Chapter 6

His hand shot toward my face, and for a moment I closed my eyes, convinced he was going to slap me. Instead, I felt his hand lower the neckline of my shirt slightly and his fingers gently brush the skin of my chest until he reached the little piece of paper and pulled it from my bra. He held it up in the air, gripping it between his index and middle fingers in front of my face. He read what was written on it, then looked at me with a murderous stare.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice so calm that it was worse than shouting.

“I found it,” I replied. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Wrong answer.” His eyes moved predatorily over my face, my neck, my cleavage, and I felt my skin prickle with every passing second. “Where. Did. You. Find. It?”

“It’s none of your business,” I quipped.

His hand flashed before I could move, catching my jaw—not roughly, but firmly enough that I couldn’t turn my head. “Everything you do is my business. Remember that.”

“Then let me go,” I said through clenched teeth. “Then I won’t concern myself with things that, as you say, are your business.”

Something flickered across his face—anger, or something more dangerous than anger, something cold and calculated—and he released me, but only to slam his hand against the wall beside my head so hard that the piece of paper disappeared somewhere onto the floor and a glass toppled from the table.

I flinched, but I didn’t speak.

“Tell me what this means,” he asked, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “Do you know what could have happened to you if someone else saw this before I did?”

“Then you tell me,” I said defiantly, even though my heart was pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. “Tell me why you care what happens to me. And the next moment you go back to treating me as your enemy?”

“You are the enemy,” he said, “until proven otherwise.”

I stayed silent. I knew that my silence brought out something worse in him than anything I could say, but my mouth refused to open—not for him, not after everything he had done to me.

He stepped so close that I felt the warmth of his breath against my cheek. “I’m asking you nicely for the last time, Vivian.”

“And if I don’t tell?”

Instead of answering, his hand shot toward my hair, gripping it at the roots and jerking my head backward, sharply enough to make a cry escape my throat before I could stop it.

“Then you’ll learn,” he whispered into my ear, his voice almost gentle, which was the worst part of all, “that with me, silence never comes without consequences.”

I closed my eyes, feeling my palms grow sweaty, my body trembling with fear I refused to let him see. And then, against my will, my thoughts drifted five days back—to the moment when all of this had begun, to the moment when I first realized that something was deeply wrong with these three families.

Two days ago

I couldn’t believe Olivia had betrayed me like that—taken my phone, probably on my father’s orders. Or maybe she had seen some message, some call, and taken it away so I wouldn’t be able to respond. No, no. I was becoming too paranoid. I was suspecting everyone, one after another; I didn’t know how to think rationally anymore. But that thought woke me up instantly and lifted me out of bed as if someone had doused me with cold water.

I approached the door quietly and listened for anyone on the other side. A cough. Male. Someone was standing outside my room. I sat down on the floor, resting my back against the door, and waited. I couldn’t think of anything smarter to do at that moment.

I don’t even know how much time had passed since I sat on the floor. I stared at one spot, waiting for the moment to act. At one point, I heard a quiet commotion, the muffled murmuring of two people, followed by my father’s raised voice—still awake, still as nervous as I was. The footsteps moved away from my door. I assumed they had all rushed downstairs to see why my father was shouting. I waited a few more seconds, then carefully opened the door.

The hallway was empty, to my relief. I ran down the back staircase to the ground floor, then continued carefully so no one would see or hear me, toward the hallway beside the stairs leading down to the basement—the hallway where the servants’ rooms were. Olivia’s room was the third on the left. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. She obviously wasn’t there, so I opened the door and went inside.

As a child, I loved spending time in her room. It was perfectly arranged and tidy, just like Olivia herself, almost without a trace of the person who lived in it. I looked around for a moment and exhaled. I had never been the kind of person to rummage through other people’s things, but this was an emergency, and she wasn’t there for me to ask where my phone was.

I felt a little calmer than I had before. For a moment, I even felt sorry that I had immediately pointed the finger at her. I thought maybe she had taken my phone on her own, trying to protect me from some impulsive stupidity of mine—that would be exactly like her. But unfortunately, I desperately needed my phone.

