The walk home felt longer than usual.

Each step made my stomach twist tighter, I kept my head down as I entered through the back gate, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

The house was silent. Too silent.

He knows. He has to know.

My father sat waiting in his study, the way he always did when he knew I'd done wrong. He didn't look up when I entered, just kept flipping through some papers on his desk. A glass of whiskey in his hand as he took a slow sip.

"Sit," he said.

I sat.

The silence stretched for so long that I could hear my pulse as it pounded in my ears.

He took another slow sip of whiskey. "You were gone last night," he said. His voice was calm. That was worse than shouting.

I didn't answer. There was no point in denying or accepting because he already knew the answer.

He finally looked at me, his eyes cold. "You know what happens when you disobey me."

My stomach twisted.

No Not again My mouth went dry I knew. Of course I knew.

But I stood when he did. Followed when he walked toward the basement door. My feet moved on their own, my body remembering what came next even as my mind screamed to run.

The basement smelled like old blood, my blood actually. The wooden bench in the center of the room was polished smooth from years of use. From years of me lying on it.

"Take it off," my father said.

I removed the jacket first, then the shirt. The air was cold against my bare skin The bench was freezing when I laid down on it. The wood pressed against my stomach and thighs. I turned my face to the side and saw the whip hanging on the wall where it always hung.

The first crack came without warning.

hot pain exploded across my back. My fingers dug into the sides of the bench. A scream tore from my throat before I could stop it.

"Pathetic," my father spat.

CRACK.

Again. And again.

The pain was a living thing, eating through my skin, my muscles, my bones. I could feel the old scars splitting open, the new wounds bleeding.

"You're nothing," he said between lashes. "Nothing but a useless girl pretending to be something you're not."

Crack.

I hate you I screamed in my head

"You'll never be half the man your brother was."

Crack.

I hate you !!!

"You're lucky I even keep you alive."

Crack.

Tears mixed with sweat on my face. The pain was so bad now that my whole body shook with it. But worse than the pain was the hatred burning in my chest.

I hated him.

I hated him more with every strike. More with every cruel word.

When it was finally over, I didn't move. Couldn't move. My back felt like it was on fire.

My father dropped the whip on the floor next to me. "Clean yourself up," he said. "You're meeting the Volkov girl tonight."

I’ll kill you one day.

His footsteps faded as he walked upstairs. The door clicked shut behind him.

I stayed on that bench, shaking and bleeding, and made myself a promise.

One day he will bleed to.

The bathroom tiles were cold against my bare feet as I stepped into the shower. The water hit my back and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from screaming. Hot turned to burning as it ran over the open wounds, turning the water pink at my feet.

I remembered when I was ten, the first time this happened. My mother had found me crying in this same bathroom. She'd said nothing, just taken the bandages from my shaking hands and cleaned the wounds herself. Her fingers had been so gentle.

“Shhh, mo stór," she'd whispered, pressing a kiss to my hair. “One day this will all be over."

But it never was.

Now there was no one to help me. No one to whisper comforts while they patched me up. Just me, the sting of antiseptic, and the mirror that showed what I'd become a patchwork of scars and fresh cuts.

The bandages stuck to my wet skin as I tried to wrap them around myself. My arms shook from the effort, from the pain. Half the time I dropped the roll, watching it unravel across the floor.

I thought of my brother then. Sean. He'd been sixteen when he died old enough to take the punishments meant for me, young enough to still believe our father could change.

“It's not so bad," he'd lie through gritted teeth afterward, letting me clean his wounds. “Better me than you, little sister."

The last bandage finally stuck. I leaned against the sink, breathing hard, staring at my reflection at the dark circles under my eyes, at the set of my jaw that looked so much like Sean's.

The house was silent around me. No mother humming in the kitchen. No brother sneaking me sweets after a beating. Just empty rooms and the ghost of their memories.

And my father's voice still ringing in my ears.

