“But he needs us.”
“No,” I said, clutching the pillow to my chest. “He doesn’t need us either.”
She hesitated. Her eyes darted to the floor. Same move every time the truth got too heavy for her to carry. I saw it. The bruise she tried to paint over. Faded purple under layers of concealer. She didn’t even bother hiding it this time.
“Yeah,” I said, laughing under my breath. “I’m the liar.”
“Just get dressed,” she said, turning her back to me. “Come downstairs.”
I used to think she was weak. For staying. For letting him wreck her over and over.
But maybe strength doesn’t always scream. Maybe it just stays. Holds the house up with shaky hands and smeared lipstick.
We were never a real family. But she was still the only mother I had.
My father kept my adoption secret. Except when he wanted to spit it in my face.
And the worst part? He chose me.
He chose me, and still broke me.
He hit me like I was something he scraped off the street, a forgotten piece of trash. And I let him. Back then, I thought I deserved it. I thought punishment was a form of love. Somewhere between teenage years and the day they locked the door on me, I started searching for something, anything that could help me. I rifled through cabinets like a scavenger until I found his prized whiskey.
My first sip was fire and velvet. I dropped to my knees like it was holy. After that, there was no turning back. I told myself I’d never become him, but the truth is, I already had.
I stood up, the room tilting sideways, but I didn’t bother fixing myself. Not for him. Not tonight. I poured another glass, let the whiskey carve its way down my throat, and welcomed the burn.
When the weight in your chest grows too heavy, escape doesn’t need permission, it just needs an opening. I wasn’t drinking to forget. I was drinking to feelless. Less of the buzzing voices, the pressure, the shame. The whiskey made it all go quiet. For a moment, it made me feel like someone else. Someone better. Even if everyone else saw a wreck, I felt free.
I stepped outside. My shirt hung loose, half-untucked. The glass dangled from my fingers, empty, just like me. My breath reeked of liquor. I barely reached the garden before he saw me.
Dante Ricci. Mayor of Rome. My father.
His eyes flashed with anger. He stormed toward me, seized my arm like a child misbehaving in church, and dragged me back inside before the public got a glimpse. I laughed in his face. Part drunk, part from spite.
“Behave yourself,” he hissed through clenched teeth, then shoved me against the wall with the grace of a man who liked pretending he was still in control.
“What’s the matter?” I sneered. “Afraid they’ll see the cracks in your perfect little portrait?”
His jaw twitched. “No. I don’t want them to see a freak like you.”
Then he pressed my face to the wall. I didn’t care.
“Now grab your bottle,” he spat, “and finish it somewhere else.”
I turned my head, looked him dead in the eyes, and grinned. “Whatever,Father.”
He turned his back.
Mistake.
Without thinking, I brought the glass down on his skull. It shattered on impact with a sharpcrack. “Tastethat, you pathetic asshole.”
He crumpled to the floor, one hand clutching the back of his head. He was silent. Still.
I didn’t wait. I didn’t care. I walked away, glassless, mind empty, heart raw. I stepped onto the front porch, his cabriolet glinting in the sun. All I wanted was to leave. The keys were in the ignition. And as soon as I moved toward the car, apebble hit my side.
I flinched, spun around, but there was no one.
