Sold to a billionaire

The quote by Hunter S. Thompson echoed in my mind, its weight becoming heavier with each passing moment. “In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.” I found myself sitting in the dimly lit room of a Roman police station, awaiting the inevitable interrogation. The atmosphere was heavy with humidity, the air thick and oppressive. I cautiously inspected the chair I sat on, desperate to avoid any dampness or contamination. The walls around me were adorned with moles and algae, as if nature itself was reclaiming this desolate space. In the adjacent room, I could sense the prying eyes of the witnesses. They watched me intently, analyzing every subtle movement, waiting for a misstep that would confirm their suspicions. I was not the only suspect in this crime, but I was the easiest target, the one they believed they could easily pin the blame on. As I prepared myself for the ordeal ahead, another quote surfaced in my mind, one spoken by Reverend Sister Philomela during catechism class. It spoke of the guilt of omission, the failure to do good and be kind to others. And that was precisely the sin I felt burdened with. I yearned to speak up, to expose the truth and relieve everyone from this agonizing uncertainty. However, reality struck me hard. Who would believe the words of a common woman like me, with no title or influence, against one of the most powerful figures in Rome? No one. So I resolved to remain silent, to stick to my original story of ignorance and innocence. Suddenly, a deep baritone voice called my name, jolting me from my thoughts. I rose swiftly, concealing my trembling hands behind me, trying desperately to maintain a facade of composure. Little did I know that my appearance, with my dark hair, almond eyes, and slender figure, inadvertently fit the profile of a young Italian criminal. The detective, a middle-aged man with black hair tinged with hints of gray, kept his unwavering gaze fixed upon me as he flipped through a file on the table. "How long have you worked for the Salvatore family?" he inquired, his voice cutting through the silence of the room. "About two months, sir," I replied, my voice steady but my nerves fraying. "And how many times have you visited the main house villa?" he pressed, seeking specific details. "A few times," I responded, keeping my answers deliberately vague. "I need specifics," he demanded. "Four or five times, sir," I finally conceded, hoping my answer wouldn't incriminate me further. "Is it customary for vineyard staff to visit the main house villa five times in just two months? Don't they usually reside in the servant quarters, yards away from the villa?" he probed, his tone laden with suspicion. "I cannot say, sir. I was simply instructed to go to the villa on those occasions," I replied, fully aware of their intentions. They wanted to cast me as the easy scapegoat, someone they could throw to the wolves without consequence. The suspicion clung to me like a dark cloud, fueled by the missing peach diamond they believed I possessed. Yet, they had no evidence, not even the police could substantiate their claims. My fatal mistake was not concealing my knowledge of the stolen item. I had naively denied any involvement in the theft of the peach diamond when questioned, unaware that it would further implicate me. Just two months prior, I had entered the Salvatore household, never imagining that I would soon find myself facing imprisonment for a crime I didn't commit. Memories of my challenging life in Modena flooded my mind. Compared to this ordeal, the hardships I had endured seemed trivial. I longed to return to the simplicity of my hometown, to escape the mounting charges that forced me to choose between lying or facing death I had come from a small town in Italy, Modena, with dreams of a stable future. But on that fateful day, as I left my modest home behind and embarked on my journey to Rome on August 7th, 1962, the weight of the details etched themselves into my memory. Every sound, every creaking step on the wooden staircase, carried a heavy significance, a melancholic melody playing in the background of my departure. Dragging my feet deliberately, I descended the worn staircase, each step an announcement of my presence. The loud shuffling of my feet echoed through the house, as if trying to compensate for the silence that had settled upon my family. I reached out and patted the banister with my hands, a rhythmic gesture accompanying my descent. It was my way of bidding farewell to the familiar, of marking the last moments before everything changed. As I entered the dining room, the shaky table supported by a hidden rock, I could sense the gloom that hung in the air. My parents, seated at the table, were having breakfast with my younger sister Sofia, her school uniform neatly pressed, her backpack resting on the floor beside her. The meager spread on the table, a jug of orange juice, water, and some scones in a basket, mirrored the frugality that defined our lives. It was a rare occasion for my mother to knock on my door, calling me to join them for breakfast. The change in atmosphere was palpable. Even the wall geckos, usually indifferent to our presence, seemed to wear a somber expression. They, too, were aware of what this day meant - my supposed exile from the only home I had ever known. My mother, in a feeble attempt to make the morning less painful, urged me to take an extra scone from the basket. But I smiled and declined, the weight of the impending separation heavy on my heart. Turning to Sofia, I asked if she wanted another piece, faking a smile to mask the pain. Her tear-stained eyes and swollen face betrayed the anguish she had experienced throughout the night. I had hoped her tears would lull her to sleep, sparing her the agony of farewell. My parents, their guilt and fear tangible, looked on, unable to meet my gaze. The table became a prison, suffocating me with unspoken emotions. Unable to bear it any longer, I offered to walk Sofia to school, a feeble attempt to escape the suffocating silence. She didn't respond with her usual enthusiasm, simply grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, leaving our parents without a goodbye. How could she bid farewell when everything she knew was about to crumble? The walk to school, usually filled with Sofia's animated chatter about her day, was now a journey of heavy silence. It was during these walks that I kept up with the latest middle school gossip, a distraction from the exhausting work at the match factory. As a match girl, I toiled away long hours for meager pay, sacrificing my own dreams to ensure Sofia's education and well-being. My mind raced with conflicting emotions. The weight of responsibility bore down on me, a constant reminder of the sacrifices I made to provide for my sister. Yet, in this moment, as I watched Sofia walk silently by my side, the pain of leaving her behind threatened to consume me. I knew that my journey to Rome would be filled with uncertainty and challenges. But deep within me, a flicker of hope burned. Hope for a better