𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐧.
ꙬꙬꙬꙬ
All that Yara Morello was told all her life was that she was the shame of the family. She was a mistake that was never supposed to happen, a disgrace to be shunned and cast...
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I feel like a doll—not the kind dressed up to look pretty with styled hair and adornments. No, I feel like a rag doll, often tossed, used, and abused. Bent and manipulated to fit the twisted, sick narratives of its owner.
I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out as the hairstylist Beatrice hired tugged at my hair. She muttered harsh words like "unruly" while trying to tame my curls. My scalp tingled, raw from her relentless attacks.
Papa wanted a big engagement party, but my fiancé wasn't having it. Instead, he settled for a small dinner party at the house with a few people from the mafia and family. Papa was not happy; I could tell he was very upset that he wouldn't have a party worth bragging about.
It's been two weeks since I last saw him. Two weeks since he threatened to kill me. The days have blurred together, with Papa forbidding me from going out. I couldn't make it to my shift at the strip club or even hang out with Maya.
I was set to get married in a month in Sicily. The staff had been busy with wedding preparations, and I hadn't seen Olivia either. Meanwhile, my nightmares were getting worse. Allegra and her boyfriend were becoming more brazen, practically shooting porn at this point. I couldn't understand how Papa always acted like he didn't see them desecrating his precious house.
Papa sent Marco to Italy ahead of us to arrange a few things for the wedding. I was relieved to be rid of my creepy stepbrother for a while. I considered running away with what little I had, but it was as if Papa could read my mind. Security was tighter than ever, and I wasn't allowed to leave my room except when called.
"Why is she still sitting there?" Beatrice stormed into the room, her expression livid. "I didn't pay you to fumble around like an incompetent fool. Get her ready on time, or I'll find someone who can actually do their job!"
"I'm sorry, madam, but you didn't tell me this is what I'd be working with," she said, gesturing disdainfully at my half-done hair as if it were a pile of garbage.
Beatrice shot her a murderous glare before hurling a string of insults in Italian. "Get out! You're fired."
"Good." She sneers throwing the brush on the ground. "I was going to leave anyways."
As the hairstylist stormed out, Beatrice's muttered insults filled the room. Disregarding my stepmother, I grabbed the brush and set about carefully untangling my hair.
I heard Beatrice shuffling behind me, and moments later, she placed a hair straightener on the stool beside me. For a fleeting moment, the thought of stabbing her eye with the sharp end of the brush crossed my mind, but I quickly suppressed those murderous thoughts, knowing Papa would actually kill me.
"Not a single hair out of place," she ordered, walking towards the door before pausing. "And put in a good word with the consigliere for Allegra. I don't know how your worthless self managed it, but that puttana actually likes you." (Whore)
