At sixteen, I had earned my high school diploma, a milestone I achieved within the confines of my home. Homeschooling had been my world—partly by choice, mostly by my father’s insistence. He claimed the outside world was too perilous for me, a shield that left me insulated but isolated.
I never resented the lessons themselves; I enjoyed the freedom to study wherever I pleased—be it the sunlit kitchen table, the quiet of my bedroom, or the fragrant garden beneath the blooming jasmine. Yet, that freedom felt like a gilded cage at times. I longed for the friendships I never formed, the fleeting romances I’d only witnessed through the silver screen, and the rhythm of a normal life that had always eluded me.
My parents’ love was unwavering, but it couldn’t fill the hollow ache of solitude. A missing fragment of my soul seemed absent, a piece of the puzzle I could never quite fit into place.
College had seemed like the next step, a chance to glimpse a life beyond these walls and maybe—just maybe—find what I lacked. But now, even that hope was snatched away, replaced with uncertainty that gnawed at my insides.
My stomach rumbled, a sharp reminder of reality. I stared at my phone, the glaring red F pointing accusingly back at me. "Calm down," I murmured, trying to soothe the uneasy flutter inside as I rose and made my way to the kitchen.
The room was empty. No cook, no maid, no familiar face bustling about to prepare my meals. Since Ms. Rossi passed away when I was eight, the household staff had been an unstable revolving door, leaving me and my mother to fend for ourselves in the kitchen—a place neither of us ever really mastered.
My mother’s culinary attempts were laughable at best, and I’d sadly inherited that same lack of skill. My stomach grumbled anew, and I sighed, steeling myself. I would have to cook my own breakfast here, in this unfamiliar kitchen that smelled faintly of stainless steel and cold marble.
"I can manage," I whispered, more to convince myself than anyone else.
Opening the refrigerator, I grabbed eggs and bacon, setting a frying pan on the stove to heat. The sizzle filled the silence as I focused on the task, but my inexperience was evident—the eggs browned too quickly, the bacon curled unevenly, and my toast emerged charred, blackened in places.
Just as I poured myself a cup of coffee, the kitchen door creaked open behind me. Santo appeared, his figure tall and commanding, clad in a perfectly tailored suit that contrasted sharply with my casual disarray. We exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken tension, neither willing to break the silence.
He reached for a mug and began pouring his own coffee, eyes flickering toward my plate with a look that bordered on disdain. I caught the fleeting expression and looked down at my burnt breakfast, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Cooking had never been a priority before, but now the stakes felt higher.
"You could have told me," I blurted, breaking the heavy quiet.
"You're not my responsibility," he replied flatly, sipping his coffee with an air of indifference that stung more than I expected.
His coldness was a familiar barrier, one I’d hoped might crack, but it remained formidable.
"Santo, I don’t need you to take responsibility for me. But you could warn me if someone was trying to kill me," I pressed, trying to keep my voice steady despite the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
He narrowed his eyes, bitterness thickening his tone. "You’re the daughter and wife of mafia leaders. You should know the dangers that come with that."
That was the final straw. I stood, the chair scraping against the floor sharply as I closed the distance between us. "I get that you hate this marriage, but is it really so hard to treat me like a person?"
His gaze dropped, scrutinizing me with a frozen intensity. "You don’t want me to treat you like a human?"
I swallowed hard, refusing to look away despite the intimidation that swelled inside me. "Why do you always have to be so cruel? Isn’t there a part of you that’s even a little kind?"
"No," he said immediately, the word like a declaration.
Holding his stare made his jaw twitch—a subtle sign that I was rattling him. For the first time, I noticed details I hadn’t before: the softness hidden behind his dark eyes, the length of his naturally curled eyelashes, the shape of his brows, the fullness of his lips.
A clearing throat jolted us both, snapping the moment as a guard approached, urgency in his footsteps. "Sir, Mr. Ajello is at the site and wants to know where you are."
Santo slammed his palm on the counter, the sharp sound echoing off the walls. "Shit," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell Dante to begin the tour without me until I arrive."
The guard nodded and hurried away. Santo grabbed his jacket, throwing it on swiftly. He glanced back at me once before departing, leaving the kitchen feeling emptier than before.
His brief presence had been a small, unexpected comfort, now replaced by a familiar loneliness. My old home had never been silent; someone was always there to fill the space. Here, the quiet felt suffocating.
I returned to my plate, attempting to eat, but the burnt flavors mocked me. Frustrated, I reached for my phone and dialed Bella, hoping to hear her voice. The call went straight to voicemail—a common occurrence since her marriage.
I considered calling my mother, but she was likely en route to America, lost in the turbulence of her own life.
Two hours slipped by as I sat in the kitchen, staring at nothing in particular, my mind barren of the thesis ideas I once cherished. My sense of purpose slipped away piece by piece.
I was severed from my father’s world, alienated from Santo’s. Here I was, in a strange city, inside a strange house, wed to a man who appeared to loathe me.
Where did I belong, now?
The front door slammed, heavy footsteps drawing nearer. Santo passed by the kitchen, pausing briefly to glance at me with an unreadable expression. I waited, hoping for a word, an acknowledgment, but he turned and disappeared down the hall.
We were strangers—too different, too burdened by resentment and distance. He was six years older, commanding and fierce; I was young, guarded, and uncertain.
A sudden brush against my leg startled me. Looking down, I saw a sleek grey cat calmly flicking its tail.
I let out a scream, clambering onto the stool in alarm.
Santo came rushing back. "What’s wrong?"
I pointed at the cat with trembling fingers. "That... that thing got inside!"
He raised an eyebrow, crouched, and scooped the feline into his arms. "James," he said softly, stroking its fur. "I’ve been searching everywhere for you. Where have you been hiding?"
My shoulders sagged in confusion. "James?"
"Yes. I gave him an English name," Santo replied, cradling the cat like a child.
Fear gripped me. "It’s not going to live here, is it?"
He lifted one brow. "Why wouldn’t he?"
I scoffed, unable to mask my disdain. "You can’t be serious. Those creatures—they’re filthy, unpredictable."
His tone sharpened defensively. "They what? James stays inside. End of discussion."
"I’m your wife," I said, trying to assert some ground.
"And he’s my cat," he said coolly.
My next words were a mistake. "Which one is more important to you?"
He paused, eyes darkening. "Do you really want to hear the answer?"
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, James nestling comfortably against his chest as they left the kitchen.
The door shut behind them, and I was left alone with the quiet once more—alone, yet painfully aware of the silent wars being waged within these walls.