What had I done?
What would become of Francesco?
Time dragged on, thick and sluggish, like the air had turned to cold molasses. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but its warmth couldn’t chase away the chill in my bones.
Then—footsteps.
Francesco entered, dragged in by Papa like an animal to slaughter. His eyes locked onto mine—wide, glassy, searching. He looked at me not with anger but with heartbreak. Hope.
“Did you tell him?” he asked, his voice fragile, desperate. “Did you tell your Papa that I want to marry you?”
Papa’s face morphed into something monstrous.
“You dare lay claim to my daughter,” he spat, “after defiling her? You are nothing but a filth-stained rat!”
Francesco dropped to his knees, tears streaking down his dirt-smudged cheeks.
“No, sir! That’s not what happened! It was… it was consensual! We love each other—please!”
But Papa was beyond reason.
With a roar, he seized Francesco by the collar and dragged him into the room, slamming the door behind them.
“You touched my daughter,” he accused, his voice shaking with barely leashed fury. “You think you can soil what's mine?”
Before Francesco could answer, a fist crashed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood sprayed from his lip as he staggered, but the man didn’t stop.
Another blow to the gut.
Francesco doubled over, coughing, but was yanked upright by the throat.
“She was innocent!” my father bellowed. “And you—filth in my stables—took her like a thief in the night!”
Francesco fought back then—lunging, swinging wildly, desperation twisting his limbs—but he was no match. My father caught his wrist mid-swing and drove a fist into his ribs, sending him reeling.
“I didn’t hurt Alina!” Francesco gasped, staggering back. “It wasn’t like that—please, just listen?—”
The words barely left his mouth before my father struck again, this time with the back of his hand, snapping Francesco’s head sideways. Blood dripped from his split lip.
“You dare speak her name?” my father growled, seizing him by the shirt and slamming him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to speak!”
Francesco dropped to the floor, coughing, dazed. But even then, he tried to rise, one hand raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself.
“Please,” he wheezed. “She—she asked me to?—”
The boot caught him in the ribs.
Again and again.
And still, my father advanced, murder in his eyes.
“Get out! Before I put you down like the animal you are.” Papa bellowed, his voice breaking from the sheer force of his rage. “Filthy swine! Never show your face here again!”
He shoved Francesco outside, still hurling curses after him until only silence remained.
I watched from the sofa, my body small and shaking from what I’d set in motion. Outside, Francesco’s silhouette disappeared into the night, swallowed by the dark beyond the barn.
The room was still. The only sound was the fire and my quiet, shallow breaths.
