Mia Figlia

Chapter 48 ✔️

Trigger: Child abuse

PoV Stella

The warm sand trickled through my fingers and the fresh sea breeze caressed my skin. The steady sound of the waves evoked memories of a time long forgotten. When my life was fine, I was protected and loved. My mother had gone to the beach with me before the disease drained her, weakened her too much. Even when she fell ill, she showered me with her love and care. Her death changed my life. Motionless, I stared at the sea where Isabella frolicked with Riccardo. She splashed him wet, and he pretended to be mortally wounded. Her laughter echoed across the deserted beach that belonged to our family. As much as it warmed my heart, I did not feel like laughing.

It had been like this ever since we arrived in Sicily. I missed working for the family. The management of the casinos and restaurants had given me a meaningful occupation. Now that that was no longer the case, carefully suppressed emotions that had previously been simmering just a little below the surface were boiling up. Since the meeting and the death of Riccardo's mother. My stepmother was such a manipulative and bitter bitch.

The wind swirled around me, showering my back with sand. Silently grumbling, I wiped at it, since it scratched across my scars. The cursed signs of her hatred. She had solely wanted my father's money, but not a child. Neither one of her own, which would mess up one's figure, as she had always so kindly expressed herself. Nor a child brought into the marriage. I closed my eyes in resignation. In the back of my mind, the memories piled up dooming, like an approaching thunderstorm. Like a tsunami, the emotions that had been suppressed for more than a decade threatened to wash over me. Why couldn't she love me? I had done her no harm. I had merely been a desperate girl who had lost her mother and wanted to be cared for.

Sighing, I stretched out on the blanket and brought my breathing in line with the sound of the waves. Why was I torturing myself with memories? The past was just that, past. The present and the future, on the other hand, held so much that was beautiful and worth living for me. A loving husband, a wonderful daughter, and my son, who grew a little more inside me every day. I gently ran my fingers over my belly. My innocent boy. He would experience all the love that had been denied to his father. Just like we did with Isabella, we would protect him, spoil him, and help him grow into a strong person.

The knowledge of raising the next don of the family weighed heavy on my conscience. Although I was now to blame for the deaths of two people, even though Riccardo had literally forced me to commit the first murder, I disliked the idea that my own child might later be accountable for the untimely deaths of dozens of people. Damn. Even Isabella would willingly follow in her beloved father's footsteps.

The scene from a few days ago crept agonizingly slowly before my inner eye and remained there. My sweet daughter with a gun in her hand, proudly proclaiming that she would soon be big enough to protect her little brother. Riccardo, standing there with his chest out and his head held high, wavering between pride and fear that something might happen to her. Nevertheless, he continued to train her in the use of her little Beretta Pico, which she guarded like the apple of her eye not only because of its pink grip. I swallowed the rising nausea. My girl was growing up way too fast. Once again, I turned my attention to the sound of the waves. Slowly, the images in my head faded and a pleasant, warm calm took possession of my thoughts and my body.

"How many times do I have to tell you to keep your smart mouth shut when we have visitors?" The blonde woman dragged the trembling brown-haired girl into her parents' bedroom. Claw-like fingers drilled mercilessly into the flesh of the child's upper arm, ignoring her whimpers, she marched over to a massive dresser made of dark wood. The woman pushed the girl to the floor and retrieved a heavy cowhide man's belt from the top drawer.