Doomed to Love the Mafia Boss.

Chapter 22

Meeting my fiancé, as if everything were natural.

I take a deep breath and hold it when he approaches and falsely kisses my cheek in welcome.

“I’m looking forward to it, father. Don’t worry, because Fiamma will have nothing but praise at the end of the event. I am truly eager to see them again after so many years and, above all, to strengthen our ties, now that she will be my mother-in-law.” I feel Graziela’s gaze on me.

Her blonde hair, cut to medium length, makes her look older than she really is. She is shocked by my response, but I smile kindly, showing her that I accept our damned reality like no one else.

“Is something wrong, dear?” my father asks her. He swallows her with his severe gaze, a clear message that she should be less obvious in her apparent disagreement with arranged marriages. No wonder she wears a long-sleeved blouse despite the heat, in a terrible attempt to hide bruises.

“N-no,” she stammers. “I’m very happy that now I’ll have company to attend events.”

If I don’t control myself, I will definitely end dinner drunk. I down the glass of wine as a way to disguise how much this real submission disgusts me.

The fear that dominates her is obvious.

“Actually, I’d like to go shopping tomorrow. Will you come with me, Grazi? I can call you that, right?” It costs me nothing to help her this weekend. And I need to catch up on what happens in this house. All these years at boarding school equal a long time in my father’s business.

She looks at the Consigliere, waiting for… permission? Yes, she definitely wants his approval to go out with the man’s rebellious daughter, and she gets it with a nod.

What a wonderful family.

We finish eating in silence, and I watch her serve coffee before stepping away, while my father whispers something to Paolo. They excuse themselves as soon as the doorbell rings, leaving us alone. I don’t even have time to see who the visitor is, because my attention is drawn to Grazi, whose discomfort beside me is obvious. She probably thought she had found an ally, but sees in me just another typical woman of the family.

Her frustration is the same as mine. I see the dullness in her eyes and her thin features. She must have been very beautiful once, but my father surely drains all her beauty and youth.

“How do you feel here, Grazi?” I decide to be direct, twisting the napkin in my hands.

“Fine.” She sighs, biting her lip so hard it might bleed.

“I believe your mind holds something much more complete than just ‘fine.’”

“My life is ordinary here, Valentina. You know your father is strict—stricter than I expected—and I don’t really know why. But I have a comfortable life, and I lack nothing.” The certainty in her words falters when she accidentally knocks over a glass, and the white tablecloth blends with the deep red of the wine.

If we stay silent, we can hear the thud of her frightened heart.

“I understand. However, you’re not being entirely honest.” I catch her off guard, making her forget the mess for a moment.

“Should I be? I’m sorry, Valentina, but we barely know each other.”

“Fair. If we’re being honest, I must agree—I’m not sure I can trust you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m no danger to you. It’s good to have another woman here. And the way you speak, it almost sounds like you’re hiding something.” She laughs, as if the idea of me having a secret were absurd.

“What could a newly graduated arts student possibly be hiding? A forged Da Vinci?” I reply sharply, leaning back in my chair while watching her quickly clean up the mess, making the end of dinner as impeccable as its beginning.

“I don’t know. Maybe a way to survive all this.”

“You say you don’t trust me and barely know me, yet you do the opposite by saying something like that within these walls.” I surprise her to the point that the cloth in her uncertain hand drips, staining the still-clean part of the tablecloth.

“Raoul told me what happened before you went to boarding school. And your father made it clear what happened during your last holidays here. I may look stupid, but I hoped your pacifism was all an act.” Everything dirty goes into the ice bucket that once held only an empty wine bottle. The water begins to mix with the alcohol, diluting it, but Grazi’s eyes still stare at it as if it were something toxic.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I am a bit rebellious, yes, but I value my life. You know the only thing left for us is to agree with our fate. Anything else means we’re out. And you know—we only leave dead.”

“You just seem… positively rare to me. Just don’t let him know that,” she finishes, referring to my father.

“Then we better always stay alert.”

“Now go rest. It’s been a long night.”

I step into the bathtub in my room and groan as my muscles relax. I stare at the wall and see the small shelf, now empty. No watches there. Not there. I count to ten in my mind, letting exhaustion wash over me, but there’s no fatigue strong enough to knock me out.

Sounds.

This house is always full of them.

In a clear act of command, I can hear what my father is doing to Graziela tonight. It’s rough, forceful, merciless. The girl is too—because I don’t hear her voice at all. Everything in this family is ugly, even s*x. He exhales loudly when he finishes, and I wonder when the sounds have become so loud.

I find the answer as soon as he slams his bedroom door.

It was intentional.

He always sends me signals.

As if he knows I’m only numb, not controlled the way he wants—even after all these years… No, he doesn’t know. I trust that, so I can do what I came here to do. I’ve pretended for years, and I will keep pretending until I die, if necessary.

Tick-tock.

I hear my wristwatch strike midnight.

Still in the dark, I find the clothes I had long set aside. Black, completely fitted to my body. Like a tribute to the girl who mourned her mother’s death years ago in this very house.

My hair is tied tightly, and my favorite part—a set of blades for when the fun begins.

I remember the first time I used them. I had just turned sixteen, and Elinor wanted to prove that I could be whoever I wanted. She was dressed in black, and it was the most powerful thing I had ever seen. She radiated independence, and in her eyes, power burned.

She took me to a dark part of London and showed me that rosso could be my favorite color—not the one I feared most.

And she was right.

I had never seen anyone die. I only knew the sounds death makes. But watching that man’s eyes go empty and lifeless in that dark London alley was what I needed to understand that I could choose between being a victim or helping those who were treated like one. I could decide between waiting for help or saving myself.

And I chose.