"You sons of bitches, I've got a family." - Johnny Dio.
I see the metal gates of the mansion swing open ahead, the house itself looming stark white against the cloudy, grey sky, a facade concealing the layers of darkness it held. Despite Aiyla's determined efforts to strip away the pain and trauma that had festered within these walls, the memories remained etched in every corner.
Regardless of the new color of the walls, the wallpaper she painstakingly handpicked, and the furniture she replaced, I remembered every single minute detail of the gruesome activities that went on for years in this hell hole.
This house had been a silent witness to the horrors of the past, passed down through generations like an insidious legacy.
The men at the black metal gates and those patrolling the Sabelli Mansion greet me with cautious yet intrigued glances, their curiosity evident. My return after five years has certainly piqued their interest.
Parking my car on the driveway, I stride toward the house, sensing their unspoken questions—a silent interest behind my reappearance. However, they knew better than to allow their curiosity to endanger their lives. Or I would start playing whack-a-mole with my Glock.
With my goon stationed by the door, he lets me in. I hang my jacket on the stand, place my keys in the bowl, and exchange my combat heels for flats.
Making a beeline for the kitchen, I retrieve the file from its hidden nook—an old secret spot where I used to stash snacks as a little girl, now tasked with holding weightier secrets.
The file, containing the marriage details, had seemed inconsequential just five days ago. My primary focus had been on the mountain of files pertaining to my business operations.
Amid my duties as the Dona, I wasted no time. I immediately convened meetings with my soldiers, informants, drug trade partners, and an extensive network of allies. My quick focus on business matters had been a deliberate display, intended to quell any doubts and reaffirm my unshakable leadership.
During these crucial meetings, I left no stone unturned, diving into the intricate details of our drug smuggling operations. I emphasized the need to optimize our routes, ensuring they were not only efficient but also fortified with heightened security measures.
I personally oversaw the reopening of the three of our New York Ports as a key entry point for shipping containers, making it clear that we were reclaiming our dominance in the illicit trade.
Moreover, I spared no expense in bolstering our manpower and security apparatus. I reinforced our ranks with skilled and loyal individuals, ensuring that every aspect of our operations was staffed by capable hands. This move aimed to eliminate any vulnerabilities and maintain an iron grip on our operations.
The message to all involved was crystal clear: the somewhat lenient atmosphere that Aiyla might have allowed was over. There was no room for error, and every member of our network understood the gravity of the situation or else their life would pay for it.
The heightened danger was palpable; anyone could attempt an attack, especially with my return. However, I would never admit that vulnerability to anyone. Such admissions were a sign of weakness.
But, now that matters had been smoothed over, and everyone knew their position, the document that held my fate had suddenly gained a newfound importance.
Frustrated with the file's apparent significance, I mutter a low curse and decide to dive in. "Fuck it," I grumble under my breath, finally succumbing to the urge to uncover the contents of the marriage proposal.
Ink on paper, the words sprawled before me, crafting a contract that carried the potential to reshape my entire existence.
My gaze traced the lines, absorbing each rigorously laid-out term and condition designed to bind me to a man whose name, picture and family remained conspicuously absent from these pages.
Details of potential financial arrangements between our families were etched onto the paper, alongside projections of how our criminal enterprises could seamlessly intertwine, amplifying the Familia's dominion.
Loyalties and allegiances were spelled out in relentless legalese, hinting at the potential consequences should either party falter. An entire roadmap for the integration of our respective forces danced across the pages, a blueprint for an empire built on the foundations of this union.
Yet, as I read through the lines, a bitter taste forms in my mouth.
For all the calculated strategies and strategic gains, the document is a harsh reminder of the sacrifices it demanded. My autonomy, my aspirations, my very identity—all on the verge of being diminished and forever altered.
My anger flares like an unbridled furnace within, an intense blaze that menaces the boundaries of reason.
The drawer slides open with a barely audible whisper, revealing an array of utensils and tools neatly arranged. Amidst the ordinary contents, a glint of metal catches my eye—an eerie enticement, a dangerous intimacy that has comforted me before. The cool promise of the blade is a fleeting temptation that draws my fingers toward its gleam. The kitchen's stillness seems to offer a momentary respite from the turmoil raging within me.
