Chapter 3: The Price of Silence

Angela’s POV

I walked into our cramped kitchen, my heart instantly dropping to the dirty linoleum floor. My mother, Grazia, stood right by the scratched dining table. In her hand, she held the thick, expensive cream-colored envelope with the heavy gold wax seal. The letter from Accademia Alpha.

"What is this?" Grazia demanded, her dark eyes flashing fiercely as she waved the paper in the air. "I opened it. It says congratulations on the scholarship to Angelo. There is no Angelo in this house, Angela. What the hell did you do?"

I froze, my palms sweating. I had rushed to the mailbox this morning, hoping to intercept it, but she had beaten me to it. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic beating of my heart.

"I was expelled yesterday," I confessed, my voice trembling slightly. "Preside Giovanna kicked me out. She hates you, Mom, and she took it out on me."

Grazia’s face turned bright red with sudden, explosive fury. She slammed her hand against the table. "That miserable, jealous cow! She expelled you? Because her pathetic, weak husband couldn't keep his hands off me? I'll march down to that school right now and drag her out by her cheap hair!"

"Don't bother!" I yelled, cutting her off before she could grab her coat. My anger suddenly boiled over, matching hers. "It doesn't matter anymore. I'm leaving. And I know exactly what you and Uncle Tonio were planning to do with me."

Grazia stopped dead in her tracks. The fiery anger in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculated stillness.

"I heard you," I whispered, stepping closer to her, my chest heaving with betrayal. "I heard you talking in the hallway yesterday. You were going to sell me to the Branco Ovest pack. You were going to let Tonio hand me over to that brutal alpha's son like a piece of meat."

My mother didn't flinch. She didn't look ashamed, and she certainly didn't apologize. She just crossed her arms and stared at me.

"Tonio offered me four hundred euros," Grazia admitted flatly, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.

"Four hundred euros?" I gasped, the sheer absurdity of the number making my stomach turn. "My life is worth four hundred euros to you? The Ovest pack pays over a thousand euros for a human surrogate, Mom! They buy girls to breed them, to break them, and Tonio was going to pocket the rest while you sold your own daughter for pocket change!"

Grazia shrugged, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Four hundred euros pays the rent, Angela. You eat my food, you take up space. The alpha's son likes them young and untouched. Tonio said the boy is possessive, dirty, and rough. I figured you'd learn how to survive on your back eventually. We all do."

Her casual cruelty felt like a knife twisting right in my chest. But I didn't have time to cry. I had to secure my escape.

"I'll buy my own freedom," I said fiercely, locking my eyes with hers. "I will give you a thousand euros to keep your mouth shut. Don't tell Tonio anything. Just let me pack my bags and go to the academy."

Grazia laughed a harsh, mocking sound. "A thousand euros? You don't have ten euros to your name, little girl."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled wad of cash I had been saving for three years from scrubbing floors at the local bakery. "I have two hundred and twenty euros right now. Take it as a down payment. When I graduate from Accademia Alpha, I will get a high-paying job in the city. I will send you the rest. Every single cent. But you have to let me go."

Grazia stared at the money in my trembling hand. Slowly, she reached out and snatched the bills, counting them with lightning speed. She shoved the money into her bra, completely unbothered by the fact that she was actively extorting her own child.

"Fine," Grazia said coldly, making it perfectly clear that she wasn't helping me out of love or maternal instinct. "I'm being paid for my silence, Angela. If you miss a payment later, I'll call Tonio and tell him exactly where his little runaway bride is hiding."

"Deal," I breathed, relief washing over me in a heavy wave.

The rest of the day was a blur of frantic preparation. The transformation from Angela to Angelo had to be flawless, or I was walking straight into a death trap. Grazia dragged me into the tiny bathroom and shoved me down onto the wooden stool in front of the cracked mirror.

She pulled out her large sewing scissors. The cold metal snipped loudly next to my ear. I watched in silence as my long, dark hair fell to the floor in thick clumps.

"You're making a massive mistake," Grazia muttered, brushing the loose hair off my shoulders. "Do you have any idea how dangerous those elite alphas are? You're walking into a cage full of starving wolves."

"It's better than the Ovest pack," I replied softly, staring at my new reflection. My cheekbones looked sharper, my jawline stronger with the short, messy boyish haircut.

"Is it?" Grazia teased, a dark, dirty smirk playing on her lips in the mirror. "You're going to be living in a dorm full of massive, aggressive men who haven't tasted a woman in months. They are dominant, possessive, and they take exactly what they want. You better pray they don't find out what a pretty, tight little thing you are underneath your clothes."

I blushed furiously, my skin burning hot at her vulgar words. "Mom, stop it."

"I'm just warning you," she laughed, leaning down to whisper right in my ear. "If one of those big bad alphas catches your scent, he'll rip your little disguise apart. He'll pin you down, claim you, and show you exactly how hard an alpha can be. Maybe you'll find a rich one to marry. It would save you the trouble of working for my money."

"I am going there to study, not to sleep around," I snapped, grabbing the roll of heavy medical bandages from the counter.

I took off my shirt and began wrapping the thick white cotton tightly around my chest. I pulled and stretched the fabric, flattening my small breasts until my chest looked completely smooth and masculine. It was painfully tight, making it hard to take a deep breath, but it was absolutely necessary.

Grazia watched me with a strange, unreadable expression. We spent the next hour scrounging together the most ill-fitting men's clothing we could find at the local thrift store. Baggy jeans that hid my hips, thick flannel shirts that swallowed my waist, and heavy combat boots that made my feet look two sizes bigger.

When I finally stood fully dressed in the center of the living room, I looked like a completely different person. I looked like a scruffy, quiet teenage boy. I was Angelo.

Despite the cold, transactional nature of our relationship, Grazia’s comments carried an odd undertone of sadness as she prepared me to leave. She adjusted the collar of my oversized jacket, her fingers lingering slightly on the cheap fabric.

"It's a shame, really," Grazia joked bitterly, stepping back to look at me. "With that face, you could have caused a lot of heartbreak as a boy. You look too pretty. Try to scowl more, or they'll think you're soft."

"I can be tough," I promised, grabbing my worn-out duffel bag from the sofa.

We walked to the train station in complete silence. The evening air was cool and crisp, but my hands were sweating profusely inside my pockets. The distant whistle of the incoming train echoed loudly through the empty station platform.

When the metal doors hissed open, I turned to face my mother. There was no warmth in our goodbye. There was no tight hug, no kiss on the cheek, no tears of sorrow.

"Don't get caught," Grazia said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at the dirty train cars. "And remember the rest of the money you owe me. Eight hundred euros, Angela. Don't make me come looking for it."

"I remember," I said, my throat feeling tight. "Goodbye, Mom."

I stepped onto the train, the heavy doors sliding shut behind me with a loud clank. I walked to the nearest window and looked out at the dark platform. The engine roared to life, and the train slowly began to pull away from the station, taking me away from the only miserable life I had ever known.

I looked back one final time through the smudged glass. My breath hitched in my throat. Grazia was standing completely still under the flickering yellow streetlamp. She wasn't walking away. And as the train picked up speed, I was startled to see the shiny, wet tracks of what might have been tears running silently down her cheeks.

I pressed my hand against the cold window, leaving her to wonder, with unresolved ache, whether Grazia's indifference throughout her life had been a performance masking feelings she never knew how to express.