Chapter 8- I Can't Breathe
1309 Words
Dead.
The word just hung there, stuck inside my chest, refusing to make sense.
I stared at Nate, waiting for something else. A correction, a different set of words—anything but silence.
He didn’t even glance back at me. Just kept driving, eyes straight ahead like he'd just told me the weather. Cold. Empty.
“I… what?”
My voice didn’t sound right. Too small. Too distant. Like it belonged to someone else sitting in this car, someone else being whisked away from a hospital where her mother lay unconscious, someone else whose life had shattered within a single night.
But it wasn’t someone else.
It was me.
“He’s gone,” Nate repeated simply. “I thought you’d prefer it straightforward.”
My mouth went dry. I stared down at my hands, curled tightly into fists on my lap, knuckles white. My heart pounded too loudly. Each breath felt shallow and not nearly enough.
I’d told him to die. I’d meant it, too. But hearing it now—realizing it was true, final—was something else entirely.
“Gone how?” I whispered.
Nate shrugged slightly, eyes still fixed forward. “Overdose. Self-inflicted. Nothing complicated about it.”
My breath hitched.
Self-inflicted.
The words echoed softly inside my head, spreading slowly, painfully, until I felt numb and heavy all at once. I wanted to cry, scream, hit something—but I was frozen, every emotion tangled up so tightly it wouldn’t come loose.
He’d overdosed. After everything he put us through, he’d left this way, selfish until the very end.
My eyes flicked to the car window, watching the city blur past, lights blending together into meaningless streaks. It felt surreal, as though I were watching someone else’s life unfold from far away.
“My things,” I murmured after a long silence. “The apartment… my mother’s things…”
“Already salvaged what we could,” Nate replied. “Mr. Marino’s orders.”
It didn’t comfort me. Dante’s involvement felt more suffocating now than before, as though he were everywhere, every choice taken from me without warning.
My father was dead.
My mother was barely alive.
And I’d become Dante Marino’s property.
I was dying from stage two cervical cancer.
Oh God. Oh God!!!
I wanted to scream.
The air in the car was stifling. Too tight, too quiet.
“Stop the car,” I said suddenly, voice trembling. “Just… stop for a minute.”
Nate glanced at me briefly through the rearview mirror. “Not possible.”
“Please,” I said again, harsher now. “I can’t breathe. Stop the car.”
He ignored me.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, heart hammering painfully against my ribs. It was like my body wanted to fight something, anything—but there was nothing left to fight. No energy left inside me. No words strong enough to make this stop.
So I sat there, frozen, eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall.
We drove on in silence.
My father was dead.
Dead.
The word played on loop in my head, twisted into every memory I’d ever had of him. Every fight. Every broken promise. Every disappointment. Even the rare, bright moments when he’d laugh or hold me when I cried as a kid—they now seemed stained, blurred by the man he’d become.
The last words I'd said to him echoed like a cruel chant:
"I hope you die."
I'd meant them. God help me, in that moment I'd meant them with every fiber of my being. But now, knowing he was actually gone, it felt wrong.
It felt dirty.
It felt like my anger had somehow brought this down on him, like I'd cursed him.
Did he deserve it?
Maybe he did. After everything he put us through, the gambling, the debts, the men who came to our door, the beatings, my mum constant tears, it was hard not to think so.
But did anyone truly deserve to die alone, drowning in their own mistakes?
A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating.
Nate cleared his throat slightly. He was still sitting stiffly, eyes straight ahead. "We'll be there soon."
I barely registered his voice.
My mind kept replaying the last time I saw my father—standing in the doorway, unmoving, broken. He hadn't even flinched when mom screamed at him. Hadn't reacted when she spat blood into his face. He'd just taken it, eyes empty and hopeless.
Maybe he already knew he was finished. Maybe he had already given up, waiting only for us to abandon him first.
And I had.
The realization hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I'd left him there to rot, just as he had done to us. He'd always been weak, but hadn't I become the same? Wasn't I now running away too, selling myself to the man who'd destroyed what little peace we had left?
My breathing quickened, the edges of panic creeping in again. The car suddenly felt smaller, darker, the silence pressing into me from every direction.
"Open a window," I murmured, my voice breaking.
Nate glanced at me again, expression unchanging, then silently pressed a button. Cool air rushed in, a brief relief against my flushed skin. I leaned into it, eyes closed, forcing myself to breathe.
I was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of hurting, tired of feeling trapped between anger and guilt. But mostly, I was tired of this pain, the one clawing at my chest, reminding me again and again that my father was gone.
And he was never coming back.
*****
Dante’s mansion was exactly as I’d imagined. Silent, cold, towering. The kind of place that whispered danger without needing to say a word.
The SUV rolled through iron gates that parted with an almost eerie quietness. We came to a slow stop near the front steps, and I barely had time to absorb the sheer scale of the house before my door opened.
“Out,” Nate said flatly, already standing beside the car.
I stepped out carefully, body feeling hollow and sore from everything that had happened tonight. The massive doors at the front opened before we even reached them, revealing a young woman waiting at the threshold. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back, eyes lowered politely.
“Miss Rojas,” she said softly, nodding once. “Please follow me.”
I glanced at Nate briefly, but his face offered nothing. He stood stiffly by the car, clearly uninterested now that his task was done.
I followed the maid into the house, my footsteps muffled by plush rugs that felt like clouds beneath my worn shoes. The interior was dimly lit, decorated in shades of black and grey, elegant yet intimidating.
She led me up a curved staircase, silent the entire way, her movements precise and graceful. I wanted to say something, ask questions, maybe beg for a moment to myself, but no words came out.
At the end of a long hallway, she stopped, opening a heavy wooden door into a bedroom. The space was expansive but cold, decorated like the rest of the mansion—dark furniture, heavy curtains, and neatly made bed linens.
“These are your quarters,” she said, her voice calm, almost emotionless. “Fresh clothes have been provided. You will bathe, dress, and then the Don expects you in his room soon enough.”
I swallowed. “His room?”
She nodded once, still not meeting my eyes. “Yes. Those are the instructions.”
She stepped back, closing the door behind her softly, leaving me alone in the heavy silence.
I stood still, looking around the room.
His room.
Dante Marino’s room.
I felt numb again, anxiety clawing at my chest. What exactly did he want from me tonight?
- Writer
