MARCELLA ROMANO

~TWENTY TWO YEARS LATER~

                        ~MARCELLA~

I weave my way onto the dance floor with Stephanie, my best friend, finding the beat as I sway my hips and lose myself in the groove, erupting loud cheering noises from the hungry crowd whose hungry eyes are ravaging all over my body.

I'm putting on a very short wine dress that exposes all my cleavages and legs.

I dance, I jump, I spin, I rock my best friend, I shake my ass and make seductive moves.

 I love the heat of the eyes on me as I am twerking my bouncy butt. I have been frequenting the club almost every day that I send the right signals as I dance and soon, grooving men get closer and start spraying some cash on me.

“Marcella,” my best friend shouts over the music, grabbing my wrist to stop me from spinning into another group of dancers. “Why do you have so much energy? Did you drink something or smoke before coming out?”

I grin at her, breathless. “I spent most of my childhood being locked up. Now, I'm finally free. So let me enjoy myself.”

Oh….a little Introduction.

Hi, I am Marcella Nico Romano! The second triplet daughter of the Romano family. But neither my sisters nor I are allowed to answer the “Romano” name in public, so I answer more of my father's name—Nico.

I am not even allowed to let anyone know that I have sisters who look exactly like me! I must act like I'm an only child.

It's for protection—mom and my fathers says.

Yeah, I have three fathers—because just like my sisters and I, my father has two other brothers who look exactly like him and behave like fathers to me also.

Growing up, my sisters and I were locked away in a very big and beautiful mansion where we had everything—private chefs, private doctors, rooms bigger than most apartments, wardrobes filled with things we were rarely allowed to wear outside.

Everything except choice. We're prisoners locked up in a beautiful mansion.

From the moment I could walk, there were rules. Invisible ones. Heavy ones.

We were never allowed to leave without security. Never allowed to speak to strangers. Never allowed to answer personal questions. Never allowed to be photographed. Never allowed to say our names aloud in public for too long.

We existed quietly. Carefully.

Our childhood didn’t have classrooms filled with noise or playgrounds scraped by laughter. 

Instead, we had private teachers—handpicked, vetted, rotated constantly. One taught us languages. Another taught history, but not the version written in books…..the version written in blood and betrayal. Strategy was introduced to us before fairy tales. Silence before innocence.

Mom said we were born in blood and sirens, in chaos she never speaks of without her eyes going distant. They tell us we survived something terrible when we were infants.

University was supposed to be our freedom.

Instead, it was our separation.

We were sent to different cities. Different countries. Different lives. Far enough apart that no one would ever suspect we were connected. 

I remember my mother crying quietly the night we left, holding each of us like she was memorizing our faces in case the world stole us again.

At university, I became everything I had wanted to be —wild, carefree, and a fun person. 

I had my first boyfriend and practiced everything I have watched only in movies, including my first sex!

I'm in my second year now and I have been with four guys already and I am currently dating one.

Yeah, I'm a seductress and a heartbreaker and a girl who doesn't believe in commitment and enjoys casual flings a lot.

And that's why I am always in a club, searching for fresh, hot men to play with, then dump them.

And I'm glad that university gives me the chance to flirt without consequence. Laugh without being told I’m too much. Dance without someone reminding me I’m a Romano and Romanos don’t behave recklessly.

Stephanie eyes me up and down, shaking her head.

 “You enjoy yourself like you’re on a mission,” she tells me.

“Maybe I am.” I wink at her.

She laughs, then leans closer and pulls my arm.

 “Come, let's grab a drink.”

“No, I still want to dance.” I start to protect as she drags me off the dance floor to the bar counter.

“Hi. Can we get our usual please?” She asks the bartender.

“Sure.”

Within a few minutes, two glasses of vodka were placed in front of us.

I lift my glass in mock salute.

 “Cheers to freedom.”

That’s when I feel it.

That subtle shift. The moment when instinct kicks in before logic has time to speak.

I turn my head…..and there he is.

He isn’t dancing. Isn’t loud. Isn’t trying to be seen. He’s leaning against the bar, calm, composed, watching the room like he belongs everywhere at once.

 His eyes meet mine, and just like everyone else, he doesn’t look away.

He studies me.

Most men look at me like they’re already imagining something. He looks like he’s deciding something.

Something inside me sparks.

“Mmmm ... .I like this one,” I blurt out.

“Who are you talking about?” Stephanie asks, then traces my eyes to see the young, handsome and gorgeous man standing and staring at us, before she turns to look at me again.

My lips curve into a slow smile—half challenge, half invitation—before I can stop myself.

I tilt my head, letting my hair fall just right, letting him see exactly how aware I am of the attention.

My best friend notices immediately. 

“No,” she says. “Absolutely not. I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re about to start something.”

I step away from her grip. “Relax. I’m just saying hello.”

“Marcella, No!” She exclaims, but I ignore her. 

I won't let her stop me from having fun with my new plaything.

I walk toward him with purpose, letting my confidence lead the way with my hips swaying.

I’ve learned how to own a room…..how to let my body speak when I don’t want my heart involved. Desire is easier than honesty. Safer than vulnerability.

I stop in front of him, eyes bright, smile playful.

“You’ve been staring,” I say, casual, amused rather than being intrigued.

He meets my gaze without flinching. “So have you.”

Oh my! His voice is deep, smooth and heavenly.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider that.

 “Maybe. But at least I had the courage to come over.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Bold.”

I smile wider. Bold is my armor. Drama my shield. 

As long as I’m wanted, I don’t have to think about the quiet fear buried underneath ... .the one that whispers that without desire, I might disappear.

And tonight, under these lights, I refuse to disappear.