4: A NAME SPOKEN IN WHISPER

Chapter 4: A Name Spoken in Whispers

My cousin liked to talk when she thought I couldn’t escape.

She did it while brushing her hair in front of the mirror, while trying on dresses she knew I’d never wear, while I folded laundry or cleaned the floor at her feet. She spoke softly, lazily—like the things she said weren’t weapons.

Like they weren’t meant to sink into me.

“So you really don’t know who he is,” she said one afternoon, watching her reflection instead of me. “Alessandro Mendrez.”

I stayed quiet. Silence only made her talk more.

“He wears a mask,” she continued, running the brush through her hair slowly. “Not a cute one. Not mysterious. A real one. Because his face is ruined.”

My hands stilled.

“They say it’s scars,” she went on. “Burns, maybe. Some say his face is twisted, like it doesn’t sit right on his skull. I heard one woman fainted just seeing him.”

I swallowed.

“He’s rich, though,” she added lightly. “Old money. The kind that doesn’t come from honest work.”

She turned just enough to see my reaction.

“They say his family made deals back when laws didn’t matter,” she whispered. “Smuggling. Weapons. Blood money. Mafia ties, if you believe the worst stories.”

My fingers curled into the fabric I was folding.

“No one knows exactly how he made his fortune,” she said. “Only that people who cross him… disappear.”

She smiled at herself in the mirror.

“And women?” she asked, like she was bored. “Oh, that’s the best part.”

My chest tightened.

“They say he gets bored easily,” she continued. “And when he does, he takes it out on his wives.”

Wives.

Plural.

“Broken bones,” she said casually. “Bruises that don’t heal. Locked rooms. Screaming that no one comes to help with.”

I felt sick.

“One girl ran,” she added. “They found her weeks later. Quiet. Very quiet.”

I shook my head. “Stop,” I whispered.

She laughed softly. “Why? You should know what you’re marrying into.”

“I’m not—”

She turned fully then, eyes sharp and gleaming. “Don’t pretend you have a choice.”

I looked down.

“They say he doesn’t even see women as people,” she went on. “Just things to pass time with. If he’s bored, he hits. If he’s angry, he breaks things. If he’s amused…”

She shrugged.

“Well. Pain is entertaining, apparently.”

My hands trembled.

“And the mask?” she continued. “That’s the funniest part. Some say it’s not just to hide his face—but to scare people. Because fear works better when you don’t know what’s underneath.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“They say once you’re his, you never leave. Not alive.”

I felt something crack inside me.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, my voice barely there.

She smiled—slow, satisfied.

“Because it’s not going to be me,” she said. “And because I want you to understand how lucky you are.”

Lucky.

She straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. “At least when he hurts you, no one will blame him. Everyone already expects it.”

When she left the room, her words stayed behind, crawling under my skin.

That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding too fast.

I imagined a man behind a mask. A faceless shape. Hands that didn’t hesitate. A voice that didn’t soften.

I wondered if monsters were born—or made by the stories people told about them until they had no choice but to become one.

Alessandro Mendrez was a name.

But to me, he had already become a shadow.

And shadows didn’t need faces to hurt you.