Chapter two

"Why!?" I collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down my cheeks, mercilessly smearing my makeup. The weight of the announcement crushed me, leaving me broken and vulnerable. I hurriedly rushed up to my room, the door quaking as I slammed it shut, a feeble attempt to shield myself from the world's harsh reality. Even amidst the solitude of my room, the pain seemed to seep through every pore.

Dima's persistent knocks echoed through the door, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions I was trying to navigate. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to answer. I lowered myself onto the cool floor, my dress fanned out around me like a shattered dream. How could a father barter his own flesh and blood in such a manner? My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, a maelstrom of questions with answers seemingly lost in the abyss.

"Olga! Open the door," my mother's voice called out from the other side, imploring me to relent. Although my instinct screamed to remain hidden, I knew that denying her would only worsen the turmoil that was already tearing me apart. Pushing myself up, I took faltering steps towards the door and turned the knob. My lips trembled as they formed a feeble smile, attempting to mask the storm within.

"Can we talk?" Her words hung in the air, a question that held more authority than any mere request. My eyes met hers, a silent agreement that I could not deny her this moment. She entered the room, her presence a mixture of understanding and sorrow. The bed creaked beneath her weight as she sat down, her countenance reflecting the gravity of the situation. Her gaze lingered on me, like that of a mourner grieving for a lost child, a child on the brink of a fate as grim as death itself.

"I know how you feel," she spoke softly, her voice carrying the weight of her own experiences. She sat there, a silent pillar of support amidst the turmoil. And as I stared into her eyes, I realized that she had lived a life burdened by the shadows of the past, one that had acquainted her with the harsh realities of the world. The phrase "marrying into the Cosa Nostra" echoed in my mind, a chilling reminder of the path that lay ahead, one fraught with danger and sacrifice.

"Why, Mom? Why am I being treated like a sacrificial lamb? It's so unjust, so utterly unfair!" My voice quivered with a mixture of frustration and anguish, tears spilling uncontrollably down my cheeks. My legs gave way beneath me, and I stumbled until I collapsed onto the bed, my sobs echoing through the room. Mom's warm hand enveloped my trembling form, her touch a gentle reassurance against the storm of emotions.

"Please, talk to father. I can't bear this. I'm just seventeen, Mom, too young to face this. Please, I beg you," I managed to choke out between sobs. It seemed that every decision in my life had been thrust upon me without consideration for my own desires. The notion that even the choice of a life partner was to be imposed upon me shattered whatever remnants of control I thought I had.

"Olga, you know changing your father's mind is impossible. And, whatever decision he makes, he believes it's for the best. You just have to..." My mother's voice trailed off as I interrupted, my frustration boiling over. "...have to accept my fate?" I snapped, wrenching myself away from her touch.

Her gaze held a sense of wistful understanding, as if she knew the battles I was fighting within myself. In a frenzy, I shook my head, a cascade of emotions swirling within me. I stood up abruptly, my heart heavy with the knowledge that her influence, her pleas, would ultimately amount to nothing. She, too, was ensnared in my father's web, a puppet dancing to his tune. The confines of her role as his wife and the unwavering grip of the Bratva's power silenced her in matters that concerned him, and especially the family's affairs. She had even been deprived of the ability to give him a male heir, adding yet another layer to her subjugation.

It was a harsh reality that nobody had the audacity to challenge the Pakhan's authority. Mother understood this all too well, choosing instead to navigate the perilous waters by remaining within the boundaries that society had carved for her. I couldn't help but wonder if my own life would mirror this silenced existence once I was wedded into this world of dominance and control. A life where my voice would be a mere whisper lost in the clamor of obedience and suppression.

My lips quivered, the weight of the moment rendering me speechless. Uncertain and apprehensive, I found myself at a loss for words. Amidst the turmoil, the only solace I had was in the cascade of tears that flowed freely down my cheeks, the one expression I was still allowed.

Like a phantom, Father entered the room, his presence commanding attention and submission. His steps were deliberate, each stride a proclamation of his authority. His expression was carved from stone, a frown etched onto his face, his gaze ablaze as it moved between my mother and me.

"How dare you leave while the celebration was in progress?" His words sliced through the air, seething with anger and frustration. Approaching me, he struck my cheek with a forceful slap, the sound echoing like a bitter symphony. My ear rang with a dissonant melody, and I instinctively clutched my stinging cheek, tears mingling with the pain.

