The first sign that my world was about to be cracked open like a walnut was the silence.
It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the kind that cost a fortune, the kind cultivated over generations by the Santos family in our dining room that was more of a museum exhibit. Light from the chandelier caught the Baccarat crystal, throwing rainbows across the polished mahogany, and the portraits of my severe, long-dead ancestors seemed to hold their breath. I sat, as I always did, slightly in the shadow of my sister. Cloe, at twenty-two, was the masterpiece. I, Anabela, at twenty, was the flawed sketch tucked away in the artist’s portfolio.
My father, Rafael Santos, cleared his throat. The sound was like stone grinding against stone. He looked older tonight, his custom-tailored suit hanging a little loose, the weight of something invisible bowing his shoulders.
“There is news,” he began, his voice attempting its usual command but fraying at the edges. “It concerns the future. Of the company, and of this family.”
My mother, Isabella, sat so straight I thought her spine might be fused to the chair. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles were a bloodless white. She wasn't looking at us, but at some point in the darkening gardens beyond the window, as if searching for an escape route.
“Santos Shipping,” my father continued, and I heard the capital letters in the name, the weight of a legacy, “is no longer solvent. The expansion in Angola… it was a miscalculation. A catastrophic one.” He paused, and the silence in the room became a living, suffocating thing. “Our creditors are not just bankers. They are… less forgiving men. Without a significant, immediate capital infusion, we will lose everything. The company, the houses… our lives.”
The words didn’t hit me all at once. They seeped in, cold and oily, like a stain. I’d known things were bad the hushed arguments behind closed doors, the new lines on my father’s face, the way my mother’s smile had become a brittle, fragile thing. But hearing it stated so baldly, in this room that was the very heart of our unassailable Portuguese pride, felt like watching the family crest being chiseled off the wall.
“However,” my father said, and a flicker of desperate, ugly hope lit his eyes as he turned them on Cloe. “A solution has been presented. A merger. Not of companies, but of families.”
Cloe, the perfect daughter, didn’t flinch. But a tiny, suspicious frown appeared between her perfectly sculpted brows. “What kind of merger, Pai?”
My mother finally spoke, her voice a carefully modulated whisper that couldn’t hide the tremor beneath. “Esposito.”
The single name dropped into the room, sucking all the air out. It wasn't a name; it was a rumor given weight, a shadow given form. I’d heard it whispered in social circles my parents tried to keep me from, always accompanied by a nervous glance over the shoulder. The Esposito family. From Naples. You don’t do business with them; you survive it.
“His… empire… is vast,” Mãe continued, her throat working. “Global. He has expressed an interest in an alliance. He is prepared to settle all our debts, make our problems disappear. In exchange…” She paused, her gaze settling on Cloe with a pained finality that made my stomach clench. “In exchange, he requires a bride. He requires you, Cloe.”
The bombshell detonated in the perfumed air between the silver cutlery and the unelected dessert.
For a second, Cloe just stared, her beautiful face a mask of incomprehension. Then, it shattered. “A bride?” she echoed, the word a whisper of pure, unadulterated shock. “You’re… you’re selling me to the mafia?”
“It’s not like that, minha querida!” Pai snapped, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him. “Esposito is a powerful man. Young. Only twenty-four. He is… reshaping things. It is a strategic alliance!”
“Strategic?” Cloe’s voice rose, sharp and hysterical. “He’s a gangster! A murderer! I’ve heard the stories! He’s probably a monster, a beast who enjoys breaking things! You expect me to just… to just walk into that world? To be a mafia don’s whore?”
The word whore hung in the air, vulgar and brutal, clashing violently with the delicate scent of the floral centerpiece.
And that’s when I opened my mouth. The shock had been instantly incinerated by a dark, venomous surge of something I recognized all too well: a lifetime of resentment. A bitter, ugly smile touched my lips.
“Well, sister,” I said, my voice deceptively light, a silken dart aimed straight for the heart of her outrage. “All those charity galas and perfect posture lessons… I guess they were just preparation for being a trophy wife. Though I’m not sure ‘trophy’ is the right word for a mafia bride. ‘Loot’ seems more fitting. I hope he appreciates the shiny new prize he’s won.”
The effect was electric. Cloe’s head snapped toward me, her eyes blazing with a fury so pure it was almost beautiful. All her fear and betrayal toward our parents were instantly redirected, funneled into a white-hot hatred for me.
“You shut your mouth!” she shrieked, launching herself from her chair so violently it screeched back against the parquet floor. “You pathetic, jealous little creature! You stand there in your… your skin, and you dare to judge me? You, who nobody would want unless they were blind! He’ll probably kill you just for looking at him wrong! This is my life they’re throwing to the wolves!”
“Girls, please!” Pai boomed, standing up, his face flushed with anger and shame.
But the dam had broken. I stood too, the sting of her words about my skin landing with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. It found the raw, tender heart of every insecurity I’d ever had. “Jealous? Of being given to a criminal? No, thank you. I’d rather have my face than have my freedom sold to a man who probably uses human bones for toothpicks!”
“You think you have a choice?” Cloe spat, leaning across the table, her beautiful face contorted into something ugly. “You think anyone would ever want you? This is the only value I have to them? Fine! But you… you have none! You are nothing!”
“CLOE, THAT IS ENOUGH!” My father’s roar shook the crystal in the chandelier.
But she was beyond hearing. She looked from his enraged face to our mother’s despairing one, and finally, her scorching gaze landed back on me. “I won’t do it,” she declared, her voice dropping to a low, trembling whisper that was more terrifying than her scream. “I refuse. You cannot make me. Let his thugs come. Let them break our knees. I will not marry him.”
