The Don's Wife, The Brother's Whore

Lilith’s Pov

People in the city envied and called me the Don’s wife, but no one really knew that I was a hostage.

It's been like this for six years now and today too was not any different.

I was currently sitting in one of the rooms, gazing straight into one of the full-length mirrors.

Preparing for a party.

The maids around me were fastening the pearls at the back of my neck with careful fingers, cautious not to touch my skin more than necessary.

Everyone of them kept their silence.

I kept staring at the mirror before me, watching them work, the gown adhered to my body so tightly I could hardly breathe.

It was just like Lucian wanted it…it was how he liked to see me….contained, flawless, and always visible.

I never chose the clothes I wore most of the time.

Sometimes, I wondered if he dressed me like this to remind me that even my skin belonged to him. And sometimes, when the gown was tight enough to hurt, I let it, just to feel something that was mine, even if it was pain.

My reflection shone under the chandeliers, just like the building itself.

Everything in Verona Estate was built to be admired.

Every single object was a display. Every person, a piece of performance.

And the main attraction…was…. was me.

I hummed and allowed my eyes to meet those of one of the maids through the mirror.

The middle aged woman looked away quickly.

And in that second, I found myself wondering if she could also see what I was seeing in myself: I was nothing but a woman dressed like a queen but breathing like a prisoner.

That is what I am…. prisoner of war, I mean….of some sort.

Six years ago, when Lucian and I first met, I did not mistake him for a savior.

I was only nineteen when the fire claimed the lives of the Laurent's, my foster parents.

The news had called it an accident, but it had not felt like one.

I used to think about a boy from the orphanage back then… quiet, a little older, always sharing what little he had.

He once told me he’d come back for me.

I don’t know why I still remember that.

Maybe because, that night, as I hid under the stairs waiting for the fire to reach me, I thought it finally had.

I still remembered the way the smoke had filled the hallway that night, the way I had screamed until my voice broke, hiding under the stairs as the heat drew closer and closer.

Somehow, it stopped before it reached me and I lived, and now, sometimes, I wished I hadn’t.

A few months later, Lucian had appeared from the blues. He claimed the Laurent's owed him money, a debt that now belonged to me.

The way he spoke, it was he was the law, like he was judgment itself.

When he first mentioned marriage, I thought I had misheard. He didn't even suggest it as an offer, it was a verdict.

And so, in the days that followed, I tried to run.

I could still picture the night I did. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the bus ticket. I ran until I reached the place that used to be my home before the lovely Laurent took me in…it was the orphanage where I grew up.

But that choice… that single act of defiance… was the one I will regret till the end of my life.

Lucian found me. Not in person. He had sent men instead.

They came before dawn.

I remember the screaming, the gunfire, the smell of blood. I remember Sister Elena trying to shield the children, and the sound of her own body later hitting the floor.

Five of them died that night, five souls who had never known cruelty until my mistake brought it to their doorstep.

When Lucian finally came for me, I was still in shock with blood on my shoes, tears that had already dried.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“If you want to protect what’s left,” he said softly, his tone almost kind. “You know what to do. Unless you’d like me to return... and make fifty corpses instead of five.”

(“Il sangue sarà sulle tue mani, e sulla testa dei tuoi genitori.”) The blood will be on your hands, and on your parents’ heads.

I realized then that I no longer had a choice if I wanted to save the others. The switch that twisted wasn't just for survival; it was a cold, hard knot of hatred for the man who had planned the slaughter of the only innocents I had left. So I said yes. Not to love, not to safety, but to survive and to wait, though I didn't know for what.

And when I became his wife, I also became his property: a luxurious hostage, trained to smile, and taught to disappear behind my own reflection.

But lately, something restless had begun to stir in my heart, a thought I hadn’t dared touch.

What if being perfect was just another way of dying?

The mirror was still before me when the memory faded, my reflection as pale as the girl under the stairs, scared to death.

The maids had just begun to step back when the door suddenly opened.

And when we turned to check, it was the sight of Lucian walking in.

Immediately, they froze…heads bowed, hands folded, bodies bending low.

He didn’t need to say a word. His presence alone bore the energy of command.

And in a matter of seconds, they were gone.

Lucian’s reflection filled the mirror after that.

He didn’t speak at first; he simply walked around me slowly, like a sculptor inspecting his creation.

When his eyes met mine through the mirror, there was no warmth there as usual…..only possession.

“Turn around,” he ordered quietly. “Let me get a good look.”

My body obeyed before my mind could catch up.

He adjusted a strap that didn’t need adjusting,

The contact gave me goosebumps not from passion but from memory.

My skin did not need much to remember the marks these same fingers once left on it ... bruises shaped like maps.

His hand soon found my chin, forcing my face upward.

My eyes shifted to the painting behind him….a Renaissance Madonna with lifeless eyes.

I focused on her instead of him.

I always did.

Lucian smirked at my submission, satisfied, and started to turn away.

I followed, as expected.

The room he led me to smelled faintly of scotch. And so, when he started to touch me, my body moved only because it had learned to.

My lips parted when he leaned in because that was what they were trained to do.

Inside, I felt nothing.

I had forgotten what pleasure was supposed to feel like.

Forgotten what it meant to exist outside his hands.

I have never actually felt pleasure before.

I kept staring at the ceiling blankly.

He groaned at some point, burying his face in my neck.

I have memorized every sound he made, every breath he took, and every one of his commands. I had grown to be so good at this.

It was a strange thing to be proud of.

“Come on, Say it, doll!” Lucian barked suddenly. “You know the fucking line.” He whispered again in my ear.

I swallowed, blinking once before I murmured without feeling, “I belong to you.”

He did not like the way it sounded so he tightened his hands around my hair to snarl,

“Don’t whisper it like some scared little thing….say it like your life fucking depends on it. Capisce?” (You get it)

I closed my eyes. “I belong to you,” I said again. This time, louder and surer.

It was only then that he let out a sound of approval before he continued thrusting, faster and deeper.

When it was over, he pulled away.

I didn't move. I knew better than to cover myself.

He buttoned his shirt slowly, adjusting and fixing his buttons like nothing just happened.

He went on to pour himself a drink.

I remained on the bed, naked and with red marks blooming on my skin.

He didn't glance back as the door went shut.

Moments later, I soon changed into a black dress, this one was longer, it was for the gala night we were to attend tonight.

I passed by Lucian’s study on the way downstairs; the whisper of Italian made me stop.

Lucian was inside with his underboss, a man called Enzo.

“Controlla le telecamere. Tutte.” (Check all the cameras)

His voice followed, harder.

“Se quel figlio di puttana mette piede qui, lo voglio sapere prima di tutti. Capisci?” (If that son of a bitch sets foot here, I want to know before anyone else. Understand?)

The rumor rushed back. He was making a reference to his exiled half-brother, the traitor.