Pardona (noun)-
A Mistress.
They were married but she was never his wife.
His slave, his maid, his Padrona, his trophy but never his wife.
#514 in ShortStory ~21/08/2018
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July 26th
Sicily, Italy.
Son or no son, they were De Pablo's and the birth of an heir or heiress must be celebrated.
Laughter consumed her, faux happiness and forced smiles engulfed her until she knew not if she could straighten her face.
People were littered across the immaculate lawns of the De Pablo backyard, adorned casually but still managing to exude an air of superiority. A level in which the Padrona struggled to rise to.
How does a slave pretend to be royalty?
Why is smiling and feigning supremacy so difficult for a woman born to the wolf among sheep?
She has been in this sea all her life, always surviving, never unscathed but always surviving.
Her name has always commanded respect and yet still she cowers like a slave.
A woman born of alpha blood that bows like an omega with no spine.
She watches them from her place in the kitchen. Finger buried deep in a bowl of condiments, head bowed like the Padrona she is. They mingle with her husband, laugh so effortlessly as the Queen show off her granddaughter. They've forgotten the mother, her presence means nothing, she has fulfilled a part of her wifely duties.
Two hours later and she emerges, face bright with a smile that could never reach her eyes. Body aching from abuse, hips wider and breasts fuller. She looks the radiant wife, prosperous mother, and devoted child.
The people whisper her name, they grace her bleak life with smiles and praises and congratulations, She moves beside Pierro.
He towers over her. He ignores her, speaks to Sarah and her companions.
He speaks with the men.
Tension engulfs his body, his shoulder tightens and the veins in his neck stand at attention as their taunts rub him the wrong way.
"Couldn't sire a boy eh, Pierro" One man jibs, the other men hackle like hyenas. Stupid idiotic hyenas.
"Should have had more power in your strokes, my boy." An older man says.
His boy.
Oh dear God, he called him his boy. He stirred the Dragon, entices the beast and Contessina could feel her body aching, bleeding, pleading.
The gathering lasts for a few more hours, but post-pregnancy symptoms force her to bed. She takes the little princess, suckles her young and places her in the safety of her nest.
She retires, sits before her silver vintage dressing table, back erect like the brat she is made to be. Her black voluminous locks fall elegantly into her back.
It is twelve in the night when he enters the room, burst through the door like a black bull on San Fermin.
He huffs and puffs as he slams the door behind him. The door frame rattles.
She is ready for his reign, she has braced herself for his terror. But has she really?
Is she ready for him this night? Is she prepared for the extent of his cruelty this night?
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