MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

Haze with Echoes

"The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."

—Alan Watts

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The ridiculous Santoro threat finally fizzled out at precisely 10 PM. That's when one of Father's cars rolled up to the restaurant to pick up me, Mother, Vi, Zita, and Liv—the Benedetti women, in short. Nico was behind the wheel, and we all piled into the Cadillac, utterly spent and done. I was particularly drained. Mother's slap hadn't just left a mark; Vi had stepped in to stop what was turning into a full-blown assault, rescuing my finger from getting squished as Mother nearly shoved the ring in.

"How could you?" Her voice still echoed in my ears, still rang with that raw, angry edge. "You were supposed to be... are you even still—"

She didn't say "virgin" out loud because of the men around, but I got her point loud and clear. I didn't bother answering. If I'd said yes, there'd be no way to prove it wasn't a lie. To avoid more embarrassment, I just let her go on about how Tiziano would look down on me in our marriage because I'd lost my innocence. Well, I didn't care. He wasn't respecting me now, and losing some hymen wasn't going to change a thing.

"w***e!" She'd spat a gazillion times in my face today.

Father had slut-shamed a lot of women, but at least I'd never heard him call any one of his daughters a w***e before. Mother knew how to break records. In short, she certainly did. From not putting up a fight against the mistress's arrangement of living down the same street as us, to letting father handpick her daughters like pawns for the greater good of the king, to running some of his dirty dealings in her business under her name? She was... almost too foolish for existence

But she was my mother; saying that out loud would only bring me the deepest self-inflicted misery. Even Aunt Rosa, who was known for her blunt honesty, would never agree with me on that.

After Mother's tirade and my stony silence, she had finally broken down, sobbing uncontrollably. Vi had stepped in to try to calm her down—not because she agreed with Mother's twisted thinking, but she was playing the peacemaker to defuse the storm.

I still ached all over, humiliated. Disgusted that of all people to reduce me in front of the men that worked for Father, it'll be my mother. The fact that her reaction had traveled this far, though, meant my news had spread like wildfire. As expected, Amalia had run straight into her mother's arms, and her mother had gone right to Father's. With Father now in the loop, Jake was in serious trouble.

Why was I so confident about that? I had seen this situation before in our family. To be honest, it's likely why Zita had advised me against resisting protocol. A little over eleven years ago, Zita had tried to resist marrying Ginevra's cousin. It ended with her then-boyfriend losing his limbs before his head. He had fought for her, but it was a foolish endeavor for an untrained man to oppose a family of criminals.

I should have learned from my sister that her submission was not due to naivety but a lack of options. But I was Alessandra, not Zita—I knew deep down that I would never yield to protocol. I could feel my defiance even now as we sat still in the car heading home, despite Zita's intense gaze and my mother's anger, which seemed strong enough to melt the leather seat she was sitting on.

No one said a word during the drive to Arturo Salvatore's house—and whenever more than one Benedetti could keep a room silent, it usually still meant trouble. A lot of it.

Liv stepped out of the car without so much as a goodbye or a glance back. We had a minimal relationship, so I didn't expect her to share in my misery. She was the type who only focused on her own issues, particularly her fertility problems. I didn't blame her; her marriage to the underboss's son was precarious, and all she and Arturo ever discussed was having children.

Halfway through the ride, I began to cry softly, and only Vi, who was sitting next to me, noticed. She pulled me into her arms and rested her head on mine. Despite being a bit larger, making it hard for people to tell I was two years older, she was always so generous with her warmth.

As I cried in her arms, I thought about how I would face my father, plead for mercy on Jake's behalf, and hoped that my situation—since Jake wouldn't fight the family—would be different from Zita's.

But who was I kidding? Myself, certainly—because my day had ended with a slap from my father, and the damned order to Nico.

Find him, make him suffer for this disgrace.

Even after three days of staring at nothing but the walls of my bedroom, I couldn't stop blaming myself. Hating myself what it had come down to. I couldn't reach Jake—my phone had been confiscated. My laptop was here, but I'd deleted his number and blocked him, so I had no way of knowing if he was still alive. Or even alerting him to run. Chances were, wherever he ducked, Nico was going to fish him out.

I wasn't just grounded—it felt like I'd been kidn*pped by my own family, trapped in my colorful room that now seemed dull to me. For three days straight, the only people I'd seen were the rotating housekeepers who brought my meals and then took them away untouched.

I hadn't eaten a thing.

I wouldn't eat until I starved to death. A quick exit from being a Benedetti. Punishment for what I'd done to Jake. I deserved every bit of it. At the same time, I ached to throw Amalia's head into a pond full of sharks.

Her mother probably celebrated when she got the news that I'd disgraced myself. She might've even dragged my father to bed to discuss how my punishment should be handled.

"f**k!" I screamed, losing my grip on reality. I was tempted to claw at the walls with my nails. A way out? I doubted it.

When my reflection caught my eye in the mirror by my vanity, I realized I'd sunk into something. Not oblivion—this was more of a stark realization. I'd killed a man. Saying I "caused a man his life" felt irresponsible. Killed was the right word, because I knew the stakes and ignored the consequences anyway.

As if to further torment me, my door creaked open. It wasn't one of the housekeepers.

It was my father.

Three days since I last saw him, and nothing had changed. He was still as angry, disappointed, and ruthless as when he had walked into the house that night. His brows were still furrowed with irritation. His nose still flaring. The veins on his forehead still beating.

Why did what I'd done seem so bad? It was just a kiss—unless Amalia had claimed she saw more. Why would he end a man's life over something so trivial? Or at least give the order?