I began opening the drawers, one by one. I found nothing important beneath the desk, only her personal belongings. Nothing under the bed, as far as I could feel around in the darkness. Not under the pillow either. Then I opened the wardrobe itself—at first glance, there was only clothing, neatly folded on the shelves, and a few pairs of shoes at the bottom. When I moved one pair, something clinked behind them.

I reached my hand in and felt a medium-sized box. I opened it instantly, without thinking. What caught my attention was that the contents of the box were completely scattered—which was nothing like her. Jewelry, mismatched earrings, and a pile of papers—envelopes, tossed one on top of another, each with a month written on it. At first, I thought they were bills, but she lived with us; there was nothing she had to pay for.

I could already feel the blood rushing through my head, as though I had sensed that I wouldn’t have much more time. I grabbed the last envelope, the one on top, and opened it. I pulled out the first thing my fingers touched—a crumpled little piece of paper, as though someone had started to throw it away, then changed their mind at the last second and saved it. I turned it toward the window so the moonlight could illuminate what was written on it.

They found out about us.

My blood instantly ran cold. What was this supposed to mean? Was this some kind of tasteless joke? Why would something like this be crumpled up among her belongings? Worse, hidden deep inside her wardrobe? Who had found out what about whom? I had so many questions that needed answers, but there was nothing more I could do at that moment. I panicked when I heard footsteps and commotion somewhere above me again, and I figured they must have noticed that I wasn’t in my room.

I wanted to see what was inside the other envelopes, but too frightened of my father’s reaction, I quickly put the envelope back where it had been, closed the box, and slid it back behind the shoes. I folded the little piece of paper and slipped it into the pocket of my pajamas, then bolted toward the stairs. Luck was on my side because there was no one anywhere along the path I took. A small smile formed on my lips despite the adrenaline still coursing through me, and just as I reached the top of the stairs and my bedroom, my head collided with something solid.

I looked up and saw Rick, one of my father’s men. He stared at me in confusion, while I stared back at him even more confused, and he cleared his throat before apologizing under his breath. My eyes widened as much as they possibly could, and I was already scrambling to come up with an excuse for why I had needed to leave my room at that exact moment.

“Miss, we were told you are not to leave your room,” he said awkwardly.

I looked down at the floor and scratched the back of my head. “I know, I know, but... I had to go to the bathroom on the first floor. I ran out of... you know... tampons,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed anywhere but his face.

He blinked rapidly a few times and cleared his throat again.

“Uh-huh, of course. The important thing is that you found them, anyway...” He stood there with his mouth slightly open, trying to come up with a coherent sentence, but failing, so I decided to spare both of us the embarrassment and headed toward my room without another word.

He followed me to my room, keeping two or three feet of distance behind me, and when I stepped inside, he closed the door behind me. The sound that followed made my head spin a full 180 degrees.

He had locked me inside. Of course he did. An order from my parents, for sure, who didn’t have the decency to come upstairs and tell me to my face that I was a prisoner in my own home.

With a frustrated sigh, I sat down on the edge of my bed and turned my attention back to that little piece of paper, fully aware that there was nothing else I could do. And that was how I waited for dawn.

By morning, I was already dressed, sitting at the vanity, the little piece of paper hidden beneath my bra, ready to ask Olivia what it was about as soon as she came in. But instead of her knock, I heard the lock being opened, and the door swung open without my permission.

My father.

For a moment, he looked at my face—probably still swollen, my eyes red from the sleepless night and all the crying—and it seemed to me that his expression softened. But only for a moment. The very next second, he put that same hard mask back on and motioned with his head for me to follow him. I stood up without a word.

A car was waiting in front of the house, and my mother was already sitting inside. I got in without a word, my father took the front seat, and we left. The drive passed in silence—my father pretended I didn’t exist, exchanging only a few words with my mother, while she refused to even look at me. I had no desire to look at either of them either. If they were already prepared to sell my life and my future for the sake of territory, then I would find a way to stop this marriage myself. Ideas had already begun forming in my mind, one after another, when I felt the car slow down.

