The Deal That Made Me His

Alessio (5)

The restaurant is excessive in the way only old money can afford to be. Carved mahogany panels line the walls, polished to a dark, mirror-like sheen. Gold accents catch the chandelier’s glow and scatter it in soft fragments across the circular table. Crystal glasses shimmer. Silverware gleams.

We are seated in a private section, shielded from the public by velvet drapery and a curved partition. The distant hum of the main dining room never quite reaches us.

Father sits to my right. Arnold Vale sits to his left.Their wives flank them.

Arnold is slurping his soup. Loudly. The sound slices through the refined atmosphere like something feral set loose in a cathedral. His spoon scrapes porcelain. He inhales in wet, unapologetic pulls. Broth clings to his unkempt beard, drips down to stain the collar of his white dress shirt.

The blonde woman beside him nudges his elbow.

Once.

Twice.

He ignores her.

I glance at my mother.

For a fraction of a second, I nearly smile.

A vein pulses faintly at her temple. Mama hates poor manners. Despises them. Her posture is immaculate, chin lifted, fingers elegantly wrapped around her wine glass. She says nothing.

Maybe it's because of Father’s hand that I know rests lightly on her thigh beneath the table. She exhales softly and looks away.

Arnold’s wife is adorned within an inch of excess. Her blonde hair is loosely tied back, secured with an ornate gold Japanese hairpin that glints each time she moves. Large gold statement earrings sway near her jaw. Her satin dress drapes low at the chest, the cowl neckline deliberate, revealing cleavage she clearly intends to display. She laughs brightly at something Father says.

Arnold continues slurping.

A small girl sits beside them. Platinum blonde hair. Porcelain skin. Light blue eyes rimmed with a darker blue outer ring.

All four girls share those eyes.

And yet none of them look alike.

It doesn’t require explanation to understand that this woman is not the mother of the other three. She hasn’t acknowledged them once, her attention is fixed on Father—and on pretending her husband’s disgrace does not exist.

My gaze moves further down the table.

The other three girls sit together.

The first has ginger curls that refuse containment and tan skin warmed by freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. She is bright and vivid, her fiery spirit radiating off her even though she says nothing. Beside her, a younger girl with black hair and the same piercing blue eyes, sits restlessly, watching everything.

Then at the end of the table, beside Enzo.

Her. She's tall and sits still, her jet-black hair pulled into the tightest bun I have ever seen, not a strand daring to escape. She's the epitome of severity and discipline. Or maybe fear and dejection. My eyes catch it immediately. The faint yet glaring gash that hides beneath her hairline, the skin slightly tight around it. A small cut rests above her lip and there's a stitched tear mark on the left side of her nose.

My gaze lowers slightly.

There is another mark beneath her jawline. It's looks darker than the others, like it's almost fresh. The skin there is angry, slightly swollen, not yet faded into anything subtle.

That is not old. That happened recently.

And even though she has the same eyes as her siblings, hers are not striking like the others. They are hollow. Not vacant with ignorance but with depletion.

She hasn’t touched her food. She sits with her head slightly bowed, shoulders drawn inward—not timidly, but as though she has perfected the art of occupying as little space as possible.

The ginger-haired girl leans toward her and whispers something.

She tilts her head down to listen. Then she nods once.

Without lifting her gaze, she slides her untouched plate toward the center and divides it evenly, pushing half toward each of the other two girls.

They grin and begin eating immediately. She returns her hands to her lap.

She is the eldest. Which means she is Ebony Vale.

My future wife.

I cut into my steak, the blade glides cleanly. I lift the bite to my mouth and chew, but it feels like paper.

Five years, Father said.

I swallow hard, but the food doesn’t go down easily.

Enzo leans slightly toward the girls, resting his forearms on the table with exaggerated casualness. “So,” he says brightly, “since we’re all going to be practically family, I should probably know names.”

The ginger-haired girl looks up first. “Melody,” she says. Her voice is warm and clear.

The smaller black-haired girl practically bounces. “I’m Harper!” Her enthusiasm cuts cleanly through the heaviness of the table.

Enzo beams. “Harper. Melody. Excellent names. Much better than Lysandros.”

Andros’ head snaps toward him. “We are not doing this.”

Enzo gestures dramatically. “You see? That right there. That’s the reaction of a man ashamed of his birth certificate.”

Melody’s eyes widen slightly. “Lysandros?” she repeats, awed. “That’s such a cool name.”

Andros freezes.

Enzo lights up. “You hear that? She thinks it’s cool.”

“It is cool,” Melody insists, nodding.

Enzo opens his mouth to elaborate. “Well, technically—”

Andros reaches across and taps him sharply on the head.

Enzo recoils. “Violence again! I’m being oppressed.”

Harper bursts into laughter, the sound echoing briefly in the private section.

The platinum-haired child turns sharply. “Mama,” she whines.

Arnold’s wife doesn’t hesitate. Her hand moves fast and the crack of her palm against skin is sharp enough to echo against the mahogany walls.

Harper’s head jerks to the side, her laughter dying instantly, swallowed by shock. A red mark blooms across her cheek almost immediately.

The table goes dead silent. Even Arnold pauses mid-slurp. My brother stops smiling and I can feel Andros's shoulders flex.

Harper’s shoulders cave inward. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t speak. Just lowers her gaze, hands trembling slightly in her lap.

Arnold does not look at her. Does not acknowledge it, but my father’s expression cools by a degree.

Then a low sound cuts through the silence. It's strained, almost feral and my eyes snap to Ebony, who is halfway out of her seat, one hand braced against the table as if she'd meant to reach across it. Her other hand curls tightly, knuckles white.

That sound came from her. A rough, forced grunt dragged from somewhere deep in her throat.

