The morning light intruded mercilessly through the heavy curtains, spilling onto the cool sheets that draped over Emilia's form. She groaned softly, pulling the blankets higher, desperate to seal herself from the brightness and the uneasy reality that awaited beyond the room's threshold.
The faint melody of birds chirping drifted in—a sound so rare and fragile that it momentarily softened the edges of her dread. In her sheltered upbringing, away from the violent chords of the mafia world, such simple serenades were a distant memory, a whisper from a life she once longed for but never truly knew.
Suddenly, her heart jolted as the truth snapped into focus—she was not in the sanctuary of her own childhood chambers but trapped within Santo's domain, lying on his bed. The space beside her was vacant; he had vanished silently, leaving an echoing void.
Before her thoughts could settle, the door slammed open with a metallic click, revealing a guard masked in shadows. His voice was low, unwavering: "The don requires your presence." Without protest, Emilia nodded, her resolve hardening despite the lingering warmth beneath the sheets.
She attempted to close her eyes again, yearning for a moment’s escape, yet the palpable weight of Santo’s absence and his unseen gaze remained, pressing upon her skin like a chill. Finally, she sighed, bracing herself, and rose from the bed.
The guard led her in silence through the winding halls and out to the estate’s manicured grounds, where the golf course stretched beneath the pale morning sky. The crisp air carried a subtle scent of dew and freshly cut grass, deceptively serene for what awaited.
There, surrounded by a cadre of stoic sentinels, stood Santo. His form was striking—clad in a crisp white dress shirt and sharply tailored black trousers, his dark eyes locked in an unyielding focus on the small white ball resting on the manicured green. He gripped a golf club with the precision of a man who wielded power the same way he wielded his weapons—calm, controlled, and absolute.
The silence was suffocating; not a leaf rustled, nor a breath disturbed the stillness. No one dared break the don’s concentration, as if the very air held its breath in reverence—and fear.
Emilia glanced down, suddenly painfully aware of her attire: soft pink pajamas adorned with a childish Hello Kitty motif. The innocence of the fabric clashed violently with the cold steel of the moment. She felt exposed, vulnerable, a misplaced note in this harsh symphony.
"Santo—" she began tentatively, but he cut her off with a raised hand, his gesture sharp and final.
Lowering the club, he struck the ball with practiced finesse, sending it rolling smoothly into the hole. A faint smirk crossed his lips, satisfaction flickering in his dark eyes before he reached for another ball, drawing it toward him with the club’s end.
Exasperated, Emilia rolled her eyes. "Why am I here?" she demanded, folding her arms despite the chill creeping into her veins.
He paused, his gaze locking onto hers with a piercing intensity. "I’ve been asking myself that same question since the moment we became husband and wife," he answered, voice low and edged with bitter irony.
Without warning, she turned to leave, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist with an iron grip. The sudden contact made her freeze.
She spun back around, eyes blazing. "What do you want, Santo? To insult me first thing in the morning?"
He studied her silently for several beats before his expression hardened. "Do you know how to handle a gun?"
Her brow arched, suspicion and confusion mixing. "What are you talking about?"
He sighed deeply, then signaled to one of the guards. The man approached silently, handing Emilia a sleek pistol with a grip worn from use.
"Kill him," Santo commanded flatly.
Her heart thundered in her chest, breath hitching painfully. "W-what?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I said, kill him," Santo repeated, his gaze a cold challenge. "Your father told me you’re a perfect shot. Let’s see if that’s true."
Emilia turned to the guard beside her. Though his face was concealed by the mask, the shock in his eyes was unmistakable—wide, disbelieving, pleading silently for this command to be a cruel joke.
This was far from any plan she'd imagined. It was madness.
"Go to hell," she spat at Santo, her voice trembling with fury as she attempted to step away.
But he seized her arm again, spinning her back to face him. Anger flared in his eyes now, sharpening his features into something unrecognizable.
"Let me go!" she demanded, tugging against his grasp, but his hold only tightened.
He smiled, a cruel twist that sent a shiver down her spine. "I’ll release you—if you make three perfect shots," he said, nodding toward a broad concrete slab nearby. "Hit each one cleanly."
She looked at the target—large, unforgiving, and close enough that missing seemed impossible.
"And if I fail?" she asked, voice edged with defiance.
His eyes never wavered from hers as he pointed back at the guard. "Then you’ll wish you had tried harder."
She scoffed, bitterness curling her lips. "You need help. This isn’t how you treat your wife."
His bored, dismissive gaze settled on her. "So, what’s it going to be?"
Closing her eyes, Emilia drew in a slow breath, centering herself. Memories of practice, of discipline, of the distant lessons her father had drilled into her flooded back. She had not fired a gun in years, but the muscle memory remained.