When he opened his mouth, he aimed to give me the answer. "Insubordination is one of the greatest sins in this family, Alessandra. You know that." His voice was cold, steely, and lethal. He began pacing in front of me while I sat on the floor, hugging myself, trying to hold back tears. "The first thing you're taught as a Benedetti is to follow orders, no matter how small, no matter how much they go against your will."

He wasn't wrong.

"The next lesson is decorum." He scoffed, as if recalling a memory. "I remember the first time your mother hit you. You were twelve—so unruly. You took Cosimo's phone and threw it into the pool."

Yes, because he had called me ugly. Why was it okay for the men to get away with everything, but not us?

My father kept going, oblivious to the real question burning inside me. "You were taught to never, ever do anything to attract the wrong attention, even something as small as chewing too loudly." He paused, slipping his hands into his dark brown trousers. "Now, fast forward to when you're twenty-three—a grown woman who should know right from wrong. An engaged woman, no less. And you get caught doing something so scandalous."

My breath caught at the finality in his tone. "I'm not here to ask you why, I'd never do that. With kids like you these days, your impulses run ahead of you. You jump in headfirst, then scramble for excuses when you're called out. So no, I'm not questioning why Tiziano had to call a meeting, interrupt me, and have the audacity to mock how your mother raised you."

To hell with that maniac.

"I'm here to tell you it won't happen again." His gaze faltered briefly before he continued, "If I have to clean up your mess one more time, if I have to remind you about respect one more time, Alessandra Benedetti, I'll string you up and let the blood rush to your head." He tossed my phone at me like it was trash, flicking off the light. "You can come out when you're done grieving."

The door slammed behind him.

I screamed, straight from the pit of my stomach, my rage shaking the quiet room and rattling the half-open windows. He'd said "grieving," and that was all I needed to confirm that Nico had taken care of the "problem" in true Benedetti fashion.

Jake was gone. How, I didn't know, but he'd probably been tossed into a pit somewhere. His parents would likely plaster missing person posters around for years, until they finally gave up, moved cities to heal, and tried to move on with their lives. Another life, another family ruined—because of this family.

But this one cut deeper. This was my fault. Guilt and grief eroded the edges of my mind, until they'd burrowed so deep that all I could hear was the name of my unsuspecting victim. All I could see were flashes of his possible last moments. All I could do was choke and cough on my sobs.

The kiss he'd given me now felt like poison on my tongue, something I wanted to forget. Even when Vi came in moments later to comfort me—likely after being told I was allowed visitors—I felt completely numb. At some point, I must've fallen asleep in her arms, but when I opened my eyes hours later, I found myself lying in bed, unsure of how I'd gotten there.

My throat was dry, my lips cracked, and my mind was hazy enough to forget the events of the last six hours—until they all came rushing back like a flood. My father, Jake.

Couldn’t I escape this cursed life? Glancing at the alarm clock by my bed, I saw it was close to midnight. I didn't know if it was the lonely darkness of the hour or the weight of my pain and resignation, but the thought hit me like a sinister whisper.

Run.

"Run! Run! Run!" The voice echoed in my throbbing head, each pulse driving it deeper.

I craved freedom so intensely I could almost taste it, feel it pressing against my skin.

I could do it.

I would. Right now.

I'd run and never look back because that would be the ultimate misconduct, and father wouldn’t be so merciful. I'd make sure they never found me. I had enough money in my account to disappear. I'd withdraw the cash, destroy the card to avoid tracking, and cut ties with this family for good.

I didn't bother packing anything—couldn't, really. It would just slow me down. When running from a family like mine, the last thing you want is to be caught.

I chose my disguise carefully—blue loose pants and a black hoodie. I threw them on and shoved my phone into my pocket, switching it to silent.

The idea of sneaking out through the door vanished quickly. Too many guards. They were stationed everywhere around the mansion, and I mean everywhere. Instead, I left my jogging shoes by my door. I scratched at my eyes, keeping up the charade of a sleepwalker to the passage guards as I passed each one. Some leaned in, maybe curious, while others just stared blankly ahead as if I were invisible.

I headed to Cosimo's room first, knowing he kept spare keys in a stupid iron box for emergencies.

Cosimo and Nico wouldn't be home until after 2 AM, so I slipped into Nico's room to find a lighter. Cosimo didn't smoke due to his asthma, so there was no chance of finding one in his room.

I considered starting the commotion in Nico's room, but feared he would wish death upon me. Plus, I might accidentally destroy something valuable. So I decided to create chaos in the living room—the center of attention, the biggest space, and the easiest to escape from. Maybe wrecking some of my father's priceless possessions would ease my own despair.

I swung by the kitchen first to make tea and grab some vegetable oil.

The last guard before the entrance was stationed in the anteroom, while the final guard before the living room was down the corridor.

I had the room to myself.

I soaked five sofas in oil, lit them up with the lighter, and then headed back to my room to get my shoes. I hoped the magic happened: flames beginning to spread, ready to escape.

Within moments, boots thundered through the house, men scrambling to the scene as the house erupted into chaos. Pretending to be one of the startled light sleepers, I joined the commotion, feigning shock at the alarm.

The men were too preoccupied with extinguishing the flames to notice me, most of them far from their posts.

It was the perfect chance. I slipped out unnoticed and hid near the garden. The guards at the back, drawn by the disturbance, rushed inside.

The timing couldn't have been better.

After slipping on my shoes without lacing them, I grabbed the keys and raced to the gate. The first three attempts were futile, but on the fourth try, the key turned with a satisfying creak that made my heart leap.

Before anyone could spot me or realize I was missing—prompted by my mother's first frantic call—I was already far from home, far from the North Side of Chicago, lost in the depths of Downtown. For once, I was lost, unguarded, but I at least was not dying inside.