Her chest rises sharply, once. Twice. Her eyes are no longer hollow, rather, they are blazing, locked on the woman who struck Harper.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

My grip tightens around my fork.

Arnold clears his throat awkwardly. “Kids,” he mutters, as if that explains anything.

Ebony’s breathing steadies. Then she does something unexpected.

She raises her hands. Her fingers begin to move, her movements small and precise. She signs something to Melody and Harper.

Melody immediately nods. Harper wipes at her cheek and nods too, forcing a small smile toward Ebony as if to reassure her.

Enzo goes completely quiet. No jokes. No commentary. Andros nudges me subtly under the table.

I look at him. He looks back at me.

The understanding passes between us without words.

She isn’t choosing silence, she can’t break it.

My gaze shifts back to her.

Her hands lower slowly to her lap once more, head bowed. Invisible again.

But I saw it. The instinct to protect. The fury.

Ebony rises first, no announcement or disruption. She simply stands and Melody and Harper follow her lead instantly.

Honey remains seated beside her mother, swinging her legs.

Ebony bows her head slightly toward Arnold and his wife, but neither of them notice.

Arnold is mid-sentence with Father, gesturing clumsily with his wine glass. His wife adjusts her hairpin, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t amusing.

They don’t see their daughters leave. That is when irritation begins to crawl up my spine.

Mama sees. Her gaze follows the three girls as they walk toward the hallway leading to the restrooms—heads lowered, shoulders drawn inward. There is something sharp in her expression now.

“I didn’t realize she couldn’t speak,” Enzo mutters.

“Neither did I,” Andros replies quietly. “Why wouldn’t he say that from the beginning?”

Enzo exhales through his nose. “Because he doesn’t see it as relevant.”

They switch to Greek.

Enzo’s tone is flat, "I don’t like him."

Andros nods once, "Neither do I."

I don’t need to contribute. They know exactly how I feel about this arrangement.

The girls return several minutes later but they don’t resume their previous seats. Harper slides into Ebony’s old chair—beside Enzo—almost eagerly. Melody sits where she had been before and Ebony takes Harper’s former seat.

Harper immediately brightens again, leaning toward Enzo with renewed enthusiasm.

Enzo rewards her with exaggerated seriousness. “So tell me, Harper, important question—what’s your stance on pineapple on pizza?”

Harper gasps. “That’s illegal.”

Enzo beams. “Finally, someone with sense.”

She laughs again.

Freely.

Andros, however, is no longer watching Enzo.

He’s watching Ebony.

There’s something heavier in his demeanor now.

Ebony’s head lowers again—but this time it’s different.

Her shoulders cave inward more than before, her spine curving as though she’s compressing herself.

Andros leans slightly toward Melody and says something quietly. She nods. Then reaches over and gently taps Ebony’s arm. Ebony looks at her.

Melody points at Andros.

Ebony hesitates—just barely—before lifting her gaze to him.

Andros raises his hands. He signs. It’s fluid. Clean.

A flicker crosses Ebony’s eyes. It’s faint but it’s there. Surprise.

Is she shocked one of us understands her?

She responds.

Andros’ breathing shifts. I glance at him.

“What did you ask?” I murmur in Italian.

He keeps his eyes on Ebony. “I asked if her parents understand sign language.”

“And?”

“She says they don’t.”

Something inside my chest hardens. They don’t understand sign language. So they don’t understand their own daughter. Not her voice. Not her silence. Nothing.

Andros signs again.

This time Ebony hesitates longer. Her hands hover for a second before moving. She signs something and points at Harper. Then signs again and points at Melody.

Andros responds with another question.

She shakes her head. Then signs again.

Andros lowers his hands slowly and leans back in his chair.

“Harper is her sister,” he says quietly. “Melody is her half-sister.”

A pause.

“Both their mothers are dead.”

The information lands heavily.

Enzo’s expression shifts. “How?” he asks under his breath.

Andros gives a faint shake of his head. "I didn't ask."

Enzo turns back to Harper and Melody, softening his tone. “So,” he says gently, “do you both go to the same school?”

Harper nods eagerly. Melody answers more cautiously.

And then Harper blurts, “Ebony used to talk before Ethan died.”

The table stills.

Melody and Ebony both hiss sharply at her. Harper clamps her mouth shut.

This time, though, when she looks at Ebony, she doesn’t flinch or shrink. Her face softens. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Ebony’s posture loosens by a fraction.

Melody glances at us, then says quietly, “Ethan was our brother.”

I feel my jaw tighten.

What exactly is happening inside that house?

Enzo, sensing the shift, deliberately pivots. “Okay,” he declares, clapping his hands lightly once, “Serious topic. Pokémon. Who’s your favorite?”

Harper lights up immediately, Melody joins in and within moments they’re debating evolutions and types.

Enzo keeps them engaged. Andros listens quietly.

I glance back at Ebony, who has withdrawn again.

However, this withdrawal is different. Her pupils are slightly dilated, her gaze unfocused. She’s somewhere else, mentally, her mind absent from all the hullaballoo around her.

Father clears his throat and silence falls instantly.

“Ms. Vale,” he says smoothly.

No response.

Arnold turns toward her, irritation flashing across his face and his wife moves faster than thought.

The crack against Ebony's face echoes, her head snapping to the side. She turns her head back slowly, her eyes remaining distant.

As though this isn’t new.

I am not used to it, nor will I ever be.

My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand. I fold my napkin deliberately and place it beside my untouched plate.

“Alessio,” Father says sharply.

I incline my head respectfully. “My apologies. But I cannot remain in a place where a family disrespects their daughter so openly.”

Arnold bristles. “Now see here—”

“I will not,” I continue calmly, “stand for that.”

My voice is leveled but my pulse is roaring in my ears. I bow my head once more toward Father, “Excuse me.”

And I walk out.