MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

*CHAPTER TWO: Who. Was. That?*

"The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think."

—Horace Walpole

——————————————————My fingers trembled as the coldness of my fiancé's aura sipped into my veins. He had enough darkness around him to be capable of spreading it wide.

And he never hesitated to do just that.

Against my better judgment, I turned to find him a few breaths away, and blood drained from my face. I watched his jaw tick as he waited for my response, as he cinematically watched the pulse in my neck thud like a loose cannon.

The air between us felt suffocating, as if every breath was a struggle. My skin itched with unease, automatically jerking away from his touch.

He stood there still, silent, and yet the room felt like it was loaded with a low, minatory hum—the kind you feel deep in your spine just before something terrible happens. For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The sheer dread of his presence paralyzed me.

Taking a step forward, he hissed, "Uh, Sessie, Sessie, Sessie... Do I need to ask twice? Or are you just pretending to be dense?"

The latter—clearly.

I opened my mouth, desperate to find words that might save me from the humiliation of his next comment, but all that escaped was a ragged breath. How could I possibly explain who Jake was? How could I admit that I fancied a boy from my art class, a boy whose heart was so big it made my fiancé's seem microscopic? How could I lie to someone who would rip me apart if he even suspected a shred of dishonesty?

"I'm starting to think you enjoy making me repeat myself," he spat again, his words like pinpricks driving into my skull. "So, let me indulge you... again. Who. Was. That? And don't even think about shaking your head—I want an answer."

His voice was cold, each word laced with barely restrained anger. There was something in his eyes—something I'd seen too many times before—that made my stomach twist with fear.

Tiziano was always a step ahead of me in school, expected, as he had two years on me. My earliest memory of "Tizzy's" rage? Tenth grade, of course—the beginning of this horror. We were all labeled as cousins, every last one of us connected to Vincenzo's crime family—a neat little trick to keep the "Vinseltti" operations, as I liked to call it, nice and tidy. I remember a so-called friend of mine practically breaking the sound barrier to warn little ninth-grade me that "my Tizzy" had gotten mixed up in something truly awful. When we rushed back, there he was in the hallway—bloodied hands, a few fresh cuts on his face, and his victim lying face down, out cold. The silence was deafening. He'd pounded every last bit of life out of the poor guy.

When I dared to confront him right then and there for what he'd done, I got a swift slap in the face, leaving me with a nosebleed for my trouble. It took Cosimo cutting short a make-out session to pull his classmate-s***h-partner-in-crime off his sister's hair.

And let me tell you, that was far from the only time—not even a fraction of the times I'd ended up bleeding because of this man right here.

Right now, his steps were a lot heavier than they were in tenth grade, his eyes now far more contaminated by the monster that had claimed him. His grip? God don't get me started with that, because it only ended with one thing—a retch from me.

"T-tizzy, you're hurting me."

"Answer me, Alessandra! Goddamnit!" He groaned. "Don't 'Tizzy' me."

I knew the signs, knew what was coming when he fisted his hand with my phone in it. Tiziano had been fed by the devil him, but that was a truth the family never acknowledged beyond these doors. That was a truth they never even acknowledged at all. To the outside world, he was the strong, capable second son of Don Vincenzo—loyal, powerful, untouchable.

To me, he was nothing short of a monster. I'd witnessed the chaos left behind by his rages, the wreckage that followed in his path. I'd heard the maids whispering their horror stories, seen the bruises on the women who had the nerve to defy him. I'd even seen the bruises on myself.

There had to be some sort of neat, clinical label for whatever he was, but honestly, he was far more terrifying than anything science could ever explain. Nothing could ever capture the sheer violence of his outbursts, the way his eyes would go dark and his fists would clench, or the cold calm that followed, as if nothing had happened.

It didn't describe the way my heart raced whenever I was alone with him, the way I had to constantly walk on eggshells, never knowing what might set him off.

"You're shaking," he observed, his eyes narrowing as if the sight pleased him. He reached out, and I flinched before I could stop myself. His hand hovered in the air, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'd do well to be honest with me, Sessie. It'll save us both a lot of... unpleasantness."

I blinked.

"Me having to raise my voice... and Remo or Cosimo having to intervene. Again."

Same old poison, same old suffocation. Two years of my life, drowned in his manipulation and cruelty, buffered by my brothers' strong arms.

"Sessie..."

My nickname felt like poison on his lips. It wasn't a term of endearment when he used it. It was a s**t-show of how small and trapped I was under him.

Finally, I found the courage to get my story straight. "I-it was just a friend," I stammered, hating how weak I sounded. "Someone from school calling to extend their congratulations. I promise."

It was only half true. Jake never set foot in Lincoln; he was actually at my art class. But I kept that little nugget of information to myself, fully aware that if Tiziano found out, he'd either pay to make Jake disappear from the class or, in true Tiziano fashion, handle the problem the​ old-fashioned way—with his own two hands.

"A friend," he repeated as disbelief licked the edges of his words. Before I could react, his free hand was already in my hair—not that I'd ever think to object.

His eyes flicked between my contorted face and the phone screen as he scrolled through the recent calls. Groaning from the pain of my hair being yanked, I watched in horror as he lifted the phone to his ear, dialing the number.

No. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear the ringing on the other end. Please don't pick up—I begged silently. Please, God, don't let him answer.

Being called 'Sessiepie' by Jake as usual upon answering my call was basically a neon sign screaming 'I'm a cheating liar.' Because, clearly, a cute nickname was the ultimate indicator of guilt. And what a coincidence that I was surrounded by a cast of characters straight out of a bad historical drama? The cavemen, the Vikings, the medieval kings... it's a wonder I didn't get accused of witchcraft too. And the women who could've vouched for me? Please, they were all too busy perfecting their 'damsel in distress' faces and practicing their 'who, me?' expressions.

I was done if Jake answered.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Each ring seemed to echo in my mind, the tension mounting until I thought I might scream. Then, finally, the ringing stopped—no answer.

I exhaled shakily, a flicker of relief almost making me dizzy. But that relief was short-lived. Tiziano's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he ended the call. "No answer?" he murmured, very dangerously low. "How convenient."

He dropped the phone onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving mine. The sound of it shattering against the marble tiles reverberated through the spacious hall, like the final c***k of a whip.

I jumped at the sound, my breath catching in my throat. The pieces of the phone lay scattered at our feet, broken—just like the tiny shred of peace I'd been clinging to all night.

Tiziano took a step closer, so close I could smell the faint scent of his woody cologne laced with something sour underneath. "You're lucky, Sessie." His whispered words were hot against my cheek. "If I ever find out you're lying to me... neither Cosimo nor Remo would be inclined to stepping in the way of my wrath."

My voice was gone, trapped somewhere deep in my chest, along with my courage. I could only nod, praying that he'd believe me, that he wouldn't see the terror hiding just beneath the surface.

For a moment, he lingered, his gaze raking over me, searching for cracks. Then, with a cold smile, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the broken pieces of my phone and the shards of my fear.

When I felt able to breathe again, I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could hold all the pieces together. The silent prayer on my lips turned into a plea for something I knew I might never find again—freedom.

A tear slipped, and subsequently, more followed. Before long, I was a sobbing mess.

It suddenly hit me—once we were married, there'd be no Remo or Cosimo to hold him back, no Vi to call him out. There would just be a submissive version of myself, constantly tiptoeing around his temper.

How long could I survive like that?

"There you are!" A loud voice cut through the emptiness of the room. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was; even in my sleep, I'd recognize Zita's distinctive tone. My eldest sister. "Why are you... curled up here?"

I hastily erased my tears, because crying is so passé when you're stuck in a never-ending cycle of destiny. I inhaled, put on my best 'I'm okay' face, and gathered the shattered remains of my phone - a fitting metaphor for my life.

"Wow, I'm such a genius," I mockingly scolded myself. "Can't believe I let this slip."

When I finally turned to face Zita, she was tucking her pale hair to the side, her gaze darting between my eyes and the remaining broken glass doubtfully. "Are you... alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be, hmm?"

She squinted. "It's just that..."

"Zita, I'm fine!" I snapped, trying to salvage the cool demeanor Tiziano had knocked out of me. Honestly, I'd rather she not dig into the latest disaster of my married life. Not that if I explained, she'd rush off to confront him—more likely, she'd just watch with detached curiosity.

I'd figured out that in this family, keeping your true feelings buried was the only way to get by.

She had clearly come here with a purpose, so I guessed. "Riding arrangements, then?"

"Yes," she replied, smiling knowingly and smoothing her green dress. I was familiar with the routine—time for the women to retreat to their little kingdom while the men, the real night owls, went off to do whatever dark deeds they preferred. "So, are you joining me or riding with Liv and Vi?"

Because I was a glutton for punishment, I asked the rhetorical question: "Let me guess, Rachele and Amalia will be joining you?"

A true dream team: Zita, Rachele, and Amalia - the holy trinity of chaos. One—a walking submissive wife. Another—a live grenade of her mother's fury. The last—if a viper ever had mood swings.

As Zita nodded, I just about choked on my own sarcasm. "I'll pass" was my diplomatic way of saying "hell no, I'd rather walk on hot coals."

Point was, I'd just stick to my own personal apocalypse, thank you very much — no need to amplify the destruction with a toxic road trip with my sister and our half-sisters—whom she seemed to love so fervently she'd conveniently forgotten how their mother had torn our lives apart.

"Congratulations once again," she said, her eyes fixed on the ring I'd somehow managed to overlook yet again. I gave a nod, and Zita's gaze lingered before she stepped in closer. "You know," she whispered, "sometimes the things we commit to end up committing to us. I can see how you look at Tizzy—with just enough disgust to be noticeable. It's only going to crush your spirit to fight against a well-established protocol."

My heart sank. They were all cut from the same cloth—each one tethered to their own version of submission.

"For the love of your sanity..." she said, wrapping me in a hug that practically screamed pity. "You're engaged now, end that affair before it blows up in your face."

Before I could even process what she meant or ask how she'd managed to know about Jake, she vanished, leaving behind only a lingering scent of vanilla and a not-so-subtle hint of doom.