She opened her eyes, steadied her hands, and with precise concentration, fired three clean shots into the concrete target. The sharp reports echoed in the still morning air.
Relief surged through her as she lowered the pistol, shoulders relaxing from their tense posture. Santo loosened his grasp and gestured for the weapon.
"Keep it," he said without looking at her, returning to his golf club. "It’s yours now."
Emilia approached cautiously, a smirk tugging at her lips. "That’s quite bold of you—handing a gun to the woman you’re tormenting."
He scoffed, the sound rough. "You’re not going to do anything with it."
She laughed softly, eyes sparkling with challenge. "What makes you so sure?"
Without warning, he stepped forward, pressing the barrel of the pistol against his own chest. "Kill me," he dared, voice low and filled with a dark invitation.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably, frozen not by fear but by the weight of his unspoken pain.
"You can’t," he spat, bitterness dripping from his words. "Because you’re useless. Your mafia found that out and dumped you on me."
His accusations stung, but Emilia recognized the venom for what it was—a shield for his own torment.
He smiled cruelly. "You couldn’t even shoot the guard who came to kill you. Weak."
Confused, she stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Before she could react, he snatched the gun from her hand and fired a single, fatal shot to the guard’s head.
"Let this be clear," Santo’s voice thundered, commanding the attention of every bystander. "If I hear of anyone plotting against my wife again, I will kill them myself—and there will be no guards allowed in the house at night. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" came the unanimous reply.
He turned back to Emilia, frustration etched across his face as he returned the pistol to her. "Look, Emilia, I’m not your babysitter. It’s kill or be killed here."
The harsh reality settled over her like a freezing wave. This place—no, this life—was devoid of warmth, of family, of anything resembling love.
"Clean this mess up," he ordered the guards before heading back toward the house.
The men moved quickly, their efficient silence filling the space left by the fallen guard. Emilia followed slowly, her mind swirling with confusion and unease.
Inside the house, the dim light of the hallway guided her steps back to the familiar yet alien interior. In the living room, Santo stood with a glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand, the weight of the morning’s events settling between them.
When he caught sight of her, his eyes bore into hers with a mixture of irritation and something more guarded. He rolled his eyes and turned away, retreating into the shadowed corridors.
Was he angry at her? Or at himself? Emilia wasn’t sure, but the sting of his rejection pricked sharply.
If anyone deserved anger, it was her. She had been insulted, humiliated, and forced to witness death all before breakfast. Was this the reality of married life in the mafia? Or was Santo simply crafting his own brutal brand of it?
She climbed the stairs in a slow, weary ascent, the echoes of her footsteps the only sound accompanying her. The door to the bedroom swung open, and her phone buzzed with a notification, momentarily drawing her attention.
Hope flickered—a message from her parents or perhaps Bella, offering a lifeline to normalcy. But her heart sank as she saw the source: the school’s grading system.
Her smile faltered, replaced by a tightening knot of dread. This was for her psychology thesis, the culmination of her efforts during a precious, stolen window of time.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the grade, eyes scanning for some error. Then the truth hit: an F, stark and unforgiving.
Tears welled up unbidden. She had never failed before, especially not this course she had poured so much into.
In a panic, she dialed her professor’s number, heart pounding with urgency.
"Emilia?" Professor Kate’s voice came through, gentle but weary.
Emilia wiped her eyes, trying to steady her voice. "Professor Kate, I’m sorry to call outside office hours, but I don’t understand this grade. I reviewed the thesis countless times—it was perfect. I thought it met all the requirements."
A sigh hung heavy on the other end. "I know, Emilia. That’s exactly the problem. Your essay was too perfect. This is psychology, not English literature. It lacked emotion—as if an AI had written it."
"But you said—" Emilia began.
"I’m disappointed," the professor interrupted gently. "You misunderstood the core of the assignment. You weren’t meant to write about how to measure critical thinking. The purpose was to explore something or someone you want to understand, to infuse your work with feeling. If you want to pursue this field, facts alone won’t suffice—emotion is essential."
Silence stretched between them.
"Also," the professor continued, "you missed class yesterday and have been submitting assignments late. I understand things might be difficult, but this is college, Emilia. Even online courses require dedication."
"I had... other commitments," Emilia whispered, unwilling to reveal the true chaos consuming her life.
"Other commitments that are more important than your degree?" came the sharp retort. "I shouldn’t have to remind you of your responsibilities."
"Is there any way I could submit a makeup assignment?" Emilia asked, hope flickering despite the weight of disappointment.
"Turn it in by the end of the semester," the professor relented. "But remember, without emotion, your degree could be at risk."
"Thank you, Professor," Emilia replied, voice cracking slightly before ending the call.
She sank onto the bed, sinking beneath the weight of a day that had spiraled from bleak to unbearable. The gulf between her world and Santo’s seemed wider than ever, the shadows between them growing ever darker.