A double Life

Ten days before auction

ELENA

“You know what your problem is, Elena?” His voice was rough. “You’ve got no ambition. None. Look at you—what are you even good for, huh?”

I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. Instead, I let my eyes wander to the chipped paint on the wall behind him. This house—this life—was falling apart in slow motion in front of me.

I watched the morning light stream in through the cracked window, illuminating the dining room in all its neglected glory. Dust clung to the surface of the table like it belonged there, a permanent resident of the De Luca estate.

Lorenzo De Luca, my father, sat slumped in his chair, legs on the table, his robe barely tied over his sunken chest, his hair sticking up in greasy tufts. A half-empty glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, and his eyes, bloodshot and bleary, narrowed on me as if my very existence was offensive.

I sat across from him, hands folded neatly in my lap, dressed in my usual modest blouse and slacks. To anyone watching, I was the picture of a dutiful daughter, silent and attentive.

Inside, though? Inside, I was wondering how many hours were left until I could escape to my room and pretend this circus didn’t exist. Or maybe calculate how many bottles of whiskey it would take for him to finally drink himself unconscious. Or to death. Honestly, I wasn’t picky.

“I manage the accounts, Papa,” I said softly, not meeting his gaze for reasons. “I make sure the estate—”

“The estate,” he spat on the floor, slamming the glass onto the table, spilling a few amber drops. “This estate’s a goddamn mausoleum. You think balancing a few books is going to save it? Save us?” He laughed bitterly. “You couldn’t even find me a decent investor. Nor are you beautiful enough to attract someone rich. What kind of daughter I fathered?”

The kind who’s been covering your gambling debts for years, I thought but didn’t say for reasons. The kind who’s been planning her escape from this hellhole for just as long.

“I’ve reached out to a few people,” I offered instead. “We might have some leads soon.”

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “As if anyone would waste their time on a De Luca. You’re useless, Elena. Useless!”

I stayed silent. Experience had taught me that when Lorenzo De Luca started monologuing, interrupting only prolonged the misery.

I was lost in my thoughts, mentally tallying our unpaid debts when the sound of his chair scraping against the floor snapped me out of it. And then, before I could even brace myself, the back of his hand connected with my face.

The reasons?

Right.

That’s what I was talking about.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. I sat there, staring at the blurred patterns on our faded carpet, waiting for him to sit back down.

He didn’t.

“Clean this up,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the mess he had made, before stumbling out of the room.

The estate had once been grand, or so I’d been told. Now it was a monument of decay–peeling wallpaper, crumbling plaster, and broken promises. My mother’s once-pristine garden was now an overgrown tangle of weeds, wild roses strangling the life out of her hydrangeas. And the fountain in the center? Dry, cracked, and as dead as everything else around here.

I cleaned the whiskey, rinsed his glass, and ran through the task list of the day. There were accounts to balance, bills to defer, and another round of debt collectors to placate. It was all a carefully constructed charade, a role I played to perfection. To the world, I was the quiet, loyal daughter of Lorenzo De Luca, holding the family together through sheer grit.

But that wasn’t the truth.

By the time I retreated to my bedroom, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the estate. My sanctuary awaited—hidden behind a false wall, my room transformed into a high-tech command center. Here, I wasn’t Lorenzo’s daughter. I wasn’t anyone’s pawn. Here, I was the Cipher.

Monitors flickered to life as I powered up my system. Lines of code danced across the screens, encrypted networks connecting me to the underworld’s elite. My website—a black-market hub for the kind of people who needed information and were willing to pay for it—pinged with new requests.

A notification caught my eye: a high-paying task worth $10 million.

I clicked on it, scanning the details. A notorious drug lord needed information on a rival’s recent shipment—dates, locations, routes. The terms were clear: accuracy was paramount. If the data was wrong, I’d owe five times the price.

I clicked Accept.

The rush of the hack was familiar, like an old friend. My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing firewalls and encryption layers as if they were tissue paper. I infiltrated the drug lord’s private server, extracting shipping schedules, port locations, and coded instructions.

A few clicks, a few keystrokes, and I had what I needed to send off to the client.

Moments later, my account pinged with a credit. $10 million, locked until the client confirmed the data. Not that I was worried. My reputation was spotless for a reason.

Leaning back in my chair, I allowed myself a rare moment of satisfaction. The money wasn’t just a number—it was freedom. Freedom from this house, from my father, from the entire world of broken promises and shattered dreams.

The rest of the evening was spent finalizing my escape. I transferred funds to an untraceable offshore account, purchased forged documents for a new identity, and double-checked every detail.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to imagine what life could be, once I was free. No Lorenzo. No mafia. Just me, rebuilding my life on my own terms.

But as I stared at the glowing screens, a hollow ache settled in my chest. What was freedom without someone to share it with?

I shook the thought away. Attachments were dangerous. Love was a liability.

The only thing I needed was freedom.

And I was so close I could almost taste it.

Just 1 more week and I’ll be free.