With that, she turned, a whirlwind of cream silk and fury, and stormed out. The sound of her footsteps pounding up the marble staircase echoed like gunshots in the sudden, devastated quiet.
I stood, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the adrenaline of the fight still coursing through me. I had won. I had drawn blood, seen the perfect Cloe finally, truly break. But the victory was ash in my mouth. The air was now thick with a new, more terrifying desperation.
My father slowly sank back into his chair, looking ancient. He buried his face in his hands. “She’s signed our death warrant,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “He is not a man you refuse.”
The silence stretched, broken only by my mother’s soft, elegant sobs. I remained standing, a statue of conflicted triumph and dread. Then, my father lifted his head. His eyes, red-rimmed and hopeless, found mine. And in them, I saw a new, dreadful calculation being made.
“The agreement with Esposito…” he said slowly, his voice a hollow echo. “It is made. The first transfer has already cleared some of our most… pressing debts. If we renege…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The image of a car bomb, a body in the Tagus River, flashed in my mind.
My blood turned to ice. “What are you saying, Pai?”
My mother looked up, her tear-streaked face a mask of dawning, horrific comprehension. “Rafael, no…”
“He wants a Santos daughter,” my father stated, his gaze locking onto me with an intensity that pinned me to the spot. “The agreement specifies a daughter of this house. It doesn’t… it doesn’t specify which one.”
The world stopped. The prismatic lights from the chandelier seemed to freeze. I felt the floor drop out from under me.
“Me?” The word was a breathless, disbelieving gasp. “You… you want to give me to him?”
“Anabela, there is no other way,” my mother whispered, her voice raw with a grief I knew wasn’t for me, but for the situation. “If Cloe refuses… you are the only one.”
“The only one?” I echoed, a hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. “So now I’m the spare part? The backup daughter to be sacrificed to the monster when the primary offering is defective? You think Esposito, a twenty-four-year-old mafia kingpin, will want me?” I gestured wildly at my own face, at the familiar, painful terrain of red, inflamed bumps and purplish cysts that felt like they were burning under their scrutiny. “Look at me! He deals in perfection ,perfect diamonds, perfect violence. He’ll take one look at this and put a bullet in my head for the insult!”
“He is a businessman, first and foremost!” my father insisted, a desperate lie. “He will honor the contract!”
“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE CONTRACT!” I screamed, the last of my control shattering. The rage, the injustice, the sheer terror of it all exploded out of me. I was no longer taunting Cloe; I was fighting for my own life, for my own future. “I will not be a blood sacrifice to save a company! I won’t do it!”
I didn’t wait for their response. I mimicked Cloe’s exit, storming out of the dining room, but where her footsteps had been angry, mine were frantic, panicked. I fled up the stairs, the portraits of my ancestors seeming to mock me with their flawless, painted skin.
I slammed the door to my bedroom, the sound a feeble protest in the vast, silent house. Leaning back against the solid wood, I slid to the floor, my breath coming in ragged, tearless sobs. The fight was gone, replaced by a cold, creeping dread that felt like a hand closing around my throat.
Esposito.
The name was a curse, a death sentence. My mind, a whirlwind of fear, conjured his image. He was young, yes, but that made it worse. A young monster was still a monster. I saw cold, empty eyes, the kind that had watched men die. I saw hands that were capable of both caressing a woman’s cheek and snapping a neck with equal, casual precision. He would be ruthless, volatile. A man who took what he wanted. And he would look at me, at my flawed, imperfect skin and see a broken product. A dishonor. He wouldn't just refuse me; he would punish my family for the insult of offering him damaged goods.
But another, more terrifying thought emerged. What if he wasn't a grotesque beast? What if he was devastatingly handsome? Chiseled features, a magnetic smile that hid a predator's soul. A man used to women who were polished and perfect, like my sister. The thought was infinitely worse. A man like that would find my acne not just unattractive, but offensive. A personal affront. He would be bound to me by a business deal, and he would resent me for it. He would keep me locked away, a shameful secret, a wife he would be embarrassed to be seen with. He might even… my blood ran cold… he might even enjoy the power he had to humiliate me.
I stumbled to my en-suite bathroom, flicking on the harsh, fluorescent lights. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, truly stared, as if seeing the enemy for the first time. It was right there. The red, raised bumps across my forehead. The deeper, painful cysts along my jawline. I saw not a face, but a death warrant. A list of reasons why a man like Esposito would see me as worthless.
Tears finally came, hot and shameful, stinging the inflamed skin. I was trapped in a nightmare. If I refused, I was condemning my family to a fate worse than bankruptcy. If I agreed, I was walking into a gilded cage owned by a predator. A man whose name meant "exposed" in Italian, and I felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than I ever had in my entire life.
I fell onto my bed, burying my face in the pillows to muffle the sound of my crying. My mind raced in frantic, dizzying circles. He’s twenty-four. He’s a killer. What does he look like? What will he do to me? Will he touch me? Will he even be able to look at me? Each loop returned to the same terrifying unknown: Esposito.
Who are you? I thought, the question a silent scream into the fabric of my pillow. What monster have my parents unleashed upon me?
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, eventually began to pull me under. The frantic thoughts began to blur, the edges of my fear softening into the hazy unreality of impending sleep. The last conscious thought I had was not a wish, but a terrifying certainty: my life was no longer my own. It belonged to the man named Esposito. And as the darkness finally claimed me, it was not filled with shadows of old men, but with the chilling, ice-cold gaze of a young king, a predator waiting for his prey. My nemesis.
