Page 36 of The Proposal

“Leave us,” my father yells to one of his guards standing nearby.

I silently plead with the guard not to go, but I know he will do as he is told. Nobody disobeys Stefano Rossi.

When Mamma opens the rear door of her vehicle and places her suitcase on the back seat, my trembling hands grip the windowsill.

“Please don’t leave us,” I whisper.

Papa comes up behind her, still holding the neck of the liquor bottle in his hand. Is he going to beat her with it?

He says something to her, but I can’t distinguish the words from here. I hold my breath as he lifts the bottle, twists off the cap, and pours all the contents over her head. His actions aren’t as violent as I feared, but the humiliation stings just the same. I hate how he treats her. She’s a kind woman and a good mother. She doesn’t deserve this.

He takes a step backward, followed by another, and I feel instant relief. I’m heartbroken to see her go, but at least he didn’t hurt her again.

I glance over my shoulder to where Lucia alternatesbetween bashing her little fists against the door and tugging on the handle. “Let me out of here,” she cries.

When I turn my attention to the window, I watch in horror as my father pulls a box of matches out of his pocket, lights one, and tosses it towards my mother.

That tiny little flame suddenly becomes an inferno.

“Mamma,” I scream as I bang my flattened palms against the glass.

My tears turn into racking sobs as I’m suddenly lifted off my feet and cradled in two strong, protective arms.

Dante places his lips on my forehead as he starts walking. “Shh,I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my skin, making me cry more.

Lucia was only seven years old when our mother was murdered, and she was so busy trying to get out of the room we’d been locked in that she didn’t get to witness what I did, which I’m thankful for.

She, of course, missed and mourned Mamma just as I did, but she always had me there to comfort and care for her. I, on the other hand, had no one. I was thrust into adulthood in the blink of an eye. I was expected to step into the role of caregiver while trying to face my trauma alone.

Making sense of such a tragedy was an impossible burden for a ten-year-old. It hardened me in ways I was not prepared for, and the hate I felt for the man responsible and everything he represented festered inside me like a wound left untreated, growing deeper and darker with every passing day.

Papa went on with life like the cold-hearted monster he is. We weren’t even allowed to mention Mamma after that day. It was like she’d just been erased, but in my heart and my head, she was still very much alive.

The day after my mother was set alight in our driveway, a young pregnant woman by the name of Gloria Barbieri was found dumped on the side of the road on the outskirts of town with two bullet holes in her skull. If she was the same person my mother was referring to, which I wholeheartedly believe she was, I lost a half-sibling at the hands of my father as well.

When we reach our bedroom, Dante gently lowers me onto the mattress, removes his jacket, and slips out of his shoes. He lies beside me, pulling me back into his arms, and his warmth wraps around me like a shield.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he says, his voice almost too calm. “If anyone can understand what you went through, it’s me. I was sitting beside my father the day he was executed.”

I pull back slightly, my palm resting gently on his cheek. “I didn’t know that. Is that how you ended up with the scars on your back?”

He clenches his eyes shut, and that small gesture tells me everything I need to know. I’m right.

My face instinctively gravitates forward. “I’m so sorry you went through that,” I whisper as my lips meet his, desperately trying to return the comfort he gave me a few moments ago.

He immediately pulls me closer and deepens the kiss. I don’t even try to pull away. I need the distraction as much as he does.

To me, the biggest tragedy in life is the things that die inside a person while they are still living. What Dante and I have endured binds us together, creating a connection that’s hard to put into words.

Was I meant to be with this man for a reason?

Maybe this isn’t going to be the hell I once feared … it could very well be the thing that saves me.

He rolls onto his back, bringing me with him. When his hands move along my outer thighs, bunching my dress up as he goes, I draw out of the kiss.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Don’t worry,Bellezza,” he replies. “We will leave our clothes on; I just want to make you feel good.”

---