Growing up in the mafia was stress. Not the kind of stress that comes from exams or broken hearts. No—this was the kind that smelled of gunpowder, rang with sirens, and left your hands trembling long after the room went silent.
I was ten the first time I realized what it truly meant to belong to this family.
We were leaving a meeting late at night. My father's hand gripped mine tightly as we walked toward the car. He looked calm, but I knew better. The stillness in his eyes was the same as the calm before a storm.
Then it happened.
I felt the gunshot go off before I heard it.
The burn tore across the air, a sound so sharp it split the night apart. My father shoved me to the ground, his body shielding mine as shouts erupted around us.
Blood sprayed across the pavement. Not mine, not his—someone else's. But the scent of it clung to me, thick, metallic, unforgettable.
That night, I learned what silence after chaos feels like. The silence of bodies that don't rise again. The silence of debts repaid in blood.
From then on, stress became my shadow. I carried it in every breath, every glance over my shoulder. I carried it the day I walked away from this house years ago.
And now… standing here again, trapped in an engagement I didn't choose, I felt that same weight pressing down on me.
Elena's voice pulled me back from the memory.
"You look pale," she murmured, studying me.
I forced a laugh, bitter and hollow. "I was just remembering. The kind of life you've agreed to marry into."
Her gaze didn't waver. "And you think mine was any different?"
The way she said it made my chest tighten. For the first time, I wondered what ghosts she carried, and what kind of gunfire had burned her childhood too.