The night I saved a devil

Scrubbing the floors

The kitchen floor smelled of soap, old grease, and something burnt that never fully went away no matter how hard it was scrubbed.

On her knees, Elena pressed the rag against the tiles and scrubbed with steady force. Her fingers had wrinkled from hours in water, and the thin cloth scraped against her skin until her knuckles turned red. A sharp sting ran through her hands, but she kept going. The clock above the refrigerator ticked loudly.

7:58 p.m.

Each second sounded heavier than the last.

Her stomach cramped. She had not eaten since morning.

She leaned forward and scrubbed harder at a dark stain near the cabinet.

“When will I finally leave this place?” she muttered, her voice dry from exhaustion.

The rag dragged across the tile with a rough sound.

“Maybe I should have stayed with Lucia in the orphanage,” she whispered, swallowing the tightness in her throat. “At least there we suffered together.”

Her arm shook from the effort, but she did not stop.

Footsteps came from behind her.

Elena did not turn around.

“Well, well.”

The voice was sweet, but it carried something sharp underneath.

Valeria DeLuca stepped into the kitchen, her arms folded, her expression relaxed. She looked down at Elena as if she were examining something beneath her.

“Oh dear sister,” Valeria said, tilting her head slightly. “You are still scrubbing?”

Elena kept her eyes on the floor. The rag moved in small circles.

“It is already eight,” Valeria continued, glancing at the clock. “If you do not finish before dinner is cleared, you will not eat. You know that, do you not?”

Elena nodded once.

She had known the rule since her first week in this house.

She had not eaten all day.

Valeria made sure of that after Elena refused to wash her pile of expensive dresses that morning. The refusal had been quiet, but it had been firm.

Valeria crouched down until they were at the same level. The edge of her dress brushed the tiles Elena had already cleaned.

“You know something?” Valeria said, studying her nails. “Ever since you came into this house at eight years old, I have disliked you.”

Elena’s hand continued to move.

“That face of yours,” Valeria went on, her smile tightening, “so calm and innocent. It irritates me whenever I see it.”

The rag slowed for a moment before continuing.

“Are you ignoring me?” Valeria asked, her tone losing its sweetness.

Elena did not look up.

The silence stretched between them.

“Hey. I am speaking to you.”

Elena finally answered, her voice low and controlled.

“Valeria, I do not want to argue. Please leave me alone so I can finish my work.”

She did not raise her head. She did not raise her voice. She kept scrubbing.

Valeria’s eyes darkened before her expression softened again.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I will leave you alone.”

Elena allowed herself a faint, tired smile.

“Thank you.”

She focused on the floor again.

She did not see the look that replaced Valeria’s smile as she walked toward the kitchen counter.

A few minutes later, a loud crash shattered the quiet.

Elena flinched and turned around.

Behind her, on the tiles she had just scrubbed clean, a teacup lay in pieces. Hot tea spread quickly across the floor, steam rising in thin waves.

“What happened?” she asked, confused.

Before she could stand, she heard the scrape of metal against skin.

A sharp breath.

Then a scream.

“Help!”

Elena froze.

Valeria stood a few steps behind her. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the floor. Blood streamed down her wrist, bright and shocking against her pale skin, dripping onto the tiles Elena had cleaned.

For a moment, Elena could not move.

The front door slammed open.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.

Enzo DeLuca appeared at the kitchen entrance, his expression tense from whatever mood he had carried home.

“What is going on?” he demanded.

Valeria stumbled toward him, clutching her bleeding wrist.

“Brother,” she cried weakly, her voice trembling. “I came to give Elena tea. She has been working since morning and has not eaten.”

Enzo’s eyes dropped to the blood running down her hand.

“You are bleeding.”

Valeria leaned into him as though her strength had vanished.

“But when I approached her,” she continued through tears, “she suddenly became angry. She knocked the cup from my hand. She picked up the knife and—”

Her voice broke. She pointed toward the blade lying on the floor behind Elena.

“She cut me.”

Silence filled the room.

Enzo slowly lifted his head and looked at Elena.

She was still kneeling.

The rag was still in her hand.

“What is she talking about?” Enzo asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Elena shook her head.

“I did not touch her,” she said quickly. “The cup broke behind me. I did not even see her until she screamed.”

Enzo crossed the kitchen in long strides and grabbed her wrist, yanking her to her feet.

“You ungrateful girl,” he said through clenched teeth.

Pain shot up her arm.

“My father took you into this house even though you are not his child. He fed you. He clothed you. And this is how you repay us?”

“I did not hurt her,” Elena insisted, struggling to keep her balance. “She did that herself.”

The slap came without warning.

Her head snapped to the side. A sharp ringing filled her ears. The taste of iron spread across her tongue.

Tears blurred her vision, but she forced herself to look at him.

“What more do you want?” Enzo demanded. “Our mother died because of you.”

Elena’s chest tightened painfully.