Six years later.
Tuscany, Italy.
Solana
The last time I'd been in the church was when I was a baby. My parents were not religious, but Mother had wanted me to have a baptism. It was held in this same cathedral, and Mother told me how proud she felt holding me close to her bosom as she followed the priest to the altar. How afraid, yet confident, that Father walked beside her. How a massive crowd of friends and business associates had turned out, just for me.
I would always be her favorite child. Always.
Shortly after my baptism, my father tended his resignation letter to Steele Corp — the app developing company he'd worked in for thirty solid years, and struck out on his own, with the help of Norman Stravkos; who became his new master. He stopped going to church, started sleeping around town with girls, and treated my mother like shit. All for the money. All for the fame. All for the glory. All for everything that would ruin him and his generations to come.
Today, as I followed his casket to the front of the church, I tried to conjure up remorse. A little guilt for the gruesome way he died. I wasn't sure if the details of how his body had been squashed in the upturned, burning vehicle would ever leave my head, but I didn't mind. A little part of me felt relief. With him gone, Mother could start her life anew. With him gone, there'd be no more chaos. No more senseless deals with rivals that'd cost him the lives of his daughters and cousins in the future. No more greedy alliances.
Black lace hid my face, so I could survey the crowd that had gathered to pay their last respects without them seeing me. The pews stood empty until we reached the front rows, where fifteen were occupied. Twenty-five mourners on the right — my whole family — and double that amount on the left. Did soldiers and tall, rude men in black suits and goofy goggles count as mourners too? Because that was what the Stravkos had brought with them. Their whole shady entourage.
I ignored them, my attention instead arrested by the twenty-five sourly-looking faces on my right. As a nefarious drug dealer, my father had gathered more enemies than friends in the last couple of years, so it wasn't surprising for me to note that out of the twenty-five persons, there were only two new faces I'd not seen before. The rest were family — my mother, uncles, aunts, and cousins. My uncles and male cousins didn't sit with them presently though. They were carrying my father's coffin.
As the procession edged closer to the altar, I exhaled, preparing myself to see his face. The face of the spineless man, who five years ago, had sat beside me in a cold, sterile room and signed a contract, declaring his ownership of me. Ownership he didn't want, but was too much of a chicken to go against his father. The contract had filled in the position of a vow. A marriage vow. The only difference was that instead of the promise to love, protect and cherish me for the rest of our lives, there'd been a strong assertion to protect and keep me in line. Words that made me feel like a property, then a bride. Words that haunted my dreams. Words that fuelled my hate.
It was a contract of perpetual slavery. My life to spare my family. To keep our bloodline alive, and free from the wrath of the Stravkos that was waxing eternal. I was the sacrificial lamb. The trophy of victory over the Williams. The Stravkos got a good kick out of letting everyone in Tuscany know that at last, they owned the Williams princess. That there were conquerers in an age-long petty feud.
I loathed the Stravkos family. They were heartless monsters. They deserved nothing but anguish, misery, and suffering.
The procession came to a halt. My mother stood up to join us, followed closely by my elder sister Helen. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat when Mother took my hand in hers, her sorrow washing over me, making my eyes water. But I wasn't crying because I understood her pain. I was crying because finally, she was free. From a selfish, cheating husband. From a man who had done nothing but shows just how much he didn't deserve her.
She was free at last.
Helen squeezed my shoulder softly from behind, but I didn't dare look back. I should've expected to see her today of all days. Of course, she wouldn't miss Father's funeral for the world. She was his favorite, after all, even though their relationship had gone sour later on. I looked down at the handsome little boy clutching my dress — her son, Frank. He giggled, exposing two, shimmering white incisors. He couldn't be more than three years old and was completely adorable.
My heart twisted with the painful reminder that I wouldn't get to have a cute child like him. At least, not with a Stravkos.
Over my dead body.
Nine pallbearers lowered my father's coffin onto the wide, spacious table. Mother had insisted that it should be a closed-casket funeral — no viewing— due to father's burnt skin.
My cousins turned to me. They'd turned out to be full-fledged men in so little time. I didn't blame them. Growing up in an emotionally troubled household did that to you. Wayne, Uncle Jethro's — my father's immediate elder brother — oldest son looked past me, his gaze settling on my sister. His eyes, a soft, grass green I remembered from childhood had taken a deeper shade. I watched, wishing I could swivel around and take a good look at my sister. Observe just how much she'd grown as well, see what her eyes silently communicated to Wayne. But I didn't, and Wayne's eyes shifted to me at last.
Through the lace shielding my face, our eyes locked. I couldn't tell if he could see the anger, betrayal, and pain swirling in my eyes. He subtly raised a hand and gave a small wave, and I wondered, fleetingly, if anyone saw him. He could be shot on the spot for it. The Stravkos family had no time for dialogue. They were that cruel.
And I was sure as hell that they did see Wayne.
A figure moved into my periphery and cleared his throat. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at once, fear slicing through my veins, but I managed to put up an air of indifference. I already knew who it was. Heart pounding, I turned to face him casually.
Abel Montes Stravkos.
My gaze raked over his sharp appearance, memories flooding in. I remembered him. We'd only met once, but he'd stayed, tucked away in memory. Only now he appeared bigger, the posh Armani suit he had on stretching over muscle, his chest broader, his arms thicker. I leveled my eyes on his neck, willing myself to look up at his face.
He'd sat there that day, saying nothing as his father and doctor humiliated me. I'd laid on that cold floor begging, urging him with my eyes to save me. To do something. To man up. But he didn't. He'd sat there, watched me struggle, watched me cry my eyes out as they took away every ounce of my dignity.
It was unforgivable.
Even though he didn't want to get bound to me, he'd done nothing to stop it. He was twice as guilty, even though he didn't have any control over the situation. He'd become the head one day, just like his father. He'd rule with an iron fist as well. He'd be a much bigger monster. A much more disgusting predator.
A devil.
One I'd vowed to destroy six years ago.