Episode one
Chapter One
Samantha's pov
The night was not quiet. It was filled with screams.
I was only seven years old when it happened. I remember it clearly, like it happened yesterday. My parents and I were at home. My mother was setting food on the table. My father was laughing, telling me to sit close. It was one of those nights that felt safe, warm, like nothing bad could ever touch us.
Then the door burst open.
Men rushed in, their boots heavy, their hands carrying guns and sticks. Their faces were hard, their voices sharp. My father stood at once, pushing me behind him. My mother grabbed my arm and whispered, “Stay down, don’t make a sound.” She pushed me toward the back of the room. I crawled under the table, my little heart beating so fast I thought the men could hear it.
“Where is it?” one of them shouted.
My father tried to fight. He was strong, but there were too many. They struck him with sticks, hitting his back, his head. My mother screamed, trying to shield him, but they pushed her down.
Then he came in—the man who led them. The Don as they called him.
He walked in slowly, like he had all the time in the world. He wore black from head to toe. His eyes were cold, colder than anything I had ever seen. He didn’t shout like the others. He didn’t need to. Just one look from him, and his men moved like he commanded them without words.
Beside him was a little boy. That was a strange thing. The boy couldn’t have been younger than me. His face was pale, his eyes wide, but he stood close to the man, almost like he belonged to him. Or maybe he was the Don son. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He just watched. He was forced to hit my mom across the face,that made me rage in anger but still I remained quiet so I wouldn't suffer the same fate as my parents,even as he was just maybe 12,his father assigned heavty men to him,and those men where ordered to.
“Make them talk,” the man said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it sent chills down my spine.
The men grabbed my parents and dragged them to the center of the room. I bit my hand to stop myself from crying out as they began to beat them. My father tried to protect my mother, his arms around her, but the blows rained down heavily. Blood stained the floor. My mother’s scream was cut short when one of them struck her across the face.
I wanted to run out, to stop them, but I was too small, too weak. All I could do was watch.
The Don stepped closer. He bent down and whispered something to my father. My father spat in his face. The man only smiled, a cold smile that made my blood turn to ice. Then he nodded at his men, and they struck harder, until my father stopped moving.
My mother was still alive, her hands reaching out, but the leader shook his head. “ Bruno men,make her suffer.” And with that my mom was stripped naked and r***d right in front of my eyes. As if that wasn't enough he ordered them to kill her.
They did.
I will never forget the sound of it. I will never forget the way my mother’s hand, the same hand that always held mine, fell limp on the floor.
Tears ran down my face, but I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t. I knew if they saw me, I would be next.
For a moment, the Don turned his head. His eyes swept the room, as if he sensed something. My breath caught in my throat. I stayed still, praying he wouldn’t see me under the table.
Then the boy—his son—looked straight at me.
Our eyes met. Just for a second. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t point me out. He just looked at me, like he knew me, before turning his face back to the man.
And then they left, leaving my world in blood and silence.
That night took everything from me. My parents were gone. The house was no longer a home. I was sent to live with my uncle, Lorenzo.
From the very first day, I knew I was not welcome.
Uncle Lorenzo looked at me with disgust. His face was always twisted, like the sight of me reminded him of something bitter. “Another mouth to feed,” he muttered the day I arrived. “Why should I suffer for what happened to your parents?”
His wife, Aunt Clara, was worse. She never hid her hate. She struck me for small mistakes. If I dropped a cup, her hand would fly across my cheek. If I was late in answering, she would pull my hair and drag me across the floor.
“You’re cursed,” she told me once, her eyes burning with anger. “If you were not in this house, maybe we would have peace. You should have died with them.”
Her words cut deep, deeper than her blows.
Their children—my cousins—learned from them. Bryan, the eldest, spat at me whenever I passed. Roselyn, his sister, whispered lies about me to make their mother angrier. And the youngest, Mark, called me names so cruel I had to cover my ears at night just to stop hearing them.
I became the servant of the house. I woke before everyone else, sweeping, washing, cooking. When food was placed on the table, I stood in the corner, waiting to see if any scraps would be thrown my way. Most nights, I went to bed hungry, my stomach twisting in pain.
Sometimes, when no one was looking, I would press my hands to my chest and whisper to myself: I will not break. I will not cry. One day, I will be free.
One morning, Aunt Clara slapped me across the face because the porridge was too thick. My cheek burned, but I kept quiet. If I cried, she would slap me again.
“Useless,” she hissed. “Why did fate leave me with a burden like you?”
Uncle Lorenzo came in, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. “Don’t waste your hand on her,” he said to his wife. “The girl needs harder work. Send her to go get the groceries today. Let her carry the loads. Maybe then she’ll understand her place.”
That was how I found myself walking to the market with a heavy basket in my hands, the sun burning my skin, sweat running down my face. My arms shook, but I did not dare stop.
The market was full of noise and people. Traders shouted about their goods. Children ran between the stalls. I tried to keep my eyes on the ground, moving quickly.
But then, I felt it.
Someone was watching me.
I looked up, and my heart froze.
