Porcelain & Fire

Embers in the Cage

Alessia

I don’t go to breakfast.

I can’t sit across from my father, pretending obedience while Matteo stands behind him, silent and steady like a chain I’ll never break.

So I go to the basement gym.

The bag takes the first hit, then the second, then the third. Each strike lands harder than the last, my fists a blur, my breath ragged. My arms scream, my chest aches, but I don’t stop.

You shame me.

You’ll destroy him too.

You’re colder than he is.

Their voices pound through my skull with every impact until it feels like I’m the one breaking.

I hit harder. Faster. The rhythm turns violent, wild.

And then I feel it.

Eyes.

I spin, sweat sticking hair to my face.

Matteo stands in the doorway.

Silent.

Watching.

Something in me snaps.

“What?” I spit, ripping the gloves off my hands, throwing them to the floor. “You just going to stand there? Staring? Judging? Do you enjoy it? Watching me crawl back into the cage you built for me?”

“You took everything,” I snarl. “Every scrap of freedom I had left. And now what? I’m supposed to thank you?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. His silence is heavier than any threat.

And it infuriates me.

“Say something! Anything! Yell at me, threaten me—do something!”

Nothing. Just that immovable calm, like he’s a wall I’ll break myself against before he ever bends.

“You’re worse than my father,” I hiss. “You don’t even need chains. You just stand there and watch while you cage me.”

That’s when he finally speaks.

“I took nothing from you. You gave it up the moment you dragged him into your storm.”

The words cut through me sharper than any fist.

“Don’t you dare make this about him,” I snap, stepping closer, heat rolling off me like flame. “You don’t care about Luca. You care about control. That’s all you’ve ever cared about.”

His voice stays low, sharper now. “Control is the only thing keeping you contained. Without it, you’d already be in the ground—and you’d have taken him with you.”

The air between us crackles. My voice drops, venomous.

“Maybe I’d rather burn than live in your cage.”

Something flickers in his expression then—darker than anger, darker than victory. Something that makes my breath catch even as my rage roars higher.

I can’t stand it.

“Fine,” I spit, shoving past him. My shoulder brushes his, searing hot, but I don’t slow. The door slams behind me, echoing down the hall.

I don’t know if I’m running from him, or from the truth he threw in my face.

Maybe both.

I don’t stop in the gardens. The flowers, the gravel paths—they’re just another cage with prettier walls.

So I cut across the lawn, down the stone steps, and push through the side door into the garage.

The air here is cooler, metallic, carrying the faint scent of motor oil and leather. Rows of polished machines gleam under the lights: my father’s trophies of power, each one spotless, waiting, untouchable.

And then there’s mine.

The Ferrari SF90 Stradale.

Sleek. Red. Predatory. A hybrid monster crouched low and lethal under the lights.

I cross to it slowly, fingertips dragging along the hood. Just touching it makes my pulse spike.

One press of the ignition and I could vanish. Tear through the gates, feel one thousand horsepower hurl me down the road, the roar drowning out every voice still clawing through my skull. My father’s cold steel. Matteo’s calm control. Luca’s bitter laugh. All of it gone in the slipstream.

I sink into the driver’s seat. Leather hugs me, swallows me whole. My grip tightens on the wheel until my knuckles blanch.

Freedom.

It’s right here.

All I have to do is take it.

But the gates are locked. Guards are stationed. And somewhere, always, Matteo is watching.

The rage twists tighter. I slam my palm against the wheel, the sound sharp in the silence.

This car is everything I want to be. Power. Fire. Untouchable speed.

And yet, like me, it sits here. Leashed.

My thumb hovers over the ignition.

One press. That’s all it would take.

But I don’t press.

I stay still, chest heaving, nails biting into leather. Because freedom in this house isn’t real. Not yet.

So I sit there, simmering, pulse thundering, the fantasy of the road stretching out before me like a horizon I may never reach.

Eventually the silence grows too heavy, and I shove the door open. The sound echoes, too loud. I step out, smoothing my hair back, forcing my hands steady as if I can erase the chaos inside.

The Ferrari gleams behind me. Silent. Waiting. Mocking.

I don’t look back.

Instead, I slip into the mansion’s halls, my steps careful, measured, as though I’ve never broken a sweat, never sat in that car with escape thrumming through my veins.

Avoidance. My old mask. My safest weapon.

For now, it will have to be enough.

I don’t go looking for anyone. Not my father with his cold orders. Not Matteo with his shadow-quiet lectures. The guards who watch me like I’m a bomb waiting to go off.

Instead, I climb the stairs and shut myself in my room. The door clicks closed behind me, soft but final.

The quiet here is heavier than the gym, heavier than the garage.

I pace. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I force myself still.

Masks are safer than fire. Masks don’t get men killed. Masks don’t make my father look weak.

No one comes. Not my father. Not Matteo. The house moves on without me, and for once, I’m left alone.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls feel closer every minute, pressing tighter, but I don’t move. Not yet.

The rage is still there, simmering under my skin, but I bury it, tuck it down where no one can see.

For now, silence is survival.

So I stay still, breathing slow, letting the mask harden over the cracks.

If Matteo won’t let me burn, then I’ll learn to smolder. And when the fire comes back, it will be on my terms