Lissy Romano

47| Blonde hair.

Lissy Romano

Later, we stayed at Viola's house longer than we planned. By the time we were leaving, it was dark outside. Viola said goodbye to me and Cole, who simply walked across the street to his house—it's hilarious how they're neighbors.

Dario drove me home. I noticed how exhausted he looked.

"I'm sorry you had to just sit there and wait for me," I said, offering an awkward smile.

"It's my job to look after you, no matter what you do. And you gave me soda and a chocolate bar. I appreciate that—you didn't have to. Thank you," Dario replied, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

I gave him a small smile. Not long after, we pulled into our property. Dario opened the car door for me, and I stepped out. He followed me into the house.

"My Lissy, I've missed you," Santino said, leaning against the wall as if he had been waiting for me.

It was sweet of him. Dario quietly left the house, finally able to take a break from me.

"Santino," I said, throwing my backpack on the floor before rushing up to him.

I hugged his waist tightly, and he kissed the top of my head.

"How was school today?" he asked, his expression filled with concern.

"It was okay," I replied, though my mind wandered to the cafeteria and Noah's friends.

"You okay?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes. Just tired," I answered truthfully.

"The dinner is ready. We were waiting for you, sweetheart," Santino said, gently petting my head.

I held his hand as he led me to the dining room, where everyone was already seated, waiting.

"Finally," Enzo muttered with his mouth full.

Vincenzo shot him a sharp look but said nothing.

"I'm sorry you all had to wait for me," I apologized.

"It's okay. As long as you're safe and happy. You called me, and I appreciate that, Lissy," Vincenzo said with a warm smile.

I sat next to Santino. The table was filled with all kinds of food.

"I thought the chef was away," I remarked, looking around.

"He is. We hired someone else while he's gone," Vincenzo explained.

"We can't survive on just pizza and snacks," Domenico added.

"Yeah," I agreed, sipping water.

Everyone was eating, but I didn't touch my food. I wasn't hungry after all the snacks at Viola's house.

"Why aren't you eating?" Davide asked, his gaze landing on me.

"I'm not hungry," I said, glancing up at him.

The entire table went silent. Everyone stopped eating, their eyes fixed on me as if trying to decode what was wrong.

"What happened?" Dante asked, concerned and confused.

"Nothing," I lied, staring down at the table.

Should I tell them about the boys in the cafeteria? Would they be able to handle it?

"I can tell something's wrong," Dante said, looking to Vincenzo for backup.

"Lissy, you can talk to us. You know that, right?" Vincenzo said gently.

"I know," I mumbled, keeping my eyes downcast.

"Can I go to my room?" I finally asked, turning to Vincenzo.

"Yes, you can," he replied after a pause.

As I left the dining room, I heard them switch to Italian. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but I knew they were discussing me. Once I got to my room, I closed the door and sat on the floor.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and before I knew it, I was crying uncontrollably. Every terrible memory I'd ever experienced came flooding back—Miguel, Noah, his friends, and the boy who called me a whore today.

Why does every attempt to find happiness end in disaster?

I felt overwhelmed and desperate for control. I staggered to my desk, pulled out a sharp paper knife, and lifted the sleeve of my hoodie. Taking a deep breath, I dragged the blade across my wrist.

The pain was sharp and immediate, but seeing the blood running from the cut made me panic. What had I done?

I rushed to the bathroom, turning the faucet on to rinse the wound. The water turned red as I stood there, trembling. Why did I hurt myself? Why was I adding to the pain inflicted by others?

For a fleeting moment, I thought about ending it all, but the image of my brothers' faces stopped me. I couldn't be the cause of their sorrow. They loved me. I had friends who cared.

I grabbed a small white towel, pressing it against the cut. I didn't want anyone to find out, so I pulled my hoodie sleeve down to hide it. Exhausted, I climbed into bed, wrapped myself in my blanket, and eventually fell asleep.

But that night, sleep didn't come easily. My wrist throbbed, and the blood loss left me dizzy and weak. I rummaged through my nightstand for painkillers, took two, and washed them down with water.

Finally, the pain dulled, and I drifted off.

"Elizabeth, he is one of my best clients. Keep your mouth shut and do what he tells you to," Miguel hissed in Spanish, pointing to a man outside the house.

The man stood by his car, tall and blonde, dressed in expensive clothes.

"Así que eres la chica por la que pagué?" he asked, smiling.
(So you're the girl I paid for?)

I glanced at Miguel, my eyes brimming with tears. He pinched the back of my arm, forcing me to mutter, "Sí, señor."
(Yes, sir.)

The man took my hand and led me to his car. Miguel's threats over the past three years were now a reality.

When we arrived at his house, he poured two glasses of water and handed me one. My hands were trembling as I drank it quickly.

After a moment, he sat next to me. He asked my age, and I told him I was almost fourteen. He shook his head.

"No te tocaré. Solo relájate aquí por dos horas, luego te llevaré de regreso a ese imbécil."
(I won't touch you. Just relax here for two hours, then I'll take you back to that asshole.)

True to his word, he never laid a hand on me. Javier—a man Miguel thought was using me—was secretly protecting me. He pretended to follow Miguel's orders while shielding me from others.

He even made a deal with Miguel to pay monthly, ensuring I wouldn't be "sold" to anyone else.

Thanks to Javier, I kept my purity.

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