Page 16 of Until You Break
“You’re here because something was taken from me. Because a woman was buried like a secret.” Marcella’s gaze skimmed faces and locked on Papà. “You took her from me. My best friend. My sister in everything but blood.”
Her voice cracked like a whip.
“And you thought you could get away with murder. Thought you could piss on her grave.”
Papà surged to his feet, eyes blazing. “You twist every word! I didn’t kill her?—”
“You buried her,” Marcella cut in. “Then you built a casino over her grave.”
His fists went white. “That’s a lie and you?—”
“Sit down, Riccardo. Before I make you.”
He froze. A guard’s hand dropped to his shoulder. The room leaned toward quiet with predatory interest.
Marcella’s smile turned sharp. “You must have known I was coming, but you didn’t expect this, did you? I took your son. The one who still has a heart. The one she loved so much.”
Sweat slid down my back. Cuffs burned. Fingers tingled. My chest cinched; my pulse ran hot. Memories of canvases, paint-stained hands, quiet rooms, ripped out by this moment. The drug tugged at my limbs, nerves screaming while my body felt like lead. I wanted to hide, to disappear into a corner, to slip through air, but every step was someone else’s.
She turned to me, measuring, then raised her voice. “Your softest boy. The artist. Bella’s pride and joy. Soon he’ll wear our crest.”
“What?” My breath caught. The air felt thick. “No, you can’t—” My legs went weak.
Marcella’s eyes lingered on me, a moment of softness. Then her voice sharpened, carrying. “Soon he’ll be bound by Bellandi vows, because he’s mine now. He will marry my son and live in my house, his bloodline stitched into ours. Not revenge, but legacy. So every mouth that speaks our names will know which one endures, which one conquers, which one survives.”
My heart slammed. My pulse roared, drowning the room. A flash of Mama’s veil, lace in sunlight, curdled in my throat. Marriage was supposed to be vows and flowers. Not chains and bloodlines. Not this. A wild thought flared, run, fight,vanish, but the cuffs bit deeper, the drug dragged heavier, and even rebellion felt stolen. I wasn’t dying.
I was being married.
To him.
“Are you kidding?” Papà surged again, voice gravel and gunpowder. “Marry a man? You think I’ll watch my son, my blood, bend for some Bellandi monster?” He threw a glance at the crowd, daring agreement.
No one moved.
Two guards slammed him back into his chair, gun to his temple.
Papà spat. “This isn’t a wedding. It’s a funeral.”
Damiano finally spoke, voice low and amused. “Funerals and weddings aren’t so different. Both need witnesses.”
A hush fell. Not shock, but recognition. No one moved. Just slow sips of wine.
“No!” Enzo roared. He lunged. “Come here, brother!”
I heaved forward. Hands yanked me back.
Enzo reached; our fingers grazed before someone caught him.
The crowd rippled into murmurs. Glasses paused, somewhere a sharp intake of breath. One man laughed under his breath. Another hissed a bet. Whispers rose.
Damiano’s gaze cut to Papà. His voice dropped, velvet and cruel. “Ahh, Riccardo. Your softest boy. Look at him. Drugged, trembling, still pretty. And soon he’ll be crawling to my bed, begging to be kept.”
Papà’s chair scraped with a snarl. “Bastardo,” he spat, rage shaking his voice. “I’ll cut that smile off your face.”
Damiano only laughed. It sounded low and sharp. Glass shattered. The room convulsed.
All hell broke loose.
