Valerie’s voice still echoed in my mind as the gates of the Moretti estate closed behind us. “You’ll need to start acting like what you are… a Moretti.” The silence inside the mansion was colder than the night air. Father stood in the center of the grand hallway, arms crossed, eyes dark with rage. His men flanked the walls like shadows, silent and watchful.

“You were attacked?” His voice was sharp, every syllable cutting like a blade. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Valerie stepped forward, calm as ever. “They found us, Don Moretti. "She didn’t know. " “Exactly the problem.” He turned to me. “She didn’t know.” My last Bloodline and heir to my empire remains clueless! His gaze burned through me like acid.

“You’re not a child,” he thundered. “Not a civilian. You are my daughter. A princess. A target with a price.” His hand slashed the air. “From this moment—no more leaving this house. Phone, confiscated. Freedom, revoked.”

My heart twisted. “You can’t do that,” I muttered. He took a step forward. “I just did.”

For a flicker of a second, I thought I saw it… Fear. Not rage, not disappointment. Fear in his eyes, buried deep, like a shadow he refused to admit existed. “If they take you,” his voice dropped low, almost breaking, “they take my bloodline." They take everything.” But just as quickly, the mask returned, hard as stone. “And I won’t let that happen". Even if it means caging you.

They took everything... My phone, my laptop, even the sketchpad I used to escape into quiet daydreams. The sketchpad was the worst. I’d drawn whole futures on those pages with cafes, wrong names, small peaceful rooms. When they tucked it away I felt the future fold in on itself.The windows were locked. The guards rotated every four hours. I was a prisoner in my own home, wasn't really a new concept though. I spent the first two days seething, pacing my room like a lioness. No music. No news. No contact. Just the quiet hum of a house filled with secrets and eyes.

By the third day, I couldn't take it. I decided that the only way I could break free, was to prove to him that I could defend myself! That I was cut out to be a Mafia Princess. Even though my hatred for it burned deep down. And that was when training began.It started at dawn. A knock on my door. Then Valerie’s voice: “Up. Now. We start today. I was led to the east wing, once a ballroom, now a war zone. The floors had been stripped to reveal stone. Punching bags lined the walls. Weapon racks stood like altars of destruction. Not what you'd picture for a Princess.

“This is where you stop being a liability,” Valerie said, tossing me a weighted baton. I stared at it. “And start being what? ” I responded, slightly offended. She smirked. “A Moretti.” Her hand was steady on my arm. For a second I saw something behind the steel: a terrified girl who’d learned to hide the tremor. “If you fail,” she said under her breath, “they’ll say I couldn’t protect you.”Her words were quite upsetting though and confusing, since when did protecting me become her obligation. I never saw myself as a liability! But she was right. I needed to learn how to defend myself unless Dad would never grant me my freedom.

The baton hit my palms, it was heavier than it looked. I stared at it, wondering if I was supposed to swing it, throw it, or snap it in half to prove a point. “Your reflexes are slow,” Valerie said flatly. “That’ll get you killed.” I hadn’t even moved yet. “Again,” she snapped. She struck without warning, a blur of motion. I barely managed to raise the baton, and the force sent me staggering back. Pain bloomed in my wrist. My pride screamed louder. The sting was nothing compared to the humiliation. Every strike felt less like teaching and more like a reminder: in this world, even survival was designed to hurt.

“This is assault,” I hissed. “This is preparation.” Valerie stood tall, composed, untouched. “Do you think they’ll ask permission before putting a bullet in your spine?" I lunged again, clumsier than I wanted to admit. She caught me mid-motion, twisted me to the ground, and planted a knee on my back. “You only fight with anger. It’ll get you nowhere. “Maybe because then I'll need to hurt someone.” “Then start with me,” she whispered. Her eyes flashed, just for a heartbeat, and I saw something raw, desperation, not just discipline. “This isn’t just about you, Elisa,” Valerie muttered, low enough for only me to hear. “If you fail, I fail." And failure in this world…” Her jaw tightened. “It means death for us both.” I spent the next hour tasting the floor. My muscles burned. My breathing was ragged. Blood pooled in my mouth where my lip had split open. I hated her. I hated this. But most of all, I hated how much I needed it.

By the time the sun reached its peak, I was on my knees, panting. Valerie handed me a towel. “Same time tomorrow. You’re done for today. I looked up at her, soaked in sweat, my hands trembling. “This is what being a Moretti means?” I asked. Valerie didn’t smile, but her gaze softened. “No. This is just surviving it.”

That night, I stared at the ceiling, my body aching, my mind louder than ever. I didn’t know who I was becoming. Moreover, I had never seen that part of Valerie, cold and brutal. She was caught out to be the Mafia Princess, not me! I'd trade my life for that of an unpopular girl living a peaceful life with her loved ones in the city. A normal girl with a normal life receiving love from both parents. A life without threats or fears, I thought. That night, with no phone to distract me, I laid in the dark, muscles screaming in protest every time I shifted. My mind raced, replaying every strike, every fall, every harsh word Valerie had thrown my way.

