Property of Capo Orazio

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Outside the cracked apartment window, thunder rolled across the Palermo sky like a warning. Elena Romano stood barefoot in the kitchen, boiling water for her mother’s herbal tea, her fingers trembling from the chill. The wind howled through the broken edges of the old windowpane, and the scent of damp brick filled the air. She added two sugar cubes, just the way her mother liked it, and brought the tea carefully into the bedroom. Her mother, pale and fragile, lay nestled beneath layers of mismatched blankets. She barely stirred when Elena placed the cup on the nightstand. “Elena,” her mother whispered, her voice thin as paper. “You didn’t sleep again.” “I’m fine, Mama,” Elena said softly, tucking the covers tighter around her. “I’ll rest later.” It was a lie, of course. Elena hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Between part-time cleaning jobs and constant worry about the cost of her mother’s medication, sleep had become a luxury she couldn’t afford. At exactly 6:30 p.m., the sound of a key scraped against the lock. Her uncle, Giorgio, stepped in — his shoulders wet from the rain, his suit rumpled, the usual smell of tobacco clinging to him like rot. He glanced at Elena, then at the tea on the table, and gave a grunt of approval. “Put on something nice,” he said, shaking off his coat. “We’re going to a party.” Elena blinked. “A party?” “Yes. One of my friends is hosting a gathering outside town. Classy people. Important people.” He tossed a dry-cleaning bag onto the couch. “You’ll wear this.” She walked over, unzipping the bag slowly. Inside hung a pale pink silk dress — sleeveless, elegant, and clearly expensive. The kind of dress no girl like her should be touching, let alone wearing. “I can’t wear this,” she said. “It looks like—” “Like what?” Giorgio snapped, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Like something for a woman instead of a girl? That’s the point. You’re not a child anymore. Do your hair and wear the pearls.” Her fingers curled slightly. “I have work tomorrow, and Mama—” “Your mother is fine,” he interrupted. “And if you care about her getting her pills this month, you’ll do as I say. You know i mean it . I don't give a damn about you or your mother.” The words struck her like a slap. The pills. Without them, her mother’s condition would spiral. Elena had seen it once — the seizures, the collapsed lung, the blood. Her voice dropped. “What kind of party is this, Uncle?” He turned to her, eyes cold and unreadable. “The kind where you smile, look pretty, and make me proud.” With that, he left the room. Elena stared at herself in the bathroom mirror an hour later, barely recognizing the girl who looked back. The pink dress hugged her too tightly. The pearls around her neck felt like a leash. Her black curls had been pinned up. Her lips were a shade of rose she never wore. She didn’t feel like herself. She felt like a stranger trapped in silk. The car arrived just after nine. A black town car with tinted windows and a silent driver. Giorgio sat in the front seat, scrolling through his phone. They didn’t speak during the drive. She watched the streets of Palermo vanish behind them as they sped toward the hills. Villas peeked through the mist. The air grew colder. She couldn’t shake the tightness in her chest, or the feeling that something was wrong. The car finally turned onto a private road lined with torches. Ahead stood a grand villa, glowing gold against the night. Music drifted through the tall doors. Elena stepped out, shivering in her heels, and followed Giorgio up the stairs. Inside, people in tuxedos and gowns mingled under crystal chandeliers. A string quartet played in the corner. Waiters moved like shadows with silver trays. It looked like a wedding — but there was no bride. “Elena,” Giorgio said, pulling her close. “Remember what I said. Smile.” He handed her a bouquet of white roses. Her heart stopped. Before she could speak, the music changed. Guests began to turn toward her. A hush fell across the room. A priest stepped forward from the shadows. “Elena Romano,” the man said gently. “Do you come freely and without reservation to enter into this holy union?” “What—?” Giorgio leaned in, his voice like poison. “Say yes, or I stop paying for her treatment. One word from me, and she’s dead by next week.” Elena’s knees buckled, but she kept her face still. Cameras flashed. She looked ahead — and saw him. The man. Tall, severe, wearing a black suit so sharp it looked carved from steel. His features were sculpted — cold mouth, stubbled jaw, silver cufflinks that glinted like teeth. And those eyes — ice blue, like winter storms. Leonardo Valenti. The name struck something deep in her memory. Mafia. Headlines. Danger. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just stared at her as though she were already his. “Elena?” the priest prompted again. She swallowed the scream rising in her throat. Her lips barely moved. “Yes.” Later that night, she sat in the back of the town car again — a gold band on her finger and tears on her cheeks. Leonardo hadn’t spoken a word to her. Not during the ceremony. Not during the photos. Not during the endless toasts from strangers calling her the “luckiest girl in Italy.” He hadn’t even looked at her once the vows were done. She felt sick. Back at the mansion, Giorgio gave her a nod, then disappeared into the night. She had cried begging him to allow her see her mother but he just left.... The butler showed her to a massive bedroom with windows that stretched to the ceiling. The bed looked untouched. The fireplace crackled softly. There were no pictures, no warmth. As the door closed behind her, she sank to the floor, the pink dress pooling around her like blood. She had been sold. She was someone’s wife. And she didn’t even say goodbye to her mama and she didn’t even know his voice