future, for liberation from the chains that bound me. And with that hope, I walked on, determined to carve a new path, one that would lead us both to a brighter tomorrow. In the depths of Modena, Italy, my family's traditional views on education shaped my fate as a young woman. The women in my family were destined to be wives, their aspirations confined to finding a well-off husband who could rescue them from poverty. Such was the path my mother tread, her dreams dashed, and now it fell upon Sofia and me to break the cycle. Education was a luxury reserved for my elder brother, Peter, whose lack of ambition rendered his schooling a fruitless investment. He squandered his opportunities, returning home sporadically to borrow money, never repaying a single coin. I dared not interfere in his relationship with our parents, for their leniency toward him knew no bounds. They allowed him to hurt Sofia and me, turning a blind eye to his transgressions. The first time Peter's hand struck me was when I won a quiz competition at catechism, catching the attention of Reverend Sister Philomela. The sister, impressed by my intellect, offered me a full scholarship to the church-owned school. Alas, Peter's ego suffered a blow when we found ourselves in the same class. To preserve his fragile pride, he pummeled me mercilessly, with my parents shamefully standing beside him. Banished from attending school, I had to resort to covert measures. Undeterred by the unjust circumstances, Reverend Sister Philomela continued to provide me with educational classes on Saturdays and Sundays. I borrowed books from the library, ensuring they never crossed our doorstep. Sister Philomela tested and evaluated my progress, guiding me through levels of knowledge without stepping foot inside a classroom. It was a delicate dance, concealing my clandestine education from my parents and Peter. When the burden of Sofia's education fell upon my shoulders, I embraced it willingly. Sofia was my beacon of hope, and I would stop at nothing to secure the future that had been stolen from me. As we neared the gate of her school, she voiced her concerns about our separation, seeking reassurance of my return. "Of course, I'll visit as soon as I can," I replied, my voice filled with determination. "I'll write letters to your school too," I added, hoping to ease her worries. But as she asked when I would be back, my composure wavered, tears welling up in my eyes. I fought to hold them back, for I couldn't allow Sofia to witness my fear. I had to be her rock, her unwavering sister. Brushing her dark hair gently, I pressed some tightly squeezed dollar bills into her small hands. "Use this for school books and projects. I've paid your fees for the entire session, so you won't have to worry about them for a while," I assured her. Without looking back, I turned and walked away, my heart heavy with the weight of impending separation. Sofia wasn't meant to witness my vulnerability. She wasn't meant to see the fear that gripped me. Returning home, my eyes fell upon my bag, waiting for me at the front porch. Two men dressed in black emerged from a majestic Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. Alessandro's men. I had caught a glimpse of his name on the contract hidden in my parents' bedside cupboard. Panic coursed through my veins, urging me to run, to vanish into the night. But the burden would then fall onto Sofia, and I would sooner face death than let anything harm her. I had been sold, my parents trading their debt by selling me to the Salvatore family, led by Alessandro. Such trades were not uncommon in Modena, but I never believed I would become a victim. Clutching my bag tightly, I settled into the backseat of the Rolls Royce, my heart racing with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. It was my first time in a luxurious moving car, and I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the newness of it all. As the engine roared to life, a pungent odor of burning leaves filled the air, assaulting my senses. I desperately tried to shield my nostrils, unaccustomed to such extravagance. Though I had traveled on trains before, this was an entirely different experience—a symbol of the unknown path that lay ahead. Fears crept into my mind, the wild imaginations of a desperate soul. I couldn't shake the morbid thoughts of falling off the back of the speeding vehicle, the snapping of my neck being a futile attempt to escape my family's debt. But I knew that even the most tragic demise wouldn't absolve them of what they owed. I braced myself, wondering what kind of work awaited me, desperately hoping it wouldn't involve the skills I lacked. Cooking was an endeavor I had failed at countless times, and the thought of being a chef, forced to wield knives and conjure up culinary masterpieces, sent shivers down my spine. Equally horrifying was the prospect of becoming a w***e, the echoes of the haunting screams I once heard outside a brothel replaying in my mind. The cries of pain and desperation were etched into my memory, serving as a chilling reminder of what I hoped to avoid at all costs. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, the Rolls Royce brought me to the bustling city of Rome. Its modernity starkly contrasted with the familiar sights of my hometown, Modena. Cars filled the streets, and the vibrant fashion choices of the city's inhabitants mesmerized me. Determined to avoid confrontation with the men who had brought me here and to spare myself the pain of seeing my parents once more, I remained in the same humble attire I had worn when walking Sofia to school—a brown cotton pinafore over a white shirt, paired with worn-out black boots. The grand vehicle came to a halt in front of an imposing black gate adorned with wrought iron—the entrance to "Il Vigneron Salvatore." Towering before me, it seemed to guard secrets within or ward off intruders. With a solemn creak, the gate swung open, and just as swiftly, it closed behind me. Instructed to continue on foot, I embarked on a seemingly endless journey, my feet growing sore with each step. But there were no buildings in sight, only sprawling vineyards that stretched as far as the eye could see. Amidst the vines, I spotted a handful of workers diligently tending to the grapes, their efforts focused on gathering, weeding, and trimming the vines. A glimmer of hope flickered within me as I observed their labor. Farming had never been my weak point; it was a skill I possessed, honed by the years spent enduring the hardships of life with my parents. The image of myself as a farmer took hold—a vision of strength, resilience, and the potential for a different life. While waiting for further instructions, curiosity compelled me to explore the colossal brown building that stood nearby. It was a structure of unprecedented size, dwarfing anything I had ever seen before. With a mixture of apprehension and determination, I ventured inside, unknowingly initiating my first encounter within the vineyard—an encounter that would shape my destiny and set the stage for battles yet to come.