“GET UP AND RUN AGAIN!”
The world tilts—
I shoot upright in bed, chest tight, heart punching against my ribs. Air claws at my throat as I drag in a shaky breath. It’s been years since that dream crawled out of whatever grave I buried it in. Years since I felt ten again. Small. Controlled. Never good enough. I scrub a hand over my face, grounding myself in the present. My home. My room. Well, not my room but the one I chose for the night. Maybe that is why I dreamt. But the aftertaste of the past hangs heavy in my mouth. Why the hell did it come back now? I already know the answer.
Elena.
Standing silent beside her father. Flinching at his touch. Moving through life like someone else wrote her script. Obedient. Perfect. Controlled. Controlled the way I was. My chest tightens again—not from fear, but from anger I can’t quite name.
I swing my feet onto the floor, elbows on my knees, head bowed. The house is quiet. She’s quiet. But the echo of that spark I saw in her eyes won’t leave me alone. Maybe that’s why the dream came back. Maybe watching Viktor Volkov command his daughter like a possession stirred something in the parts of me that never healed. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking…
What would it take to bring her fire back? What would it take to make her look at me not like a man she must obey—but like someone she could trust?
I exhale slowly, the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders. One thing is certain: I don’t want a docile wife. I don’t want a ghost shaped by someone else’s demands. I want the woman I glimpsed for just a heartbeat—the one with a spark behind her eyes. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone snuff it out.
Chapter 5
The first thing I notice when I wake is the quiet. Not the kind I grew up with—a tense, watchful silence—but a softer one. I blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling, heart skipping when I remember where I am.
Alessandro’s home. My home now. The sheets are too soft. The mattress too large. Everything too still.
I sit up slowly, rubbing sleep from my eyes, the weight of yesterday settling over my shoulders. The wedding. The vows. The way he told me I would do as I’m told. The shock in my chest when he said the room was mine.
A married woman should be prepared for more. My mother told me that. So did Father. So did every whisper I ever overheard about the duties of a mob wife: compliance, sex, and immediate procreation. And yet… he left me entirely alone.
I don’t know what to do with the relief. It is sharp and immediate, but it clashes violently with the programming that tells me I have already failed.He didn't want me.
When I step into the shower, steam already curling from the vent, I see the neat row of products in the shower. My breath catches. The sight is an instantaneous, cold return to reality. The same shampoo. Same conditioner. Same body wash. Same brand of everything I’ve been using for years. The ones I hate. The ones that make my skin smell like lilies—my mother’s favorite, not mine.
She always said they “suited” me. That they kept me clean, presentable, proper.
The sight of them here, in Alessandro Moretti’s private sanctuary, makes my stomach twist. Of course she packed them. Of course she prepared my space, meticulously orchestrating the details of my life without asking what I wanted, right down to the scent I would carry into my marriage bed.
Even marriage can’t free me from the details of who they made me.
I wash quickly, avoiding the scent I’ve come to resent.
In the custom walk-in closet, I open the designer bag my mother packed—filled with clothing I didn’t choose, chosen for the role, not the woman. Folds of pale silk tops and modest cashmere skirts. Colors I never liked—muted taupes, soft creams. Necklines that sit too high, hems that fall too low.
Control follows me everywhere, I think bitterly, reaching for a simple, shapeless navy sweater. I didn’t know they’d still have a say after I married. But of course they do. I am a reflection of the Volkov family honor, even when draped in Moretti colors.
The house is so big and so quiet that each step echoes. I keep my hands tucked in front of me, unsure what to touch, where to stand, how a wife is supposed to exist in such a place. I have no instructions, no boundaries, and that freedom is terrifying.
What is my role here? I am not here for love. I am here for peace. But to secure that peace, I must be a good wife. I must find a way to make Alessandro happy, to prove my utility and my worth, so he never feels the need to dissolve this alliance.
I didn’t eat at the wedding. I was too nervous. Now my stomach aches with hunger. I drift down the hall with my hands clasped in front of me, the way I walked through my father’s house for years—quiet, unobtrusive, forgettable.
Old habits follow me like ghosts. Do not touch. Do not ask. Do not inconvenience. The Moretti home is nothing like the Volkov estate, yet the stillness mirrors the one I grew up in.
I search each room for signs of life—a voice, a servant, my husband—but everything is still. The silence presses against my ribs until I can hardly breathe. Then, tucked past a long dining table and through another archway, I see it.
The kitchen.
It is spotless—stone counters, stainless-steel appliances, everything gleaming. I don’t know if I’m even allowed to cook here—perhaps there are staff—but I need something to do before my thoughts swallow me whole. So I busy my hands. I find a loaf of artisan bread. Put two slices in the enormous, expensive toaster. Turn on the stove for eggs, remembering how my mother's cook always prepared them.
And then… My mind drifts. To Alessandro. To the way he barely looked at me all night. To the softness I saw for just a moment on the balcony before it vanished under smoke and shadows. The smell hits me too late. I whirl around to see thick smoke rising from the toaster. Before I can react, heavy footsteps strike the floor behind me. Then his voice cracks through the room—sharp, commanding, the tone of a man used to giving orders that are obeyed immediately.
“What the hell is happening in here?” Alessandro snaps, stepping into the kitchen like he’s entering a battlefield. Heis dressed only in a dark pair of sweatpants, his chest bare, his body coiled and ready for conflict. “Smoke? At six in the morning? Are you trying to burn the house down?”
