched floorboard or a broken vase.
I kept crying.
***
The church was small, private—but everyone who mattered in Italy was there. Senators. Oil barons. Old money wrapped in new suits.
I sat alone in the backseat of a Cadillac, parked just behind the chapel gates.
My veil was too tight,My throat was too dry and my groom was late. Part of me was relieved.
I leaned my head against the window, blinking fast. Thinking of Fiorella. Her blood. Her hands. Her silence. Another tear escaped.
What if she hadn’t made it out?
What if I’d traded my soul for nothing?
The church doors burst suddenly open.
I sat up.
People flooded out—angry, panicked, murmuring in broken whispers. I opened the door and stepped out of the giant SUV.
A white limo had just pulled Into the compound—its windows shattered, body pocked with bullet holes. The driver slumped over the wheel, blood trailing down his temple.
The back door of the limo swung open.
Empty.
Someone screamed.
- Writer
