Ciara returns to the Morelli's seeking revenge against the men that raped her when she was just fourteen years old. But along the way, She falls in love with the one person she is not supposed to.
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The engine of the sleek, black sedan purred as it approached the grandiose wrought-iron gates, which swung open with an elegant, silent sweep. The car glided up the pebbled driveway, flanked by meticulously manicured hedges, each stone perfectly placed to echo the crunch of the tires.
The driver's eyes remained fixed on the reflection of the mansion in the rearview mirror, a majestic structure that loomed over the quiet night like a stoic sentinel.
As the sedan rolled to a stop in the circular driveway, the headlights cast a warm glow on the gleaming marble fountain at the center, where water danced and sang a soft melody. The mansion itself was a study in opulence, with ivory pillars that reached for the stars and windows that gleamed like polished jewels. The front door, a monumental arch of dark wood with gleaming brass fixtures, seemed to beckon the passengers within its embrace.
The driver announced our arrival with a courteous nod, his voice a gentle rumble in the hushed day. "We're here, Mrs. Morelli." He stepped out of the car, his movements precise and practiced, and made his way around to Mrs Morelli's side.
Mrs. Morelli didn't get out immediately. She remained seated, staring at the entrance, as if the very sight of it stirred something deep within her. The two children, a boy and a girl, their eyes wide and curious, rushed towards her.
A young man, tall and lean with a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes, emerged from the shadows of the mansion's entrance. He was dressed impeccably, his suit tailored to perfection, his tie knotted sharply, and his shoes gleaming in the moonlight. He walked with a grace that suggested a dance with the very air itself.
"Welcome back home, mamma," he said, his voice a warm, velvety timbre that seemed to wrap around her like a comforting embrace. He took her hand and kissed it with a gentle touch, his gaze never leaving hers.
Mrs. Morelli's eyes searched his for a moment before she stepped out of the car, her movements measured and poised. The children clung to her, their small hands pulling at her silk dress.
"You little ungrateful thing," she murmured, a hint of warmth in her voice, "it has been two weeks since we saw each other. Come give me a hug." The young man, chuckled softly, the sound resonating with affection as he stepped closer to his mother.
With that cue, I decided to come down from the car. I moved with purpose to the back of the sedan, where a folded wheelchair awaited its occupant. My hands felt the cold, metallic frame, a stark contrast to the warmth of the night. Unfolding it, I made sure each lock snapped into place, ensuring stability. The chair's rubber wheels whispered against the gravel as I pushed it towards Mrs. Morelli.
By the time I had turned around, a small crowd had gathered around the car. It seemed like the entire household staff had emerged from the mansion's warm embrace to greet her.
Maids in their crisp uniforms, the butler with his stern yet welcoming countenance, and even the gardeners who had set aside their shears for the evening – they all stood there, a tableau of anticipation. It was as if the very air had drawn them out, whispering of her return.
