Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
But instead she just keeps talking, damn her.
"It is never right for a child to be harmed by their own parent."
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
"You can cry if you wish."
She's too late in saying that. Can't she see I'm already a fucking mess?
"Or scream."
And now I'm screaming, too.
"Punch the walls if you think you need to."
Fuck yeah.
But as soon as I stand up, my knees crumble, and I fall to the carpet instead.
"Damn you. Damn you. Damn you."
All I can do is hit the rug repeatedly with my fists as I sob and scream.
"Damn you. Damn you. DAMN YOU!"
The words pour out of me like bile, but it doesn't make anything easier or less hurtful.
"I'm sorry, bambina. I really am."
My chest feels like it's about to explode again.
Why, God, why?
This woman is all but a stranger, so why is she the one saying sorry?
Why is she the one speaking to me the way I've always wished my father would speak to me...but never did?
"Some of my grandchildren have suffered and continue to suffer from the same pain you are feeling now. But just as I was unable to spare them from their own pain, I am sorry to say that I cannot spare you from yours."
The empathy in her gaze is unbearable.
Why? God? Why?
It's my first time to think of God my whole life.
I don't even know if he's real.
But if he is, then dammit, I want to ask why.
Why, God, why?
"The only thing I can do for you is what I have done for my own grandchildren."
Sobs rock my body as I feel Signora Marchetti gently cup my chin and lift my gaze to hers.
"Today, you are allowed to grieve. You can stay in your room the whole day if you wish. You do not need to see or talk to anyone. You can do whatever you want."
Except die, I think dully.
Because right now, I can't think of a single reason why I should even keep living.
"But come tomorrow, you must learn to accept the truth."
Truth? What truth? And why should I even care?
"Esteban may never be the father you want him to be. You can spend your whole life chasing after him and doing what you can to win his approval, but it will not matter. Your father will only change if he chooses to do so. And that's always what life boils down to. The choices we make are what shapes us."
Signora Marchetti motions me to stand, and even though I've always been a rebellious little shit, I actually find myself clumsily rising to my feet.
"And that is why you are here."
I know her words are supposed to give me hope, but all I feel is guilt.
"I'm sorry," I say unevenly. "You couldn't possibly have wanted—-"
The matriarch raises a bejeweled hand, and I shut up.
"Do you think I am where I am now because I think like everyone else does?"
The old woman smiles at me, and the hairs behind my neck stand. La Strega means 'the witch' in Italian, and she definitely looks like one now.
"My grandson only makes a move when I say so. It is how our famiglia remains strong to this day, and that is how you know you would not be here now without my say so. I want you to be his bride," the matriarch declares imperiously, "and once you're old enough, you will marry my grandson."
"I don't want you to think I'm being ungrateful—-"
"And yet that's exactly how you sound like," the older woman harrumphs.
"But you don't have anything to gain from marrying me."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"But—-"
"Francisco."
The door to the study immediately opens, and just like that, her elderly assassin consigliere pops at the matriarch's side. "Sì, signora?"
"It is time for Sarica to rest. Escort the bambina to her room, per favore."
"B-But—-"
Francisco marches me out of his employer's study despite my protests, and he only smiles when I glare at him.
"I can already tell the two of you will get along perfectly."
"Then you're just as crazy as she is."
POTENZIANA WAS HAVING tea in the library when a knock sounded, and her eldest grandson walked in. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's past midnight."
"Scusa per il ritardo," her grandson murmured in apology. "Certain parties required more convincing."
The mildness of Giancarlo's tone usually meant there was more to what he was saying, but she let it go for now. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and Francisco could fill her in by then.
For now, she focused on her grandson, who appeared unusually stiff as he remained on his feet, his back against the fireplace.
"I'd invite you for tea, but you clearly have something on your mind."
"Do not keep me in suspense, signora."
She almost smiled. This boy of hers was truly like no other, with how he had everyone fooled into thinking he was her most obedient grandson. But in truth, Giancarlo was the opposite, and he was also the only one capable of speaking to her in a tone that was both respectful and yet lecturing at the same time.