Yet, as my hand hovers over the smooth surface, a soft intrusion breaks the spell—the door's creak grounding me in the present moment.
With a steadying breath, I close the drawer, letting its gentle click seal away the dangerous shine.
I stand with my back turned to the room, aware of Aiyla's presence drawing nearer. Her steps are measured and deliberate, and the air around me thickens with an undercurrent of tension that echoes the disarray I'm experiencing.
My fingers clench the cold, granite countertops, anchoring me in place as I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. The weight of my question hangs in the air like a heavy fog, each word a dagger that cuts through the silence between us. "Did you know?" My voice, a low and trembling whisper, slices through the stifling atmosphere, carrying with it an icy chill that mirrors the tension that has festered between us.
It is not just a question—it is an accusation, a fracture in the suffocating quiet that has bound us in its grip for the agonizing five days following the dreaded meeting.
Aiyla's reply is a subtle exhale, a delicate thread of sound that weaves through the charged air.
"Confused?" I inquire, pressing her further. Now even more irritated that she seemed to be at a loss for words.
Fueled by resentment and anger, I abruptly snatch the file from the kitchen island and shove it into Aiyla's chest, our eyes finally meeting in a clash of unspoken truths.
Aiyla, her gaze unwavering, takes the file with a firm grip, her expression remaining resolute. She opens it without hesitation, her eyes scanning the contents with keen focus. A tense silence hangs in the air, broken only by the assertive rustling of paper as she methodically flips through the pages. Her features remain composed, a mask of determination replacing any initial confusion.
"No," she states firmly, her voice constant and her eye contact steady. "I was unaware of both this and anything discussed in that meeting."
My scoff is sharp, the sting of betrayal tainting the air. Trusting someone who turned against their own blood, who played a part in my forced return to New York is nothing short of absurd.
I step closer to Aiyla, our proximity unnerving. My voice is a cold whisper, laden with a haunting truth, "Those who betray their own blood are destined to drown in the rivers of their own deceit."
Aiyla's glare intensifies, her eyes locking onto mine with a depth that makes me question everything.
"Sometimes, the betrayer is the savior, and the savior is the betrayer. Look beyond the surface." Her words linger, carrying an air of truthfulness that leaves a trail of doubt in their wake, a hint of a hidden agenda beneath the surface.
As she stares back at me, a flitter of clemency passes through her eyes, a fleeting vulnerability that seems to beg for understanding and trust.
Before I can pry further into her cryptic message, an arm extends and knocks on the kitchen door. In steps Isotta, the head maid. She's a medium-built woman with salt-and-pepper hair elegantly coiled into a tidy bun, with a few wisps escaping to frame her face. The lines etched on her countenance speak of a life well-lived, and her eyes hold a gentle and nurturing gaze.
Her presence is an unexpected interruption, yet her eyes meet mine with a familiarity that spans almost a decade.
Isotta, had been by the side of this family in the darkest times, her kindness a constant flow in the midst of the horrors my father inflicted upon us.
But that all changed when I was eighteen and my mother had passed away. My father callously dismissed her replacing her with a younger maid, one that could satiate his appetite in more ways than one.
Aiyla reconnected with her a few years ago, and with my permission, offered her the job back, providing her a chance to return to the place where she had once been a source of comfort.
Isotta's gaze lingers on me, her expression a mixture of compassion and concern. "Miss Sabelli?" Her voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the tension that envelops the room.
Aiyla and I answer simultaneously, our voices overlapping, "Yes?"
Isotta smiles, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Her ease in our presence is a testament to the unique dynamic we share. She's not just an employee; she's someone we both, in our own ways, have come to respect and regard with a certain protectiveness.
Laughter is a foreign noise in this house, and Aiyla's subtle relaxation is palpable. However, I remain impassive, my expression giving away nothing.
Isotta reaches into her apron, retrieving a collection of elegantly designed cards. Each one represents an invitation to various events, a mix of parties, ceremonies, dinners, and gatherings, all orchestrated to celebrate and mark my return.
Among them, four invitations stand out prominently, bearing the insignias of the distinct families that form the Familia. The heads of these families extend their personal invitations, a symbolic gesture of unity and acknowledgment.
