Chapter 6
The drive from the airport to my childhood home felt like moving through a dream I’d half–forgotten. The further we got from the city, the quieter everything became. No more noise. No more orders barked across rooms or footsteps coming down the hall that made my heart
freeze.
Just trees. Fields. Open air. And then–gates.
The old estate looked the same as I remembered. Maybe even cleaner. Guards lined the driveway, sharp in black uniforms, still as statues. They didn’t speak, just nodded once when the car passed. This wasn’t the kind of place where anyone asked questions. If you were here, it was
for a reason.
The house was massive. Stone and ivy and age. It didn’t scream money–it whispered it. Old wealth. The kind that didn’t need to prove itself.
When I stepped out of the car, I felt eyes on me. The guards. The windows. The ghosts. All watching. And then I saw him.
My father.
Angelo stood on the top of the front steps like some weathered king. Older now–his white hair combed back, his eyes a little darker, maybe deeper–but still standing like a soldier. His hands behind his back. Chest out. Mafia blood, through and through.
But when I got close enough, he didn’t speak. He just opened his arms.I walked into them.
He held me. Tight. Like I’d never left. Like nothing in the world could get between us now. No words. Just that solid embrace I hadn’t felt since I was nineteen. I could smell the same cologne -pine, smoke, and something older. I think I melted a little. Just for a second.
Then came my brothers. Matteo and Enzo. Both older now, taller than I remembered, bulkier too. Enzo had scars down his neck. Matteo still had that lazy smirk, but his eyes were wet. Matteo grinned, pulled me into a hug. “Welcome back, sis. Finally, you’re here.”
Enzo wrapped his arms around us both. “Took you long enough.”
For the first time in years, I felt like I hadn’t completely disappeared.
That night, I slept in my old bedroom. The sheets smelled of lavender and time. My old journals were still tucked on the shelf. Someone had dusted them.
The next night, my father called for a formal dinner.
He didn’t ask. He summoned.
Old friends showed up–people I hadn’t seen in decades. Men in sharp suits. Women with diamonds heavy around their necks. Everyone dressed like it was still the golden age of power. I wore black. Simple. Clean. I didn’t want to impress them. I just wanted to be myself again. The dining room was full of whispers. I heard them even before I sat down.
“She’s thinner than I remember.”
“Looks older than she should.”
“Abuse does that.”
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“That’s what happens when you choose the wrong man over your blood.”
“She lost three decades chasing love.”
“Sad thing is… love didn’t chase her back.”
It stung. But I didn’t flinch.
I kept my head up. Sat beside my father like I belonged there–because I did.
I didn’t touch much of the food. I wasn’t hungry. Not for lamb or wine or whatever delicacies th chefs had prepared. I just stared at the silverware. It gleamed too much. Everything felt to perfect.
Then my father’s voice cut through the murmurs.
“I never disowned you, Doris,” he said calmly, looking right at me. The table went still. “I watche your suffering from afar. Every year. Every bruise. Every silence. I saw it all.”
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. His words were louder than any shout.
“I didn’t stop you. Not because I didn’t care. But because I was waiting. Waiting for the day you would choose yourself.”
That broke me.
Right there at the table, I slid off my chair and dropped to my knees beside him. I didn’t care whc was watching. Let them stare. Let them whisper again. I pressed my face against his lap and
cried.
Not quiet tears. Not soft ones.
Ugly sobbing. The kind that rips through your chest and leaves your bones aching. My father didn’t speak. Just ran his hand slowly through my hair like he used to when I was a girl afraid of
thunder.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
And in that moment, I knew. I wasn’t broken. I was just finding my way back.
It was past midnight when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The room was dark, quiet, heavy with the smell of old wood and memories.
I rolled over and stared at the screen. Lester.
My thumb hovered for a second. I could’ve ignored it. But I didn’t.
I answered.
“Ma?” His voice was casual, but there was something under it. Confusion, maybe. Tension. “Did you block Dad?”
I didn’t say anything.
He went on. “He’s pissed. He said he tried texting and it didn’t go through. What’s going on?”
Still, I stayed quiet.
Lester sighed, and his voice shifted–just slightly. That edge. “Why would you do that? He wants to talk to you.”
I sat up, rubbed my temple. “Lester, don’t-”
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But he cut me off. “Wait–he wants to talk. I’m putting him on.”
“Lester, no-”
Too late.
Edmund’s voice slithered through the speaker. Smooth. Smug. “Still sulking, Doris?” he drawled like it was a punchline at a cocktail party. “You always were dramatic. God forbid anyone taps your cheek and suddenly it’s abuse, right?”
A pause. Then a chuckle. “You made such a scene. One slap. One. And now you’re what–some tragic heroine with a vendetta?”
I clenched the blanket tighter. My fingers were going numb.
“You know what your problem is?” he continued, voice rising just enough to bruise. “You think pain makes you special. Like you’re the first woman to get corrected. Grow up. That was discipline. You crossed the line and I reminded you where it was.”
The wall blurred in front of me. I didn’t blink.
“And now you block me? Me?” A low, cold laugh. “After everything I’ve done for you. You think you can just cut me off? You’re mine, Doris. You’ve always been mine.”
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