Chapter 3
1665 Words
I knew something was wrong the moment I turned into our street.
The night was too quiet as I approached my home. With each step I took, a sense of dread filled my heart, a nagging feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.
The bag of paints and brushes I carried suddenly felt too heavy. I walked faster, I even ran hoping that I was just being paranoid and that when I got home my father would be sitting on the couch reading the paper with a cup of tea by his side.
From the gate everything has gone terribly wrong. Our front gate had been barged open, the porch light was broken and glass was scattered all over the steps.
As I walked further into the house our front door was wide open, the frame was broken as if something, or someone had ripped it apart. I forced my legs to move, rushing up the steps. My heels slipped on broken glass pieces as I stumbled inside, clutching my skirts, my breath rugged from running.
“Papa?” My voice came out as a whisper, my voice echoed back at me.
“Papa?” My voice cracked. “Papa!”
The silence that answered was heavy and suffocating, broken only by the shuffle of boots and the click of a gun. Men filled our home—strangers in black uniforms, their faces were grim, eyes sharp like razors. Some were tearing apart the living room, flipping cushions, shoving paintings to the ground as though they were hunting for something invisible. In a matter of minutes my home was flipped upside down. My paintings were destroyed, our sofas were torn apart and the whole house was practically in shambles.
“This is private property!” I screamed, my words swallowed by the chaos. My heart hammered in my ears. “Get out of my house!”
A man turned. His badge glinted under the swaying chandelier light. “Alessia Romano?”
I froze. “Where’s my father?” I asked.
No one answered. Instead, two officers dragged someone into view, he was beaten to a pulp, his hands were cuffed and his clothes rumpled from a fight. My breath collapsed inside me.
“Papa!”
He looked smaller than I had ever seen him, his silver hair was disheveled, he had a cut along his cheek where dried blood clung like a war paint. Yet his eyes—those kind eyes that had always smiled at me across dinner tables, that had softened whenever he watched me paint—burned with a strange mix of sorrow and urgency.
“Alessia.” His voice came out hoarse, like it had been scraped raw.
“Papa!” I rushed forward, only to be yanked back by one of the men. My bag slipped from my shoulder, scattering brushes across the floor like fallen soldiers.
“Don’t touch her!” My father’s voice boomed. Cracked but strong, cutting through the chaos. His eyes found mine—dark, desperate and burning with a thousand things unsaid. “Alessia…”
“Why are you doing this to him? He hasn’t done anything!” My voice shook as I fought against the grip on my arms. “This is my father!”
The man holding me didn’t flinch. He kept me pinned, as though I were nothing but air in his hands.
I shoved against them, but they didn’t budge. “No! Don’t touch him! He hasn’t done anything.” I screamed.
“He’s under arrest,” one of the officers barked.
“For what?” I cried. My throat felt raw, every word clawing out of me. “What has he done? Tell me!”
The officer ignored me.
“You’re wrong. You can't arrest him. He’s… he’s a businessman. He… he paints with me, he hasn't done anything wrong.” My words fell on deaf ears. The officer didn’t even look at me again.
“Take him.”
They hauled my father to his feet, shoving him toward the door, his shoes scraping against the floor that I had polished with him only days ago. He struggled once, not to free himself, but to look at me.
“No!” I broke free of the man’s grip, stumbling forward. “Please! You can’t take him!”
One of them tried to block me, but I slipped past, throwing myself at my father. I clung to his arm, desperate, terrified. “Papa, please, say something. Tell them they’re wrong. Tell them… ”
His head turned, slowly, painfully. His eyes met mine, and in them, I didn’t find the answers I wanted. I found regret. A hollow sadness that made my throat close.
“Save me, Alessia. I'm innocent.”
Five words. Only five but they were enough to leave me shattered.
“I don’t understand!” I cried, choking on sobs. “Save you from what? I’ll call the lawyer, I’ll fix this… Papa, please!”
