Page 42 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

The middle brother, Nikos, is harder to read. His face is a mask of neutrality, giving nothing away. But there's a sharpness to his features, a cunning intelligence that tells me he's not someone to underestimate.

And then there's the youngest, Stefanos. Despite the seriousness of his expression, there's a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I can almost picture him charming his way through life, using his looks and charisma to get what he wants.

The file lists their hobbies: soccer, swimming and—I do a double take—stripping. The youngest apparently worked as some sort of Chippendale before joining the family business.

Their pet peeves. No allergies. Nothing yet about their actual work. But plenty about their parents, including their mother who is still very much in their lives.

There are photos of them with their mother. Stefanos actually posted them on social media like they're not living their lives surrounded by blood and murder and crime.

Their mother is smiling. Happy.

Alive.

A scream lodges in my throat, but I swallow it down like those oversized pills during treatment.

My mother. When I heard Antonio mention my mother and her history and her ties to a mafia world everyone hid from me, I wanted to clutch the tablecloth and count my breaths like my cardio nurse taught me. Because I still remember the day she died.

The tires screeching. The screams. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid smell of burnt rubber. I stood there in my ballet slippers, scuffing against the rough pavement, my heart pounding in my ears as therealization slowly sank in: she was gone. The world tilted on its axis, and I felt like I was falling, falling, falling into a void of grief and confusion.

She always picked me up with a warm smile and one of those apple juice boxes I loved. "Hi my little love," she would say, her voice like honey. "Did you dance with the stars?" She meant the stars on the ceiling. How the dance teacher would turn off all the lights so we could twirl and twirl as if we were dancing in the night sky.

And then we'd chat about everything and nothing. She'd tell me what Pavarotti had been up to, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She'd ask me what moment had made me smile the most during the day, genuinely interested in every detail of my life.

And she'd tell me my father was waiting for us, a promise of love and security. But that day, she never came.

I looked for her. I heard... I shake my head, refusing to cry, to crumble, to crash into that sadness. I take another sip of wine, staring at Antonio. "My mother..." I clear my throat. "My mother would want me to stay alive. Staying alive sounds good. So fine, I'll listen. I'll play a role."

I inhale deeply, thinking about Elena, about the life she should be allowed to lead, the choices she should be allowed to make for herself. Maybe by playing by their rules a little longer, I can help her, too.

"But I need you to tell me more about my grandparents," I continue. "I never knew anything about them. About my parents' marriage. About..."

"They were a love match," Antonio grumbles.

I nearly choke on my wine, the liquid burning my throat like that first swallow of contrast dye during a PET scan.

Trying to remember what my father told me. Yes, he said he loved her. But didn't he try to sell me the auction as a way oflife? And after everything I've found out about him, it's hard to believe he had real feelings once.

My parents, a love match? It seems like a cruel joke, a twisted fairy tale that ended in blood and tears. I set my glass down, my fingers gripping the stem so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"A real love match," Antonio continues, his voice softening. "Once they met, there was no other for them. They seemed ready to escape and elope. They seemed ready to leave everything behind to be together."

I close my eyes, trying to picture it: my parents, young and in love, ready to defy the world for each other. But the image shatters as quickly as it forms, replaced by the cold reality of my father's betrayal and my mother's death.

It's harder to imagine my father not doing something just to benefit himself. The man who arranged an auction for his daughter's hand isn't exactly the romantic type.

"Your mother was from a bigger family than your father's."

Ah, that makes more sense. Power, alliances, control. The currency of our world.

Antonio tilts his head. "But he apparently told his father he'd renounce everything for her."

I raise an eyebrow, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. "My father has changed," I manage to utter. "Or maybe he was always this way, even when he played Mafia Romeo with my mother and we were just too blind to see it." I pause. "And I guess I'm like my mother in many ways... swayed by the appeal of love, not realizing they're sharp mirrors and toxic smoke."

Antonio gives me one of those looks that has my shoulders tightening. It's filled with regret, but I can't believe his looks. Or his words. Or him. Not after everything.

He leans back in his chair. "Apparently, your mother got pregnant with you and... having a child meant they weren't just fighting for themselves. They wanted to keep you safe..."

"And then my father planned an auction right after my birth and my mother told him 'Sure honey, sounds like the perfect plan'?" I can't help the hurt from slicing through my voice. Because the story he's telling me doesn't soothe the pain. It doesn't stop the throbbing in my heart. My mother knew about the plans. She knew. He'd been planning it for years. What changed between them? Did they stop loving one another? Did one hurt the other so much they came to a point of no return?

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