OLIVIA
For the past hour, my entire existence had been narrowed down to a small, damp makeup sponge. Sitting in front of the massive vanity mirror in my bedroom, I carefully dabbed a thick layer of expensive concealer over my left jawline. The skin beneath the makeup throbbed with a dull, constant ache. Bruno’s heavy hand had left a dark, ugly purple bruise across my face, a violent reminder of my absolute helplessness.
Tonight was a mandatory family dinner. Don Antonio was hosting two of his top capos at the estate to discuss the escalating border conflict with the Calabrian faction. As the wife of the underboss, my presence was strictly required. I was expected to sit at the long mahogany table, smile politely, and project the flawless image of a completely united, powerful mafia famil
