Who. Was. That?

"The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think."

—Horace Walpole

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My fingers trembled as the coldness of my fiancé's presence sank into my skin. There was so much darkness in him, and he didn’t hesitate to spread it.

I knew I should have walked away, but instead, I turned to face him. Blood drained from my face when I saw how close he was, his jaw tight as he waited for my answer. His gaze locked onto the pulse in my neck, thudding like a ticking bomb.

The air between us felt thick, suffocating. Each breath was a struggle. My skin prickled, urging me to pull away.

He stood perfectly still, silent, but the room hummed with tension—a low, threatening buzz that sent a chill down my spine. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The weight of his presence froze me in place.

Finally, he took a step forward. "Uh, Sessie, Sessie, Sessie... Do I need to ask twice? Or are you just pretending to be stupid?"

I tried to speak, but only a shaky breath escaped. How could I explain who Jake was? How could I admit that I liked a boy from my art class—someone whose heart was bigger than my fiancé’s? How could I lie to him when I knew he’d destroy me if he sensed even the slightest hint of dishonesty?

"I think you like making me repeat myself," he spat, his voice colder now. "So, let's do this again. Who. Was. That? And don’t you dare shake your head. I want an answer."

His words were sharp, like knives cutting into me. His eyes—those eyes I had seen too many times—sent a wave of fear through me.

Tiziano was always a step ahead of me at school. He was older by two years, and back then, I had no idea just how dangerous he was. My first taste of his anger? Tenth grade—the start of my nightmare.

We were all linked to Vincenzo’s crime family. A neat cover-up, or at least that’s what they thought. I remember hearing a warning from a friend that Tizzy had gotten involved in something ugly. When we rushed back to school, there he was in the hallway—blood on his hands, cuts on his face, and his victim lying on the floor, unconscious.

I confronted him right there. He slapped me hard across the face, and I ended up with a nosebleed for my trouble. It took Cosimo, his classmate and partner in crime, to pull him off me.

That wasn’t the last time. Not even close.

Now, standing before me, Tiziano was heavier, darker, scarier. His eyes were full of the monster he’d become. When he gripped me, I nearly gagged.

"T-tizzy, you're hurting me."

"Answer me, Alessandra! Goddamnit!" Tiziano groaned. "Don't call me 'Tizzy.'"

I knew exactly what was coming when he gripped my phone. Tiziano was fed by something dark—something the family refused to admit. To the world, he was Don Vincenzo’s strong second son—loyal, powerful, untouchable.

But to me? He was a monster. I had seen the wreckage left by his anger, heard the whispers of the maids, seen the bruises on women who dared to defy him. And I had the bruises to prove it.

There was no label for what he was. Science couldn’t explain the pure violence in his outbursts, the way his eyes would darken, fists would tighten, or how everything would go cold afterward, as if nothing had happened.

But what terrified me most was being alone with him, always walking on eggshells, never knowing when he'd snap.

"You're shaking," he noticed, his eyes lighting up at the sight. His hand reached out, and I flinched before I could stop myself. He paused, his smile not quite matching the menace in his eyes. "You'd do well to be honest with me, Sessie. It’ll save us both a lot of... unpleasantness."

I blinked.

"Me raising my voice... and Cosimo or Remo having to step in. Again."

Same old game. Two years, wrapped in his cruelty, with my brothers stepping in to stop him.

"Sessie..." He hissed my name like poison. It wasn’t endearing when he said it. It reminded me of how small and trapped I was beneath him.

Finally, I found the courage to answer. "I-It was just a friend," I stammered. "Someone from school, calling to congratulate me. I promise."

It wasn’t a full lie. Jake wasn’t from Lincoln; he was in my art class. But I couldn’t risk telling him the truth. If Tiziano found out, Jake would either disappear, or he'd deal with him the way he always did—with his fists.

"A friend," Tiziano repeated, doubt thick in his voice. Before I could react, his hand was in my hair—no chance to object.

His eyes flicked between my pain and the phone screen as he scrolled through my recent calls. Groaning from the sharp tug on my hair, I froze, terrified. He dialed the number.