Once again, we were in front of the same building in Pennsylvania, the one that had belonged to Uncle Thomas. The lawyer was waiting for us outside. He greeted us and, instead of taking us to an office, led us into a café on the ground floor of the neighboring building, explaining that Luka and his parents were already waiting for us in a reserved booth.

We passed through two rooms filled with people casually chatting over coffee, and this time, my gaze was the first to fall on Luka. He was sitting at the head of the table, dressed in a black suit, his shoulders rigid and squared, as though he were carrying a burden he wasn’t allowed to show. His father, Victor, sat to his left, and his stepmother, Claire, to his right. Both of them were staring at some invisible point on the table. In front of Victor stood an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts—a sufficient indication that the tension that morning wasn’t limited to my family.

When they noticed us, everyone straightened in their seats. Luka was the only one who stood and nodded at my parents, briefly and formally. We sat across from them. Once again, Jonathan Bellamy—Uncle Thomas’s lawyer—found himself between the two families, much to his obvious discomfort. As soon as we sat down, he spread a stack of papers across the table alongside Luka and said that we should begin immediately so we wouldn’t waste any time.

“The probate process has been initiated,” he began, touching the papers as though they were red-hot. “Once the will is entered into the probate record, its contents will be accessible as a public record. And then we’ll have serious problems—with the Ortega Organization, as well as with everyone else who has a reason to oppose this marriage.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to defend this territory from so many people when the Devereauxs’ men can't even tie their own shoelaces?” my father asked mockingly.

“Without my men, Ortega can take everything Thomas left us before we even make it to the notary,” Victor said, not lifting his eyes from his ashtray. His voice was seemingly calm, but his fingers tapped against the table, one after another, as if counting backward. “There’s your answer to your question.”

“I wasn’t asking you, Victor.”

“You were. You just didn't like hearing the truth, as always.”

The lawyer cleared his throat discreetly, trying to draw everyone’s attention back to the papers. “If I may continue—”

“No, you can’t, Frank,” my father cut him off sharply, “until you tell me whether you’re really such an incompetent lawyer that you can’t slow this process down until next week, when we’ll have time to prepare everything properly.”

“My name isn’t Frank, for the thousandth time—”

“Because the will says tomorrow,” Luka said, speaking for the first time since we had sat down. His voice was flat, without the slightest hint of compromise. “It’s not a matter of opinion, Richard. It’s written in black and white.”

“I’m not talking to you,” my father snapped.

“You are,” Luka replied, “because the future of your family depends on me saying I do.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Claire nervously twisted her ring around her finger, Victor lit a new cigarette from the butt of the previous one, and my mother simply stared at the table, as though if she kept her eyes lowered long enough, all of this might disappear.

“Where will they live?” my mother asked, surprising me with how tiny her voice sounded.

“My house,” Luka said without blinking. I let out a disbelieving sound that made everyone look at me as if they had only remembered now that I was sitting here as well.

“Wonderful, of course,” I said. “Is there something else you aren't telling us regarding this will?”

“Vivian,” my father warned quietly.

“They’ll live in one of my houses, on my estate. I’m not sending my daughter to your family only for the next time I see her to be at her funeral!” Richard shouted, his words sending a chill down my spine.

“Over my dead body!” Victor said.

“No,” I said, my voice beginning to rise despite my effort to keep it cold. “I stayed quiet the entire drive here. I stayed quiet while all of you negotiated my life as though you were negotiating a plot of land. I think I have the right to ask at least one question.”

“You have the right to whatever we give you,” my father said, his tone cold enough to silence me for a moment.

The lawyer took advantage of the silence and hurried to continue, flipping through the papers faster than before. “All right. So—the wedding venue. The officiant has already been notified to come here, to the private room above this building, tomorrow at noon. As for the residence—”

“We already settled that,” Victor interrupted.

