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Tears roll down my face, this is the worst form of torture—this mental punishment.
“My father and his men would beat me until I developed a tolerance for pain, my enemies could have only dreamed of. It was never the money, but the power that motivated me. And now I have to hand it over to a fucking twenty-something-year-old. I admire him; I would still have preferred to slit his throat. But you wanted to be a girl, my firstborn . . .” He exhales a long breath. “It wouldn’t even have mattered if the second one was a boy . . . I would have never loved him the way I love you. I was lenient, so lenient with you. You rebel because I allow you to, but never think I wouldn’t snap your neck if you weren’t my daughter.”
“Stop,” I beg him, tears streaming down my face.
But he continues, eyes forlorn, lost in his story, “Your role has been determined by your birth, and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck if you think this is unfair or unjust. This life doesn’t allow but a few moments of happiness, all others are steeped in responsibility.”
I cry out. “What do you want from me?”
He crouches in front of me. “To accept and embrace your role,” he says, cupping my chin. He wipes the tears away with his thumb and places a chaste kiss on the top of my head.
“Never.”
“Then, I hope he will do what I still can’t.”
Disappointment flashes in his eyes, while he leaves me with the ghosts of the lives he has taken. On shaky legs, I stand up, realizing Cato touched me with the hands of a killer. I scream in pain, in despondent frustration, but the sound doesn’t bounce off the walls. He’s just like my father. No, I will not accept this life, this supposed fate.
I drag myself up the stairs and then up to my room, collapsing on the bed, lifting my legs to my chin.
I rock in place, hysterical laughter bubbling out of my throat. My best friend is already in the clutches of a monster. With trembling hands and a clamped-up throat, I pick up my phone and FaceTime Aurora.
“Are you okay?” my beautiful, good-to-the-bones’ friend asks me, and I force my voice to sound steady.
“I am fine.” Fine, is there a word that could encompass desperation better than this one? I doubt it.
“What happened? Come on, Chiara, strong also means accepting once in a while that you’re weak.”
“I don’t want this life . . .”
“That bad?”
“Yes . . . I need to escape, Aurora. I can’t live like this.”
“Whatever I can do, I will help you. I love you.” Her words reassure me, stitching my frail nerves back together.
“Love you too.”
I hang up and trudge to my walk-in closet and rummage through my jewelry-making kit. My mind always eases when I give in to the need to create. I glue and construct an intricate bracelet out of leather along with black and silver metallic pieces, braiding them together.
Only when it’s done, when I cannot keep my eyes open, do I crash on my bed, the bracelet staring back at me. It looks like wires, but fine ones, just like the ones around my heart and life.
***
My sister swipes the curtains open, letting the morning sun shine through.
A huge smile is plastered on her face.
“We’re going shopping.”
I drag myself from bed and change quickly into a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt, black pearls around my neck. My mother sends me a disapproving look as I descend the stairs, a few minutes late. I’m not a morning person. She hurries me out and we climb into the SUV.
Two designer boutiques later, my dress and shoe collection has increased unnecessarily. We stop in front of a bridal shop.
“No.”
My mother arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow and gestures for me to climb out.
Inside the posh bridal boutique, I feel like a coat hanger, while I parade in front of my mother and sister.