Useless. Pathetic. Nothing.

I pressed my forehead to the cool mirror.

One day, I'd make him pay.

........A few hours later..........

The mirror in my father's study showed my reflection Aidan O'Connor, heir to the Irish mafia, in a perfectly tailored suit. But my father saw something else.

"Pathetic," he spat, circling me like a vulture. His whiskey glass left wet rings on his desk. "If you were any good as a woman, I'd have sold you off years ago."

I kept my face blank, my hands loose at my sides. This wasn't new.

He laughed suddenly, the sound jagged. "You hear about Moretti's son? That Italian bastard's lost his mind over some girl." He took a slow sip, eyes gleaming. "Tearing the city apart looking for her. Like some lovesick fool."

My pulse jumped. No.

"Imagine," my father sneered, "being weak enough to chase a woman. If you weren't such a useless bitch, I'd have offered you to him myself."

The words hit like a slap. My nails bit into my palms.

He leaned in, whiskey breath hot on my face. "Good thing you're better as a dead son than a living daughter."

The door opened. A guard cleared his throat. "The Volkovs have arrived, sir."

My father straightened his tie. "Try not to embarrass me tonight, Aidan"

I followed him out, my heart pounding so loud I feared everyone could hear it.

The bandages itched under my shirt as I sat at the dining table. The Volkovs would arrive soon, and I had to be perfect. Had to be Aidan. But my mind kept drifting back to him.

The way his hands had felt on my waist.

The low rumble of his voice in my ear.

The taste of whiskey on his tongue.

I stabbed my fork into the food I wasn't eating.

Stop it.

Natalia Volkov sat across from me, her red lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She said something about wedding dates. I nodded like I cared.

But all I could think about was how different his touch had been last night. Not possessive like my father's. Not calculating like Natalia's. Just... hungry. Like he wanted me, not some version of me.

A sharp pain shot through my back as I shifted in my seat. The wounds protested, a fresh reminder of why fantasies were dangerous.

"You're quiet today," Natalia remarked, swirling her wine glass.

I forced a smirk. "Just thinking about business."

Liar.

The truth was burning in my chest I wanted to see him again. Wanted it so badly it scared me.

And that was the most dangerous thought of all.

Natalia's father, Viktor Volkov, leaned across the table. His gold rings clicked against his wine glass.

"Tell me boy" he said, lips curling around the word, "do you even know how to handle a gun? Or is that pretty face just for show?"

My father's eyes cut to me from across the table. A silent command in his glare. Don't embarrass me.

Before I could speak, gunfire exploded through the windows.

Glass shattered and Screams filled the air.

Shards of glass rained down as automatic gunfire filled the room. A bullet whizzed past my ear, so close I felt the heat of it.

I was moving before my brain caught up shoving the table over, sending plates crashing to the ground. Natalia hit the floor with a yelp as bullets tore through the walls above us.

"Stay down!" I barked, pulling the pistol from my waistband.

I fired twice at the masked men pouring through the doors. One man dropped. Another staggered back, clutching his shoulder.

Chaos erupted.

My father and his men returned fire, their shouts lost under the deafening gunshots. Viktor Volkov crouched behind an overturned chair, his face purple with rage as he fumbled for his own weapon.

A masked attacker rushed me. I sidestepped his lunge and drove my elbow into his throat. He choked, gasping, and I kneed him hard between the legs. As he doubled over, I smashed the butt of my pistol against his temple. He crumpled.

Something moved in my side vision

Pain exploded across the back of my skull. White lights flashed behind my eyes as I stumbled forward. My knees hit the ground hard.

I tried to push myself up but my arms were too weak. The room spun.

Through my blurred vision, I saw him a tall figure I saw him a tall figure stepping over bodies, his suit untouched by blood.

Then I saw it the thin, pale scar cutting through his dark eyebrow.

Darkness swallowed me before I could understand why that scar felt familiar.