3: So Much Pain

[Enora]

Nikolai Lantsov was killable, and that was all I needed to know.

He was like every other egotistical man in the mafia world, looking down on women and feeling impenetrable. Too bad his death would be at the hands of a woman—me.

I’d probably thank him before I killed him; I’d always hated my long hair because my papa had a weird obsession with it. When drunk, he’d call me Isabella.

Was that my mother’s name? If he loved her, why ensure I had nothing to remember her by?

Nikolai’s pale blue eyes and large frame filled my mind. I’d sworn never to get blood on my own hands, but if it meant ridding New York of a tyrant, I’d have a blood bath.

My father was just as bad, but I couldn’t kill him—not yet. First, I’d use his power to destroy Nikolai.

Ricco’s death confirmed Nikolai wasn’t immortal. Loyal to papa for 27 years, Ricco deserved more than a simple *okay* before papa sent me a second job: a mother and her son, Pedro.

As the breeze carried the scent of roses, I imagined a world where I planted gardens and played with dolls instead of learning how to kill.

I opened my eyes as I heard silent sobs and footsteps. My papa’s men threw the mother and son in front of me, ruining my peace as the roses faded into the smell of corpses and shattered brains. It made me nauseous.

I hate this life.

The mother crawled to her son, wrapping him protectively in her arms. He stared at me with brown eyes that sparkled under the dim moonlight. I imagined if that was what a mother’s love felt like.

Protective.

Sacrificial.

“Who are you? What do you want from us?”

Her voice was shaky as she clutched her son, glaring like a mama bear. Too bad the guns pointed at her would do far more damage than claws ever could.

I wanted to pronounce their time of death and leave, but one glance at them—the boy’s innocent eyes, the mother’s sadness—froze me. She didn’t even know her husband was dead.

“I am sorry… Goodbye.” That was all I could say. My father’s men cocked their guns.

“Please, let my son go.” Her plea was desperate.

I couldn’t take it, it weighed too heavily on my heart. “Don’t shoot! Don’t fucking shoot.”

Confusion covered the men’s faces. “I’ll shoot you if you fucking shoot.”

The disgust I’d felt for myself and my papa rushed to my throat. I bent over and puked.

The last time I puked was at ten when my papa forced me to watch him rip out a man’s throat. When I looked away, he made me sleep outside in a pool.

Enzo still had his gun pointed at the mother and son. My body moved on its own. I grabbed his gun.

“Shoot at them and you’re dead.”

Enzo scoffed. “What the fuck are you doing, bitch?”

I raised his gun at him. “Call me a bitch one more time and that will be the last word you say.”

Reluctance flickered in his eyes. “I don’t work for you, ragazzina. I work for your father.”

“My words stand in my father’s absence.” I cocked the gun. “You think I won’t kill you? Try me.”

We stared each other down. After five minutes, he scoffed, “I’m only letting this go because of your papa.” He nodded to the other men, and they retreated to the car.

“Leave this city, and never come back,” I said to the mother without meeting her gaze.

“Thank you,” she muttered tearfully.

I didn’t reply. My thoughts shifted to how I’d explain this to my father—and my hair. He’d mourn it more than me if I died trying to kill Nikolai.

Two hours later, the car pulled up to the old Patrizio manor, more haunted castle than mansion. Despite living here since childhood, its eerie presence always gave me chills. I rushed inside.

Animalistic moans greeted me. I climbed the stairs to the foyer, knowing what and who it was. I knocked lightly before twisting the silver handle and stepping into the dimly lit room.

A trail of clothes led to the living room, where a woman was riding my papa like her life depended on it. She was the fifth this week, and it was only Wednesday.

“Papa.”

She stopped, glaring at me before smiling seductively. As she dressed, she bounced her breasts deliberately, winking as she passed me.

I turned on the light when I was sure my papa had dressed. He grabbed a bottle of liquor, poured himself a drink, and sat in his chair—the same one that had seen more naked women than a male p**n star’s dick.

“Come here, child,” he said, his calm voice laced with quiet menace.

I approached cautiously and squatted in front of him. His hand ran through my hair, his eyes dark with disapproval.

He hated my new haircut, but I loved it. When Nikolai chopped off half my hair, he thought he was punishing me. Instead, he’d given me a gift.

Papa’s dark eyes lingered on my hair for a while before he grabbed my chin, gently at first, like he always did to reward me when I obeyed his order like the good, obedient bitch he’d trained me to be. Then his grasp tightened, his rough arm digging into my skin.

“Figlia mia.” (My child.) “You disobeyed me.”

My chest squeezed instantly, pressing my heart together as my blood ceased to pump.

“It is not like that, Papa.”

I hadn’t thought of an excuse, I hadn’t thought of anything, but then it wouldn’t matter what I told him, his ego would dominate any explanation I could muster to give him.

“Of course, it isn’t.”

There was venom edging in his tone as he spoke, as if he was cursing me somewhere in his mind for not being a son who would inherit his bloody throne after him.

Sometimes when Papa looked at me like that, I too felt regret for not being a son, but other times, I was glad I wouldn’t end up becoming the same monster he was.

Because I was not a son, I was a daughter.

A daughter who will put an end to this bloody underworld of ours.

He removed his hand from my hair, grabbed his glass of whiskey, and stood up.

“Entra.” (Come in.)

The back door opened and servants rushed in with bowls and a kettle with steam pouring out of its stout.

I flew to my feet, wanting to let the anger in my heart pour out as tears, but holding it back because I couldn’t afford to show any weakness.

My papa had an odd satisfaction whenever he was causing pain to someone else—I couldn’t give him that satisfaction, so I stiffly watched as the servants filled the bowls with water.

I didn’t wait for him to tell me to step inside, I’d stopped waiting for him to ask when I was twelve.

Hotness raged against my feet as they met the water.

A scream stalled in my throat and tears clouded my vision.

Pain, there was pain in my feet, but somehow, it was nothing compared to the one in my heart. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and absorbed it all.

The water started to cool after ten minutes. I stepped out as per my papa’s instructions and waited for the servants to refill the bowl with another kettle of boiling water before stepping back in again.

The cycle continued for an hour before he decided I’d had enough punishment for the night.

I glanced at the white clock hanging above the hearth. It was thirty minutes past eleven, almost midnight. I stepped out of the water with my feet sore and soft, as if they would peel off if I stepped on them with too much pressure, or maybe just melt like a candle.

I remember that the first time he made me step into hot water, I’d cried so much and been in so much pain that I crawled up to my room afterward, and I could barely walk for weeks.

I was still in so much pain, but I’d grown tough enough that I could hide my pain inside and walk away without a single tear dropping.

“Enora,” he called out to me when I reached the staircase. I swiveled to face him, careful not to cause further damage to my cooked feet.

Remorse or regret was an even worse enemy that never had a place in my father’s heart as only darkness gloomed in his eyes.

“I signed a contract today.” He sipped his liquor.

And his next words sent my spine chilling and my heart…sinking.

“You’re getting married.”