No. Please don’t pick up. Please don’t answer.

If Jake answered, it was over. The nickname ‘Sessiepie’ was a flashing neon sign—"I'm lying." What a joke. In my life, everything was a drama—cavemen, Vikings, medieval kings. Who knew what else I'd get accused of? The women around me? Too busy pretending to be helpless.

Please, don’t answer.

The seconds stretched into forever. Each ring felt like a drumbeat in my chest. Then, finally, silence. No answer.

I exhaled, relief almost making me dizzy. But Tiziano’s face darkened. His jaw tightened as he ended the call. "No answer? How convenient." His voice dropped, dangerously low.

He threw my phone to the floor with a flick of his wrist. It shattered, the sound echoing through the hall, like the final crack of a whip.

I jumped at the sound, my breath catching. The phone lay broken at our feet—just like my last hope of peace.

Tiziano took a step closer, so close I could smell his woody cologne, mixed with something sour beneath it. "You're lucky, Sessie." His breath was hot against my cheek. "If I find out you're lying to me... neither Cosimo nor Remo will be able to stop me."

My voice was gone, trapped deep in my chest with my courage. I could only nod, hoping he would believe me, hoping he wouldn’t see the terror I was hiding.

For a moment, Tiziano just stared at me, looking for cracks. Then, with a cold smile, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my broken phone and the mess he'd left behind.

Once I could breathe again, I sank to the floor, pulling myself into a ball like I could hold the pieces of my life together. A silent prayer turned into a desperate plea for something I knew I might never find again—freedom.

A tear fell. Then another. Soon, I was sobbing.

The thought hit me hard—once we were married, there'd be no Remo, no Cosimo to step in. Just me, walking on eggshells, hoping I could survive his temper.

I heard a voice. "There you are!" Zita's voice cut through the silence. I didn’t need to look to know it was her. "Why are you... curled up here?"

I wiped my tears fast, because crying wasn’t allowed when you were stuck in this never-ending cycle of fate. I took a deep breath, plastered on my "I'm fine" face, and grabbed the broken pieces of my phone. It was like a metaphor for my life.

"Wow, genius," I muttered. "I can't believe I let this happen."

I turned to face Zita, trying to hide how shattered I felt. She was adjusting her pale hair, her eyes flicking from me to the broken phone. "Are you... alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I snapped, forcing the words out. I really didn’t want to explain the latest disaster that was my life with Tiziano. Not that Zita would care enough to confront him. She'd probably just watch like it was a game.

I’d learned that in this family, burying your feelings was the only way to survive.

Zita had a purpose for being here, I guessed. "So, riding arrangements?" I asked.

"Yes," she said with a knowing smile, smoothing out her green dress. "Time for the women to retreat to our little kingdom while the men go off and do... their thing. Are you joining me or riding with Liv and Vi?"

"Let me guess," I said dryly, "Rachele and Amalia will be with you?"

A true dream team: Zita, Rachele, and Amalia. One, a walking submissive wife. Another, a live grenade of fury. And the last, a viper with mood swings.

She nodded, and I almost choked on my sarcasm. "I'll pass," I said, meaning I’d rather walk on hot coals than spend a road trip with that toxic crew.

I'd stick to my personal apocalypse, thanks. No need to add more destruction with my sisters and half-sisters—who Zita adored so much she seemed to forget how their mother had torn our lives apart.

"Congratulations again," Zita said, her eyes lingering on my engagement ring. I nodded, and her gaze stayed there for a moment before she stepped closer. "You know," she whispered, "sometimes the things we commit to end up committing to us. I can see how you look at Tizzy—with just enough disgust to be obvious. It's only going to crush your spirit to fight against a system that’s already in place."

My heart sank. They were all the same—tethered to their own form of submission.

"For the sake of your sanity..." Zita added, wrapping me in a hug that screamed pity. "You're engaged now. End that affair before it blows up in your face."

Before I could ask how she knew about Jake or say anything else, she pulled away, her presence lingering like vanilla and doom.