My mother attempted to interject, to utter a defense, but his raised hand and withering stare silenced her instantly. She bowed her head, submissive, resembling more of a servant than a partner. The scene unveiled before me bore a chilling familiarity, leaving me to ponder if my fate would mirror this dynamic when I stepped into my married life.

"Speak!" His voice thundered like a storm, the force of it rattling me to my core. Goosebumps prickled across my skin as I quivered under the weight of his rage. My body trembled as he closed the distance between us, a mix of dread and anticipation engulfing me.

"I don't want to marry yet. I'm only seventeen, Father," I managed to summon the courage to voice my truth, disregarding the throbbing ache from the slap. His face remained an impassive mask, unmoved by my plea. Instead, his features grew colder, his brows knitting together in a fierce display of disapproval. The room seemed to shrink, the tension almost palpable as I held my ground, my heart pounding like a trapped bird against the cage of my ribs.

"You are marrying Antonio Luca, and that's the end of it. Consider yourself fortunate to become a part of the Cosa Nostra family. Your safety and security are assured there. Now is not the time for selfishness. This marriage is necessary, and you must comply. Don't fret; he's aware of your age, and he's content with it. Since you're practically useless to me in other ways, the least you can do is be of use in this alliance," he pronounced with a tone that struck like a lash. The word "selfish" reverberated in my mind, its sting lancing through my emotions. It was as if the pot was calling the kettle black, casting blame without acknowledging his own actions.

"I don't even know him! Father, I'm not ready," I pleaded through my tears, my heart aching with a pain that seemed unbearable.

"Your opinion doesn't matter, Olga. You are marrying Antonio, and there's no room for discussion. Your gender has proven useless to me already, so perhaps now you can serve a purpose by contributing to this alliance. End of story," he declared, his voice resonating with finality. His words were like a sledgehammer to my heart, causing fresh tears to surge forth. And then, in that moment, it became clear to me.

He fixed me with a final, stern gaze before hurriedly leaving the room, the door left wide open in his wake. My mother's gaze held a mixture of empathy and helplessness as she shook her head sadly. Her hand reached out, a gesture of comfort, but I instinctively withdrew, creating a distance between us. Slowly, she withdrew her hand and exited the room, leaving me to grapple with the harsh reality of my impending fate.

Alone in the room, I felt the weight of the world pressing down on me. My destiny had been sealed, my protests falling on deaf ears. The door stood open like a portal to my uncertain future, a future where my desires and dreams would be subjugated to the whims of tradition and power. As I sat there, enveloped in a suffocating silence, I couldn't help but wonder if the tears and anguish I felt now were a mere precursor to the life of silence and submission that awaited me.

"Ah!" My scream pierced the air, an eruption of raw emotion as I unleashed my anger upon the bed. Each punch I delivered was a release of pent-up frustration, my tears mingling with the fabric beneath my fists. Father's cutting words echoed relentlessly in my mind, an unshakable chorus that played on repeat, like a taunt that cut deeper with each iteration. His perpetual reminder of my perceived uselessness had always stung, but this time, it felt like a wound that festered and refused to heal.

I dropped to my knees on the floor, my body half-leaning onto the bed, my arms outstretched in a gesture of desperation. Father's disdain for my existence, particularly my gender, had never been a secret, but hearing it spoken aloud by him was a new level of pain to bear.

After minutes of silent tears, I allowed my gaze to wander around my dim, lifeless room. An idea sparked within me, and I moved toward the edge of the room where my piano stood. It was my sanctuary, the only refuge that could momentarily lift the heaviness from my heart. Taking a seat, I let my hands rest on my thighs before lifting my right hand and gently pressing it onto the piano keys. The notes of Franz Liszt's "Liebestraum No. 3 As-dur" flowed from my fingertips, each key a vessel for my emotions.

The music became my voice, a medium through which I poured my pain, frustration, and sadness. I played, my fingers dancing across the keys, the melody resonating in the quiet room. It was a bittersweet connection, the only means by which I could momentarily escape the confines of my reality.

Then, a warm sensation enveloped my waist, a tender grasp that sent shivers down my spine. A soft kiss was planted on my neck, and I knew without looking that it was Dima. The sensation halted my playing instantly; I knew his presence all too well. "Dima," I whispered, my voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and relief as I turned to face him, our lips meeting in a kiss that offered a brief respite from the turmoil that surrounded me.