Photos of happier times.
But everything I left behind—my furniture, my books, the coffee maker that only worked if you hit it just right—feels like pieces of myself being amputated.
The legal documents arrived via email at midnight, sent by someone named Robert Callahan, Esq., whose email signature included about fifteen different credentials and a law firm name that my frantic googling had shown they defend corporations from fraud charges.
I’d sat at my kitchen table, staring at the screen of my laptop, reading clause after clause that essentially signed away my autonomy.
The party of the second part (hereafter referred to as “the Wife”) agrees to reside at the primary residence of the party of the first part...
The Wife acknowledges that all financial assets, property, and future earnings shall be subject to the discretion of the party of the first part...
The Wife consents to reasonable restrictions on communications and travel as deemed necessary for security purposes...
“Reasonable restrictions.” The phrase had made me laugh, a sound that came out more like a sob. There was nothing reasonable about any of this.
But I’d signed.
Clicked the little boxes, typed my name in the designated fields, watched the documents process and disappear into whatever legal void makes contracts binding.
At 12:55 a.m., I became Luca Marchetti’s property in every way that Chicago’s particular interpretation of marriage law would allow.
Now, watching the city move past me through tinted windows, I wonder if Dad is still alive.
The thought has been circling my brain since I woke up this morning.
Is he okay?
Are they feeding him?
Has Luca hurt him more, or is the beating from a few nights ago the extent of his punishment?
The questions multiply with each passing mile, and I have no way to get answers.
The drive takes forty minutes, heading north along the lake until the city gives way to sprawling estates hidden behind walls and ancient trees.
When we finally turn through a set of iron gates that look like they could stop a tank, my stomach drops.
The Marchetti estate isn’t a home—it’s a fortress disguised as a mansion.
Twenty-foot walls surround the property, topped with razor wire that gleams in the morning sun.
Security cameras swivel to track our progress as we drive up a winding road lined with manicured hedges.
Armed guards in dark suits stand at regular intervals, their hands resting casually near concealed weapons.
Each one turns to watch as we pass, their eyes assessing me with the look of wolves evaluating fresh meat.
The main house looms at the end of the drive.
It’s three stories of gray stone and tall windows, beautiful in the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Elegant. Imposing. Utterly devoid of warmth.
The driver parks in a circular courtyard dominated by a fountain featuring some Greek god I don’t recognize, opens my door, and gestures for me to follow him.
My legs feel shaky as I climb out, and every movement sends a dull ache through my ribs.
I clutch my suitcase like it’s a life preserver.
A man approaches from the direction of the house, and even without introduction, I know this must be someone important in Luca’s organization.
