EMILY

I stood in front of the grand mirror in my room, staring at the girl who looked like me but didn’t feel like me.

I didn’t move as the maid zipped up my black silk dress. The fabric slid over bruises I no longer reacted to.

My skin was a quiet story of pain, of doing what I was told. My face, perfect yet empty, had been shaped by fear and tears.

I showed no emotions, and made no mistakes. I was the daughter Don Salvatore expected me to be.

My name is Emily Salvatore, I'm a 20-year-old, resilient, and defiant young woman; once innocent, now awakened to the darkness around me. I have dazzling black eyes, a curvy figure and long black hair that synchronises with my eye colour.

“Perfect, Miss Emily,” the maid whispered softly.

I glanced at the mirror. My hair was packed in a ponytail style. My lips were red, like the blood I never let them see.

Don had rules: look strong, stay quiet, never ask questions and never disobey.

A knock on the door broke in between my thoughts.

“Miss Emily,” Martha, our cook said. “Breakfast is in twenty minutes.”

Downstairs, Don sat in the grand dining room, his breakfast untouched. He didn’t look at me when I walked in. He never actually did, because I was just another thing he owned and used whenever he felt like it.

Don is 5'9" ft tall with a powerful, muscular build and broad shoulders. His chiseled features included sharp cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. His piercing dark brown eyes seemed to bore into those he looked at. His intense gaze was unblinking, making people look away. His eyes told a story of having seen too much blood without feeling any remorse.

His dark brown hair framed his flawless skin, which was marked by a few strategic scars. One scar lay across his brow, hinting at a violent past. His deep voice carried authority, with each word weighted with power. A low threat from him was more terrifying than any scream.

His large, veined hands had long fingers capable of both violence and control. His hands were adorned with a tattooed serpent on his chest and wrist, symbolizing his leadership in the gang. He also wore a thick silver ring that signified his rank.

“You’re late,” he said, sipping his espresso.

“I’m not,” I answered calmly.

He looked up at me, giving me a cold look. “Don’t test me, girl.”

I lowered my gaze.

I sat. My food was already plated: two boiled eggs, toast, and fruit. The same every morning because Don always says too much variety spoils discipline.

Then the door opened and I froze, a man walked in.

He is 6’2”ft tall, broad-shoulder, caramel toned skin, sculptured chest, brown tousled hair like he ran his hand over it, blue calculating eyes that could look through the heart of one with no emotions in it, sharply sculpted jawline, a slightly dimpled chin.

He had a musky smell, his white shirt clung slightly to his chest with his suit on his arm. He also had the tattoo of a serpent on his wrist, which signifies his membership and commitment to “The Black Vipers” gang.

Vincent Bull.

Vincent is Don’s underboss. The man whom everyone feared. The one who can sleet someone's throat for just breathing wrongly.

He moved like smoke; calm, unbothered and deadly.

There was something about his eyes that got to me. They were dark, unreadable and dangerous. And they were watching me now, like he could see the truth I kept hidden.

“Morning,” he said to Don, then nodded at me. “Princess.”

I hated that name. The others used it to mock me. But from Vincent, it sounded different. More like a warning or a reminder.

“Sit, Bull,” Don said. “We have work to discuss.”

Vincent sat across me, stretching out with quiet power. His leg brushed mine under the table and I stiffened.

Don poured another espresso. “There’s a shipment going out tonight. I want you there, Bull. Watch everything.”

“Got it.” Vincent said.

“And take her with you.” Don added.

I blinked.

Vincent’s voice was calm. “Why?”

“She needs to understand power,” Don said. “She’s twenty now. No more hiding in silk and lace. She’ll be my queen one day, so she needs to learn what that means.”

Vincent looked at me and his jaw tightened. “It’s not safe.”

Don’s eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning me?”

Vincent leaned back, slowly. “Of course not Boss.”

Don smiled coldly. “Good. Keep her in line.”

I kept silent but my stomach twisted.

Because I knew what kind of “shipments” Don moved. And I knew what happened to girls without protection.

Vincent stood, already on his phone. “I’ll handle it.”

Don looked at me. “Wear red tonight. Let them remember who you belong to.”

He meant: who owns you.

I nodded.

Hours later, I was in my room with the maid, rambling as she laid out different red dresses, looking for the perfect red fit for me to wear.

I picked the simplest dress. It was a backless gown, made of blood-red silk that had a slit up the thigh. I didn’t want attention. But I knew I’d get it, not for being beautiful, but because of what I was: someone’s possession, which stands as a keep-off zone to others.

The warehouse smelled like rust, blood, and seawater all mixed together. I stood beside Vincent in the dark, wearing a red silk dress like a warning sign. The men stepped aside. Not for me, but for him.

He didn’t touch me. But his hand stayed close, like a shield.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t choose this.”

He looked at me, and something flickered in his eyes. Not pity, Vincent doesn't pity anyone.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but then his face hardened.

Then a door slammed open. Two men dragged in a girl. She was all tied up and looked really scared.

From her look, I could tell she's between the ages of seventeen to nineteen.

I froze.

She looked like I did at that age. Silent, afraid and owned.

Vincent stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

“Go to the car.”

“No.” I opposed it.

His voice dropped. “This isn’t for you.”

“I thought I was here to learn,” I said. “To see real power.”

His eyes darkened. Then he stepped aside and let me see.

Documents were signed and in less than 5 minutes,the girl was sold.

Like I would’ve been if I didn’t carry Don’s last name.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.

That girl’s face kept coming back to me. Her wide eyes, shaking lips, her silent screams. Her wrists were bruised, just like mine had been before.

I sat at the edge of my bed silently.

The house was quiet and everyone was asleep, even the guards outside my door. Don believed fear would keep me in place.

He was right though. But tonight, fear wasn’t enough to stop me.

I walked barefoot down the hallway, with every step sounding louder than it should. I passed tall pillars, dusty cabinets, Don’s locked study, and the vault he always kept me away from.

Then I stopped in front of the one thing that ever gave me any comfort; my mother’s large portrait.

It hung at the end of the east hallway, where no one ever went. She had my eyes and my jawline.

Don always said she died of an illness. That she wasn’t made for this world.

Tonight, I didn’t just look at the portrait. I touched it.

My fingers ran along the edge of the gold frame, and something felt strange.

I leaned in closer. There was a thin line behind the canvas, almost invisible.

I pressed my hand against it and it clicked.

The sound was so small that I almost didn’t hear it.

Then, the portrait moved, slowly swinging open like a hidden door.

Behind it was nothing but darkness, and a narrow hallway stretched out into the void. The air felt thick and smelled like old dust.

My heart started to beat faster as I walked inside. The walls were made of cold stone, and the floor creaked with every step I took.

Then I saw a small, hidden room.

Everywhere and everything was covered in dust.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with old journals, tapes, and photographs. In the corner, was a big rusty safe sitting quietly in the dark.

I stepped in slowly, brushing cobwebs off my arms.

My hands shook as I picked up one of the journals.

It had my mother’s name on the front cover.

Before I could open it, I heard a voice behind me.

“Who’s there?” The voice asked

I turned around and froze.