Ten days before auction
ELENA POV
"You know what your problem is, Elena?" His voice is rough. "You've got no ambition. None. Look at you—what are you even good for, huh?"
I don't flinch. Not anymore. Instead, I let my eyes wander to the chipped paint on the wall behind him. This house—this life—is falling apart in slow motion in front of me.
I watch the morning light stream in through the cracked window, illuminating the dining room in all its neglected glory. Dust clings to the surface of the table like it belongs there, a permanent resident of the De Luca estate.
Lorenzo De Luca, my father, sits 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 dangles from his fingers, and his eyes, bloodshot and bleary, narrow on me as if my very existence is offensive.
I sit across from him, hands folded neatly in my lap, dressed in my usual modest blouse and slacks. To anyone watching, I'm the picture of a dutiful daughter, silent and attentive.
Inside, though? Inside, I wonder how many hours are left until I can escape to my room and pretend this circus doesn'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'm not picky.
"I manage the accounts, Papa," I say softly, not meeting his gaze for reasons. "I make sure the estate—"
"The estate," he spits 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 laughs bitterly. "You couldn't even find me a decent investor. Nor are you beautiful enough to attract someone rich. What kind of daughter have I fathered?"
The kind who's been covering your gambling debts for years, I think but don'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 offer instead. "We might have some leads soon."
He scoffs, leaning back in his chair. "As if anyone would waste their time on a De Luca. You're useless, Elena. Useless!"
I stay silent. Experience has taught me that when Lorenzo De Luca starts monologuing, interrupting only prolongs the misery.
I'm lost in my thoughts, mentally tallying our unpaid debts when the sound of his chair scraping against the floor snaps me out of it. And then, before I can even brace myself, the back of his hand connects with my face.
The reasons?
Right.
That's what I'm talking about.
I don't flinch. Don't cry. I sit there, staring at the blurred patterns on our faded carpet, waiting for him to sit back down.
He doesn't.
"Clean this up," he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the mess he made, before stumbling out of the room.
The estate had once been grand, or so I'd been told. Now it's a monument of decay—peeling wallpaper, crumbling plaster, and broken promises. My mother's once-pristine garden is 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 clean the whiskey, rinse his glass, and run through the task list of the day. There are accounts to balance, bills to defer, and another round of debt collectors to placate. It's all a carefully constructed charade, a role I play to perfection. To the world, I'm the quiet, loyal daughter of Lorenzo De Luca, holding the family together through sheer grit.
But that isn't the truth.
By the time I retreat to my bedroom, the sun has dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the estate. My sanctuary awaits—hidden behind a false wall, my room transformed into a high-tech command center. Here, I'm not Lorenzo's daughter. I'm not anyone's pawn. Here, I'm Cipher.
Monitors flicker to life as I power up my system. Lines of code dance across the screens, encrypted networks connecting me to the underworld's elite. My website—a black-market hub for the kind of people who need information and are willing to pay for it—pings with new requests.
A notification catches my eye: a high-paying task worth $10 million.
I click on it, scanning the details. A notorious drug lord needs information on a rival's recent shipment—dates, locations, routes. The terms are clear: accuracy is paramount. If the data is wrong, I'd owe five times the price.
I click Accept.
The rush of the hack is familiar, like an old friend. My fingers fly across the keyboard, bypassing firewalls and encryption layers as if they were tissue paper. I infiltrate the drug lord's private server, extracting shipping schedules, port locations, and coded instructions.
A few clicks, a few keystrokes, and I have what I need to send off to the client.
Moments later, my account pings with a credit. $10 million, locked until the client confirms the data. Not that I'm worried. My reputation is spotless for a reason.
Leaning back in my chair, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction. The money isn't just a number—it's freedom. Freedom from this house, from my father, from the entire world of broken promises and shattered dreams.
The rest of the evening is spent finalizing my escape. I transfer funds to an untraceable offshore account, purchase forged documents for a new identity, and double-check every detail.
For the first time in years, I allow myself to imagine what life could be once I'm free. No Lorenzo. No mafia. Just me, rebuilding my life on my own terms.
But as I stare at the glowing screens, a hollow ache settles in my chest. What is freedom without someone to share it with?
I shake the thought away. Attachments are dangerous. Love is a liability.
The only thing I need is freedom.
And I'm so close I can almost taste it.
Just one more week and I'll be free.