He shook his head slowly, the faintest of smiles breaking through the exhaustion. It wasn’t reassurance. It was… a farewell.
Then he was shoved into the rain, swallowed by flashing red and blue lights.
I staggered after him, but someone caught my arm. A woman, tall and severe, her uniform pressed perfectly into place. She bent her head just enough so her cold eyes could meet mine.
“You should prepare yourself, Miss Romano. Everything you thought you knew is about to change.”
Her words cold like ice.
They shoved me back inside, and the door slammed shut. I was alone in the wreckage, silence echoing around me. My body shook as I sank to the floor, pressing trembling hands to my mouth.
It couldn’t be true. My father wasn’t a criminal. He was the man who carried my sketchbooks when they grew too heavy, who stayed up at night listening to me talk about impossible dreams, who laughed softly whenever I burned toast.
I pushed myself up and staggered through the house. Every corner was overturned—drawers ripped out, family portraits cracked, the canvas of my latest painting slashed down the middle like someone had gutted it.
I pressed my palm against the torn fabric. My colors, my safe world everything I knew was violated. My hands shook as I touched the overturned furniture, the broken glass, the shattered pieces of the life I thought was mine.
My gaze fell on a torn folder lying half-hidden under the couch. I bent down, my fingers brushing over its surface. It was filled with papers—contracts, bank statements, signatures that didn’t look like my father’s. Names I didn’t recognize. Money I couldn’t comprehend.
My stomach twisted. My perfect life wasn’t perfect at all. It was built on something dark, something rotten.
And I had been too blind to see it.
I sank to my knees, clutching the papers, tears blurring my vision. The house around me felt foreign now. It didn't feel like my home. It felt like a prison made of lies.
“Papa…” My whisper was barely audible. “Who are you?”
The door banged open again. I whirled, my heart leaping with hope.
It wasn’t Papa.
It was Ethan.
He stood there, drenched from the storm, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes widened when they fell on me, then on the wreckage around us.
“Alessia…” His voice broke. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms.
I shattered against him, my sobs tearing loose. “They took him. Ethan, they took Papa, he’s in handcuffs—he told me to save him.”
“Shh.” His hand cradled the back of my head, grounding me. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
I clutched his shirt desperately, my nails dug into his fabric. “I don’t know what to do. They wouldn’t tell me anything—why would they do this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
Ethan hesitated, longer than seemed normal.
I pulled back, blinking up at him through tears. “Why are you silent? You know something.”
His jaw tightened, his muscles twitched. He looked away, rainwater dropping from his hair.
“Ethan.” My voice cracked into a whisper. “Tell me.”
He closed his eyes. “Alessia… your father is not who you think he is.”
The room tilted. My stomach dropped, nausea clawing its way up my throat.
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
“I wish I were.” He opened his eyes again, and they were full of pity. “He’s… involved with things. Dangerous things. People have been watching him for years.”
“No!” I shoved him, stumbling back. “Don’t say that about him! You don’t know him like I do… you don’t know.”
“Alessia,” he said sharply, grabbing my wrists before I could hit him again. “Listen to me. I don’t want to believe it either, but it’s true. Why do you think they stormed this house with a warrant? They’ve been building a case.”
“Stop!” My scream echoed off the walls. My chest heaved, air cutting in shallow bursts.
Papa’s words replayed in my mind like a curse: Save me, Alessia.
Save him from what? From lies? From prison? From the truth?
I ripped free of Ethan’s hold and collapsed against the wall, sliding down until my knees hit the broken glass. The sting barely registered.
Everything was collapsing—every memory, every illusion. The warmth of our dinners, the laughter in his study, the quiet way he looked at me like I was the only pure thing left in his world. Was all of it a mask?
The storm outside raged louder, lightning flashing across shattered windows and for the first time in my
life, I felt truly alone.
But I wasn't prepared for what was coming.
- Writer