“No, you said two completely different things, and only one of them can go into the record for the notary, otherwise Ortega will have grounds to—”

“Ortega, Ortega,” my father repeated with contempt, “as though that’s the only word you know how to say this week.”

“Because it’s the only one you should be worried about,” Luka said calmly.

My father leaned forward. “I don’t need you telling me what I should be worried about, boy.”

“Then tell me,” Luka shot back, “did you know that two people from the Ortega Organization were seen in this city yesterday? Because I did. And that’s why I’m sitting at this table instead of taking care of something more useful.”

Claire quietly said his name, almost pleadingly, but he ignored her. She turned toward Victor and gently touched his shoulder. “Darling, wouldn’t it make the most sense for them to live on Uncle’s estate? After all, they’re getting married to protect this territory, and they need some privacy too...”

I shot Claire a glare, and I was the only one who did, because everyone else first seemed thoughtful and then nodded in agreement. The lawyer tried again. “If we return to the contents of the will—”

“Go back to it,” my father said, waving his hand as though dismissing a servant.

“Thomas was very precise,” Jonathan continued, visibly relieved that someone was finally listening. “The marriage must take place by midnight tomorrow. And”—he paused, looking first at me and then at Luka, as though he already knew how this would go—“let’s not forget, Thomas also required you to have a child within a year.”

“No,” I said, rising from my chair so abruptly that it scraped against the floor. “ENOUGH.”

I felt everything in my chest tighten, the words rushing out on their own, faster than I could organize them. “This is outrageous. You’re sitting here talking about my body, about my uterus, as though it were a clause in a real estate contract. This whole thing with the will sounds completely absurd to me.” I turned toward the lawyer, my finger shooting toward him on its own. “And I find it especially suspicious that you are the only one, sir, who had access to that will. That the only thing we have is your word—”

A gunshot rang out.

I felt a sudden rush of air whistle over my finger, and in the same instant Claire screamed, clutching her shoulder. The bullet—I realized only after it happened—had passed right above my outstretched finger and struck her in the shoulder.

For a moment there was complete shock, a silence that lasted perhaps half a second, and then chaos.

“Down! Everyone down!” the lawyer shouted.

Victor grabbed Claire by the shoulder and pulled her under the table. My father shoved my mother down, while Luka jumped out of his chair, grabbed me by the sleeve of my jacket, and pulled me across the table, onto his side, straight underneath him.

Ashtrays and glasses fell from the table, shattering across the floor—one struck Jonathan directly in the head, and he began screaming that he was dying, convinced that he had been hit by a bullet. Luka lay over me, shielding me with his body from every subsequent shot that echoed from outside, from the street, through the shattered window.

He pulled out his gun. My father and Victor did the same, returning fire toward the window where the shots were coming from. The entire café erupted into screams—someone, crying, began shouting, “Police! Police!”

Luka was still on top of me, firing over the edge of the table, his body pressed firmly against mine like a human shield. When I managed to turn my head toward the floor, I saw my mother crawl over to Claire and press her hand against her bleeding shoulder. Then sirens sounded in the distance, and the gunfire suddenly stopped.

A silence so complete it hurt my ears followed—until Claire broke it with a deep, audible, choking breath. Victor began shouting, “No, no, not again, this can’t happen to me again,” his voice breaking with every word. My mother screamed when she turned and saw my father—his forehead was grazed, a thin line above his eyebrow from which blood was trickling. He wiped it with the back of his hand, mechanically, as though wiping away sweat, and only when he looked at his palm did he realize it wasn’t sweat.

Luka finally got up from the table. I felt my lungs finally fill with air. He stood, walked over to Jonathan, who was still lying on the floor, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him slightly off the ground, his voice as calm as though nothing had happened.

“Did you prepare the marriage licenses?”

The lawyer nodded, still trembling, and stammered that he had. Luka turned fully toward him, his expression allowing no argument—neither now nor ever.

“Marry us. Now.”