Yet, beyond the veneer of camaraderie, I couldn't help but sense an undercurrent of curiosity, an insatiable nosiness that seemed to accompany their well-wishing.
Facing Isotta, my words carry a heavy implication, "Isotta, please address me as Miss Azia, albeit informally." The weight of my request might not be immediately evident, but it held a significance beyond its surface.
From the moment my brother's tragic demise elevated me to the position of my father's eldest heir, I recognized the inevitable mantle of leadership that would eventually rest upon my shoulders.
Relentless training became my companion, each day an unbending journey towards mastering a role I never sought but was destined for. The grueling hours and unforgiving lessons shaped me, propelling me through the ranks of an organization I had never imagined being part of—preparing not just for a challenging role, but a more demanding one, given the preconceptions that came with being a woman.
Following my mother's departure, I chose to embrace her maiden name, Azia—a deliberate step away from the malevolent legacy my father left behind. However, as circumstances thrust the weight of the family's criminal empire upon me after his abrupt death, practicality dictated that I adopt the Sabelli name again. Yet, any sentimentality attributed to that name remains a mere façade, a veneer meticulously maintained for appearances.
'Azia' might seem innocuous, but beneath its surface lies a nuanced intent—a subtle commentary aimed directly at Aiyla. It accentuates the divergent trajectories our lives have embarked upon since our father's downfall.
I stood as an unwavering guardian for our mother, shielding her from the harsh blows of our father's punishments and abuse.
My role as her advocate wasn't a choice; it was an instinctive response driven by desperation and love.
It should have been the other way around—a mother sheltering her child.
I persistently demanded justice, an impassioned plea for him to treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved. n stark contrast, Aiyla assumed the role of a passive bystander, seeking refuge in our father's twisted rationalizations, willingly embracing his warped displays of discipline as a twisted form of affection.
A protector's warmth, once kindled, now lies smothered beneath the weight of an enforcer's icy embrace.
"Of course, Miss Azia," Isotta replies, her tone carrying a subtle reverence, a tacit acknowledgment of the significance behind my words. Without lingering on the topic, she brings up another concern, "I can't help but feel that you are unsettled in your bedroom. Is something wrong? Is it not up to your standards?"
I shake my head, appreciating her concern.
"If you need anything, do let me or the other maids know," she reassures.
I nod to Isotta, offering a small smile. "That will not be necessary, Isotta. I've made up my mind to move out," I assert my decision resolute.
Isotta's expression remains kind and considerate, but I catch a fleeting glimpse of concern passing through her eyes.
Beside me, Aiyla's response is understated yet revealing. A faint crease appears between her eyebrows, a momentary hint of doubt that exposes the inner workings of her mind.
She shares a swift, contemplative look with me, her countenance cautious yet brimming with intrigue. It's as though my choice to depart has ignited a series of unvoiced inquiries within her psyche. It appears I wasn't the only one harboring questions.
"Very well, Miss Azia. If you require any assistance or have further requests, please don't hesitate to let me know," Isotta responds with a gentle smile, her genuine concern evident before she takes her leave.
"Running away is your specialty, isn't it?" Aiyla's voice barbed with sharp-edged sneer, her words aimed like arrows. "Must be a new record for you, sticking around for this long."
"Apologies that blood-soaked memories does not exactly make for a cozy retreat," I retort with a bitingness, my words dripping with a bitter sarcasm. "But then again, you do seem to relish basking in the shadows of Daddy Dearest's cesspool so I suppose this place must feel like paradise to you."
I expect her to give up in defeat like most of argument but she doesn't stop there; she goes for the jugular, her tone laced with poison as she delivers her low blow, "Sooner or later, you'll realize that nothing separates you from him," her words slashing through the air like a venomous strike, attempting to rub salt to my wounds.
I flash a smirk, unflinching in the face of her words. "If I was anything like Ignacio Sabelli, I'd have you polishing my shoes with your mouth."
Unfazed by her malicious cheap shot, I maintain a nonchalant demeanor. I blow her a mocking kiss and wink. Then, I grab the file and walk off, leaving her with the last word and an acrid taste of defeat.