~10~

Carmela Russo's pov~

I slam the door so hard the sound bounces off the marble floors and rattles the chandelier overhead. One of the maids peeks out from the kitchen — wide-eyed, frozen — but I don't even look at her. Let them all watch. Let them see the cracks in this perfect palace.

"Papa!" I shout, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife. My fists are clenched so tight they shake.

I hear him before I see him — calm footsteps on marble, each one deliberate. When he appears at the top of the grand staircase, he's exactly as he always is: impeccable suit, silver cufflinks, hair slicked back, the perfect image of power and control. My father — the man who can bend governments but can't be bothered to listen to his own daughter.

"Where were you?" he asks, his tone soft but sharp enough to cut. To him, this is just another inconvenience to manage.

"I don't care where I was," I snap. The rage inside me feels too big for my skin. "I care about what you did."

He watches me descend on him like I'm some stray animal tracking mud through his perfect house. "Lower your voice," he says, glancing past me at the staff lingering in doorways. "You're making a spectacle."

"Good!" I shout, throwing my arms wide. "Let them see! Let them all see what the great Mr.  Nico really is — a man who sells his own daughter to the mafia like she's a thing to trade!"

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. "You don't understand the weight of this family's name—"

"I am the name!" I hiss, stepping closer. "I am what you built your empire on — a perfect daughter for your perfect life. And now you want to trade me away for more money, more protection, more power. Do you think I'm blind?"

"Enough." His voice drops lower, that warning tone that used to make me shrink when I was little. But I'm not little anymore. And I don't shrink. Not tonight.

"I hate you," I whisper. It's the worst thing I've ever said to him. I see the flicker in his eyes — anger, maybe pain — but it disappears so fast I almost think I imagined it.

He reaches for me, but I twist away from his hand like it burns. "Don't touch me." My voice cracks. The rage breaks, crumbles into something raw and shaky. I can feel the tears coming, but not here — I won't let him see me cry.

I spin on my heel and run — up the grand staircase, down the hallway lined with portraits of dead men who look just like him. I hear him call my name but I don't stop. My feet leave wet footprints on the marble but I don't care.

I slam my bedroom door behind me and lock it, pressing my back against it like that thin piece of wood can keep all of him out. My chest is heaving. The chandelier above my bed sways slightly as if the house itself is shaking with me.

I slide down to the floor, my wet hair clinging to my cheeks. I cover my mouth with my hand so no one outside can hear the sob that rips out of me. The fight leaks out of me all at once — I feel so small. So trapped.

I crawl to my bed and bury myself in the heavy blankets. I press my face into the pillow to muffle the sobs. My shoulders shake until they ache, until my throat is raw and my eyes sting.

He's downstairs right now, probably already making new plans. He'll twist my words into something small and foolish. He'll pour himself a drink and sleep like a baby while I lie here with my heart cracked wide open.

I curl tighter under the blankets, clutching them like they can hold me together. I hate him. I hate this house. I hate the beautiful prison he built for me.

Eventually, the crying fades to hiccups and silence. The storm outside beats against the windows, but I'm too tired to care. I bury my face deeper into the pillow. My eyes sting. My head throbs.

Tomorrow, I'll have to face him again. Tomorrow, he'll still expect me to smile for the cameras and play the good daughter. But tonight — just tonight — I don't have to be strong.

Tonight, I can fall apart. And tomorrow... tomorrow, maybe I'll figure out how to fight again.