Two - Repressed Rage
1157 Words
Alessandra's POV
I hadn’t been home in six years.
Not because I didn’t want to come back. I wasn’t allowed to.
Growing up, I was the defective twin. Not strong or sharp like my sister, Alex. She had the grades, the combat skills—the discipline needed for the life we were born into. A life of guns, drugs, power. The mafia life.
My father, Luke Castillo, was the Consigliere to the Godfather of Italy. Which meant he had no patience for weaklings. No tolerance for mistakes. And I was both—a weakling and a mistake. He made that clear every time he looked at me. Every time he asked me questions I couldn’t answer. I think he sent me away because, if he hadn’t, he might’ve killed me.
I walked quickly to the dining room. Dinner was at eight. He hated waiting.
When I opened the door, he was scrolling through his phone, not even glancing up. I stood across from him, clearing my throat.
Nothing.
So much for a welcome back.
“Hi, Papa.”
Still nothing.
I tried again. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You look well.”
His eyes flicked up, just for a second, before landing on my clothes.
“Is that what you wore for dinner?”
I stiffened. He was in a suit, as always. The table was set for four, not three. Who else was coming?
“I asked you a question,” he said, voice clipped.
I glanced down at my flip-flops. “I didn’t know we had a guest. I just got back, I was jet lagged, I didn’t think—”
“Of course, you didn’t think. You never do.” His voice was sharp, final. “Go change, Alessandra. Don’t waste my time.”
I took a breath, then turned and left.
I didn’t know why I let it get to me. The last time he saw me, he called me a disgrace before shipping me off to another continent.
I changed quickly, did my makeup, put on heels. By the time I got back downstairs, Alex was already seated. Cool. Collected. Unbothered.
“How did the meeting go?” my father asked.
I spotted a splash of red on Alex’s suit. Blood. She saw me notice it and smirked.
“Fine,” she started, but before she could say more, the doors burst open.
Jeremy.
The Don’s son.
His suit was a mess, shirt barely tucked. His hair disheveled. That grin—arrogant, reckless, like he’d just walked out of a fight or a lover's bed and enjoyed every second of it.
My father stood to greet him. We followed.
Jeremy sat down “ Luke, I brought this for you to pay my respects of course” he said raising the bottle of bourbon in the air
He poured himself a full glass of bourbon. Not offering the bottle, just pouring for himself. Leaning back, studying us, his smirk deepening. His gaze flicked between me and Alex.
“So what, I get to pick?”
Then, to my horror, he turned to my father and said,
“Or am I supposed to take both?”
My stomach twisted.
My father shook his head slightly before answering.
“Jeremy, meet Alessandra. Alessandra, meet Jeremy. Your fiancée.”
The glass slipped from my hand, shattering at my feet.
I looked at my father. His gaze was pinned on me, sharp and unrelenting, waiting for my reaction.
I dropped my eyes immediately.
He scared me. He always had. Ever since that night.
Jeremy let out a dry chuckle, breaking the silence. “Judging by the look on your face, you just found out about this too.” He took a long drink, draining half his glass in one go. “Welcome to the bloody club.”
I barely heard him. My heartbeat was in my ears, thudding against my ribs.
Everyone knew Jeremy. Reckless. Irresponsible. Addicted to women, gambling, and anything that could make him forget himself. The Don should’ve handed over power by now, but rumors said he couldn’t. Because his son wasn’t fit to lead.
I thought my father hated me, but not this much.
I must’ve heard wrong.
I forced myself to meet my father’s eyes. “What?”
Jeremy let out a low laugh, drinking straight from the bottle now. “Yeah, I had the same reaction.” He leaned back, tipping the bottle lazily before setting it down. “Soon-to-be wife.” He sighed, shaking his head before pushing back from the table. “I’d stay and celebrate, but I promised my parents I’d stop by. Wouldn’t have, but since I was bundled here against my will…” He grabbed the bottle, standing. His eyes flicked back to mine. “See you Friday. Pack light.”
There was something off about the way he said it. Tighter than necessary. Like this wasn’t his choice either.
Then he was gone.
I turned back to my father. My pulse was hammering now, my breathing uneven. “What?” I said again, harsher this time, disbelief cutting through the fog in my brain.
He stood, brushing off his suit like this was just another business meeting. “Pack your bags. You’re moving in with him on Friday.” He straightened his cuffs. “It’s a done deal. It’ll be good for our family—direct ties to the Godfather.”
“We already have ties to the Godfather!”
The yell tore out of me before I even realized I was speaking.
He stopped at the door. Then, to my horror, he laughed. A throaty, dry sound. Like my outburst amused him.
“I’m not going,” I said, my voice steadier now.
I felt Alex’s eyes on me. She set her fork down, finally paying attention.
My father turned slowly, expression unreadable. “What did you just say?”
He started walking back toward me.
I held my ground. I let them call me the defective twin. I let them exile me. I let them beat me until my body was covered in bruises, until I was spitting blood on the floor. But this—this was my life.
I stood up, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
I opened my mouth—to scream, to curse, to fight back.
But all I saw was red.
Not just anger. Blood.
The last memory of my mother.
‘Repress, Alessandra. Let them walk all over you. Let them think you’re weak. That’s the only way you live. Please, promise me.’
My throat closed.
The anger drained from my body, as sudden as it came. My vision blurred, my chest tightening.
I sat back down.
Tears slipped down my face before I could stop them.
When I spoke, my voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’ll do as you ask, Papa.”
Just like Mama Said. Repress. Obey. Survive.
- Writer
