Shadows Of Vows

Chapter 2: SOLD

You called me, Father?” I said coolly, emphasizing the word.

With a flick of his fingers, he dismissed her.

“What did you expect from a cruel man?” I muttered under my breath.

She heard it. Her smile faltered. “But, baby—” she started to protest, pouting as she turned toward him.

His eyes cut to her. That was all it took.

She fell silent instantly. Pouting harder now, she slid off his lap and stormed out with slumped shoulders and a wounded ego.

Good.

He stood slowly, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. The flame flickered briefly between us, casting shadows on his face. He inhaled deeply, like the poison soothed him.

“What were you doing by the door, Em?” he asked, voice low—almost gentle. The old nickname sent a jolt through me.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “You lost the right to call me that the day you destroyed everything.”

I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. “Besides,” I added, voice dripping with sarcasm, “it’s not my fault you couldn’t keep your little toy quiet.”

He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “You are definitely your father’s daughter, Em. At least you’ve got the spine to speak your mind, unlike your mother. Always so fragile. So easy to break.”

He smirked, proud of the nerve he knew he’d just struck.

My jaw tensed. My mother was sacred ground, and he knew it. He loved poking at that wound. It was the only way left to control me. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Not this time.

He made me strong—by accident. Raised by cold eyes, I learned never to cry. I became hard-headed. Relentless. A fighter. Everything she couldn’t be. Everything he hated.

I hate that his blood runs through my veins. If I could cut it out, I would.

But I can’t.

So I survive.

“What do you want, Father?” I asked, voice flat, ignoring his dig.

He exhaled a long stream of smoke, eyes gleaming with something dark.

“You won’t be going to school today,” he said.

Something in his tone made my skin crawl.

“You need to prepare yourself... for your future husband.”

My heart stopped.

“You’ve been promised to marry Saint Leonardo Rossi.”

My heart sank.

Of all the men my father could’ve chosen, he chose him—the one with the most ruthless reputation in the entire mafia world.

Saint Leonardo Rossi.

The name alone made my blood run cold. The menace himself, they called him. Known for his merciless nature, for punishing anyone who crossed him without hesitation. He ran one of the largest, deadliest mafias in the world. His empire was built on fear, silence, and blood.

I felt trapped. Terrified. The thought of being bound to someone like him was worse than staying with my abusive father. At least I knew how to survive his violence.

But Saint? That was walking blind into a storm. He was the devil cloaked in tailored suits.

I had to convince him to change his mind.

“So,” I said bitterly, raising an eyebrow, “you want to marry me off to a bigger monster than you?”

He shrugged without a hint of shame. “Why not? Maybe he’ll teach you some manners.”

“I’m not getting married,” I said firmly, turning to walk away.

But his next words froze me in my tracks.

“If you don’t want your little puppets ending up in an orphanage—or worse—you’ll do exactly as I say, Emily.”

My breath caught. Jason. Beniah.

I didn’t doubt him. Not for a second.

A man who could reduce his own children to puppets… was capable of anything. I had seen it. I had lived it.

“And I don’t remember this being a request,” he added. His voice was hard. Final. “You are getting married. Whether you like it or not.”

Frustration curled into rage inside me. I turned back toward him, voice shaking.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a father. Do you know that?” I spat. “I don’t want to leave Beniah and Jason with you! Who knows what you’ll do to them? They need me! I’m the one who protects them—not you. And love?” My voice cracked. “The love I believed in died the day you killed Mom!”

For just a second, I saw it—a flicker of something behind his eyes. Regret? Guilt? No. It disappeared too quickly, replaced by something darker. Anger.

He said nothing.

Then he took a step forward. And another.

I instinctively looked down, avoiding his gaze, already bracing myself.

“Look at you,” he said mockingly. “Getting all emotional. Pathetic. You sound just like her", he muttered. "Emotionally weak."

He chuckled—cold and cruel. “Feels like déjà vu,” he added, amused by the memory of making my mother feel this same helplessness.

And then—smack.

The slap came fast, sharp, and unforgiving.

Pain exploded across my cheek as I fell to the floor. My ears rang. The taste of blood touched my tongue.

I didn't cry.

I wouldn't give him that.

He knelt beside me, his breath heavy with smoke and his face level with mine.

“Just because I let you run your mouth,” he sneered, “doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate your disrespect. I’m your father, and you’ll obey me. You should be grateful I didn’t throw you out after your mother died.”

I glared at him through the blur of tears.

“Oh, I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he muttered. “And Emily, this was never about love.”

He stood, disgusted, flicking his cigar at me as if I were trash.

It hit my arm, burning into my skin.

I gasped, biting back a scream as pain bloomed, sharp and cruel. But I’d been burned before. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t felt before. He taught me long ago how to suffer in silence.

I clenched my fists, grounding myself in the pain—because the pain meant I hadn’t disappeared.

It reminded me: I was still alive. Still here.

He stood and turned to leave, but I forced myself to speak.

“What about Beniah and Jason?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

He stopped.

Turned slowly.

A smirk curled on his lips—sick satisfaction shining in his eyes. He knew. He knew they were my weakness.

“Beg me,” he said simply.

I stared at the floor for a long second. I hated him. I hated myself for what I was about to do.

But I would do it.

Because I failed to save my mother.

I would not fail them.

I swallowed what little pride I had left.

I forced myself off the floor, each movement aching. My knees hit the ground.

“Please,” I said quietly. “Father, I’m begging you… leave Jason and Beniah out of this. Let me take them somewhere safe. I’ll marry Saint. No more objections. I’ll do what you want.”

He stared at me—taking in my humiliation, feeding on it like a vulture.

“I’ll send them to their aunt’s house in London tomorrow,” he said, finally. “Besides, I have no use for parasites.”

Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

I stood slowly, cheek still stinging, the scent of burnt skin rising faintly from my arm. A single tear slipped down my face. I wiped it away before it could fall.

I couldn’t let myself fall apart.

I had to be strong for them.

I headed toward my room, but stopped cold when I saw her.

Beniah.

She was sitting on the floor in the hallway, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were red. Her back was pressed against the wall like she’d been trying to disappear into it.

She looked up at me.

No words.

No questions.

Just… knowing.

The burn on my arm pulsed with pain. I instinctively pulled my sleeve down. She saw anyway.

Still, she said nothing.

I walked over and sank to the floor beside her.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just sat there in the quiet—the air heavy with the kind of silence that holds all the things we’re too afraid to say out loud.

Her shoulder brushed mine. A small gesture. Barely there.

But it meant everything.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered, barely audible, “you’ll be going to Auntie’s house in London.”

She turned her head slightly toward me, eyes searching mine.

“I want you to start fresh,” I continued. “A life where you can breathe. Where you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.”

Her lip trembled, but she didn’t cry. She was trying to be brave for me. Just like I was trying to be brave for her.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said softly.

I smiled, though my heart broke. “You’re not leaving me. You’re surviving me.”

That was the truth.

Because the moment I said yes to marrying Saint Rossi, I stopped belonging to myself.

I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to carry any of this. Not anymore.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. Just for a moment.

And in that moment, I allowed myself to feel it—the ache of love, the pain of goodbye, and the fire that kept me standing.

Tomorrow, she’d be gone.

Safe.

And I’d walk straight into hell.