I wear his name like a scar.
Alessandro Rossi stole everything from me; my freedom, my future, the lie I told my father to keep him alive. He thinks I'm a tool to be used, a bride to be displayed, a Fraga to be broken. He thinks the ring on my finge...
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Gunfire ripped me out of sleep.
The sound shattered the quiet, too loud and too close to be mistaken for anything but real, and I shot up in bed with my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My vision swam as I tried to separate the noise from the nightmare I'd been trapped in.
Shouts. Feet pounding.
Then my father's voice.
It cut through the chaos, rolling up from somewhere below, calling my name with a fury I'd never heard before. A fury that meant he knew. Somehow, he'd found me.
I ran for the balcony.
My bare feet slapped against the cold marble floor but I didn't feel a thing. I grabbed the railing and leaned over, scanning the driveway below, and there they were. My father. Miguel. An army of their men spilling through the front gates like they were coming to tear the world apart. Black cars. Raised weapons. It was a war in the making.
Relief washed over me, hot and immediate, but dread followed right on its heels because I knew what their presence meant. Confrontation. Bodies on the ground. I couldn't let that happen.
"Yasenia, estás aquí! (Are you here!)" My father's voice boomed across the property.
"Papa!" The name tore from my throat like it had been ripped out. "Miguel!" Tears blurred the world into smears of sunlight. Miguel's head jerked up and his eyes found me on the balcony, and I watched the fury and relief tangle together in his expression.
"Yasenia!" He roared my name like a battle cry.
My body moved on instinct, pulling me away from the balcony and down the stairs. Barefoot, I tore through the corridors, marble floors cold against my soles, until the front doors burst open under my hands.
Outside, my worst fear had taken shape. Alessandro and his men stood locked in a standoff with my father's men, guns raised on both sides, fingers resting on triggers, the whole scene drenched in violence waiting to explode.
My father looked like a storm given human form, fists clenched and jaw tight, his whole body trembling with rage.
He barked across the driveway, his voice cracking with fury. "Que lle fixeches á miña filla, maldito cabrón? (What did you do to my daughter, you bastard?)"
Through the blur of tears, I could see the sweat on his forehead, the wildness in his eyes. Guilt carved through me, sharp and unforgiving.
This was on me. If I hadn't turned down my father's security, maybe none of this would've happened. If I hadn't left home, my father and Miguel wouldn't be standing here right now with so many guns aimed at them.
I threw myself into his arms before anyone could stop me, and he caught me like I was eight years old again. His arms swallowed me whole, strong and protective. For the first time in weeks, I felt untouchable.
