In the heart of a modern city, two rival families hold the power. Valentina, a fiercely loyal daughter, and Matteo, a cunning and determined son, find themselves on opposite sides of a dangerous feud. But when their paths unexpectedly intertwine, th...
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The sound of Dante and Matteo's conversation faded in and out as if they were speaking a language I could no longer understand.
Greta's laughter, her easy conversation with Matteo in Italian, grated on my nerves more than I wanted to admit.
I sat there, silent, my hands resting uselessly in my lap, while this entire evening felt like a twisted show I wasn't supposed to be part of.
Matteo looked at home, navigating the conversation with confidence, and Dante seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. Greta, though, was something else.
The way she leaned toward Matteo, her polished smile, her effortless charm—it was everything I wasn't.
She was the kind of girl who fit into Matteo's world, the kind of girl who didn't have to try.
She belonged here. I didn't.
My breath hitched, and I felt something tighten in my chest. I wasn't hungry—I hadn't touched my plate—but I kept reaching for the napkin, twisting it in my hands, trying to keep myself grounded. But nothing was working.
The more I sat here, the more suffocated I felt.
I needed an outlet, something to release the storm raging inside me. My fingers drifted to the fork lying next to my untouched plate.
It felt cold and solid in my hand as I picked it up.
I wasn't thinking straight; I knew that. But I was overwhelmed, barely holding back the wave of insecurities, fear, and anger.
My fingers tightened around the metal handle.
Before I could stop myself, I pressed the prongs into the palm of my other hand. At first, it was a small amount of pressure, barely enough to sting.
But as I squeezed harder, the sharpness pierced my skin. Blood welled up, red and vivid against my pale hand, a stark contrast that both scared and calmed me at the same time.
The pain wasn't overwhelming, but it was enough.
Enough to distract me from the chaos in my mind.
I could feel my pulse in my palm, the warmth of the blood sliding across my skin, and the weight of what I'd done sank in, though it brought with it an odd sense of control.
Like, for just a second, I had found something to focus on, something to quiet the storm.
But Matteo noticed. Of course he did.
His attention shifted from Dante, his words trailing off. His gaze flickered down to my hand, his brows furrowing as he registered the blood.
"Val," Matteo said quietly, his voice a mixture of confusion and concern.
I tried to hide it, pulling my hand beneath the table, but the damage was already done.
My heart was racing, and the sting in my palm was nothing compared to the shame boiling inside me. I'd lost control. Again.