A sudden knock shattered the silence. My heart lurched. I scrambled to the door, hesitating for a moment before pulling it open. There, in the dim hallway light, stood a shadowed figure. No words. Just a folded piece of paper pressed into my hand. Before I could react, the figure melted back into the darkness. Hands shaking, I unfolded the note.

“We see you and we're watching, trust no one missy.”

I tore the note into pieces, but the words burned into my mind. Trust no one. That night, every creak of the mansion made my skin crawl. Footsteps in the hall. Shadows under the door. Was I to tell my father? Even Valerie’s voice the next morning felt sharper, colder, like she might be hiding something. For the first time, I realized the truth: maybe the cage wasn’t to keep the world out. Maybe it was to keep me in. Cold dread settled in my stomach. The fight was only beginning.

The next morning, every muscle in my body screamed in protest. Getting out of bed felt like dragging a thousand-pound weight behind me. But Valerie’s words echoed relentlessly: “Same time tomorrow.” I showed up at the training ground, the air crisp with dawn and heavy with unspoken expectations. Valerie was already there, waiting with that cold, unreadable expression that both terrified and pushed me forward.

Today’s about endurance. “Run,” she ordered, pointing toward the winding track that skirted the perimeter of the compound. My legs protested with every step, burning, lungs clawing for air. Valerie matched my pace effortlessly, eyes sharp, calculating. “Faster,” she snapped. I forced my legs to respond, the world narrowing to the pounding of my heartbeat and the ragged sound of my breath. After what felt like an eternity, I collapsed, chest heaving. Valerie didn’t give me a second to rest. “Now, obstacle course.” I glanced at the looming wall of tires, ropes, and bars. My body trembled, not just from exhaustion, but from the gnawing fear of failure. The course was a brutal test of agility and grit. I crawled through the mud, swung from ropes until my hands bled, and leaped over walls taller than me.

Valerie was relentless, always pushing, always watching. She corrected my form, demanded more, never offering mercy. “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” she muttered like a mantra. But beneath the harsh lessons, there were moments that pierced through the toughness, quick nods of approval when I managed a difficult climb, or the rare flicker of respect in her eyes after I didn’t quit. Up on the balcony, shadows moved, two men, suits too clean to be trainers, watching, taking notes. This wasn’t only practice. Someone was grading me.

By the end of the day, I was raw and broken but something fierce was building inside me. Not just the strength to fight, but the resolve to survive what was coming. Valerie’s voice cut through my exhaustion.. Tomorrow, you learn to fight without the baton. "Your hands are weapons now.” I swallowed hard, already knowing that the real battle was only beginning. After the physical torment came the quiet battles, those fought deep inside my head, where no one could see the bruises. At first, the pressure crushed me. Every mistake felt like a scar branded onto my soul. Valerie’s sharp critiques weren’t just about skill, they were tests of my spirit. I’d lie awake at night, muscles still burning, mind racing with doubt. Am I strong enough? Am I enough? The questions gnawed at me, whispering that I’d never survive what lay ahead. But slowly, something shifted. I realized the fear, the anger, the pain. They were all tools, weapons I could wield if I learned to control them.

Valerie’s words echoed: “You fight with only anger. It’ll get you nowhere. So I tried to let go. Instead, I would focus on calmness and on control. Meditation would become my secret weapon. But when I closed my eyes, it wasn’t peace I saw. It was Father's cold commands, his ruthless gaze. What if this training didn’t just make me stronger? What if it carved me into him? The thought made bile rise. I wanted strength, not steel for a heart. I wanted to be the kind of woman who kept people safe, not the kind who burned them for power. Could I have both? Or would one erase the other? The thought made my chest tighten. I wanted freedom, not his throne. But every strike, every drill, every scar felt like another step into his shadow. I visualized the fights to come, not with fury, but with clarity. I imagined my movements, precise and unyielding, like a river cutting through stone.

The mental discipline was harder than any physical drill. My thoughts wanted to spiral into fear, regret, pain. But I forced them back, centering myself on a steady rhythm: breath in, breath out. When doubt crept in, I reminded myself of the girl I used to be and the woman I was becoming. Every bruise, every failure, every victory was carving a new path. I was no longer just surviving. I was starting to fight back. I had just started to believe I might make it through this, that maybe I could become something stronger than I ever imagined when a cold whisper slipped through the walls of the training center, carried by a sudden draft.

They’re watching. Always.” The words weren’t spoken aloud, but they echoed in my mind like a warning. I scanned the empty room, heart hammering. Outside, the shadows deepened. Seep wouldn’t come. Every footstep in the hall became a threat; every laugh downstairs sounded like plotting. The mansion breathed like a thing alive with eyes.Somewhere beyond these walls, something was waiting. Then I remembered the note. *Trust no one.* And as I scanned the shadows, a chilling thought struck me: What if it wasn’t strangers watching? What if it was someone inside this house? Someone I already trusted.