Let him handle it.
God, Ihatewhen he says that.
“Bullshit,” I snap, ignoring Bella’s alarmed look. “I’m not some fragile little princess who needs to be protected from the big bad world. I’m nineteen years old and this is my family too. So either tell me what’s really going on, or I’ll figure it out myself—and you won’t like how I do it.”
Dad’s face hardens, and suddenly he’s not the gentle father figure sitting with his toddlers—he’s Matteo DeLuca, the don who doesn’t tolerate being challenged. “You’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it,” he growls. “This isn’t a democracy, Bianca. It’smyfamily, andImake the decisions.”
His family. Not our family.His.
The words hit like a slap, and something cold and angry unfurls in my chest. “Right. Your family. Got it.”
I turn and walk out before the hurt can show on my face, leaving behind the sound of Giovanni’s confused babbling and Bella’s quiet, “Matteo, that was too harsh.”
The house suddenly feels suffocating, like the walls are closing in around me.
His family.
The words keep echoing in my head, and each time they sting worse.
I’ve lived here my entire life, called this place home for nineteen years, and apparently I’m just…what?
A guest?
Someone he tolerates out of obligation?
I need space to think, to figure out what’s really going on, because clearly I don’t know shit about my own life.
Instead of heading to my room like they probably expect—like the good little princess who does what she’s told—I decide to explore areas of the house I rarely visit anymore.
Maybe I’ll find some answers since no one seems interested in giving me any.
The east wing has always been quieter, used mostly for storage and guest rooms that never have guests.
When I was little, I used to play hide-and-seek here with Mario before, well, before everything went to shit with him.
Now it just feels forgotten, like a part of the house that time left behind.
I’m wandering through what used to be a sitting room when I spot something covered with a dust sheet in the corner.
Something about the shape seems familiar, so I pull the sheet away and freeze.
It’s a portrait of my mother.
Sophia DeLuca stares back at me from the canvas, and my breath catches.
I’ve seen pictures of her before—photos in Dad’s study, a few family albums—but this painting captures something the photographs never did.
She’s beautiful in an almost ethereal way, with delicate features and pale skin that makes her look fragile.
But there is something in her eyes—like she’s been through more than she let on.
Soft, sure, but sharp too, like she didn’t break easy.
Her hair is the same dark color as mine, falling in waves around her shoulders.
We have the same nose, the same shape to our lips. But her eyes are different—lighter, more green than blue.
Looking at her, I can see where I get my looks, but I can also see the differences.
