I always believed silence was safety. That if I kept my head down, stayed quiet, and followed the rules, life would leave me alone.
But life doesn't care how quiet you are.
It still finds a way to break you.
——
The last good memory I had was a warm can of soup and a college acceptance letter. That night, I boiled water on the rusted stove while my father stumbled through the door reeking of whiskey and bad bets.
"Amelia," he slurred, voice hoarse, eyes sunken. "You still here?"
I nodded from the corner of our one-room apartment, tucking the letter back under my mattress.
He scratched his beard, stained with cigarette ash. "Thought you would've run off by now. Just like your mother did."
The words stung, but I didn't react. I never did. That was the game with my father—don't give him more to use against you.
He flopped onto the couch and lit another cigarette, his back to me.
I waited until he passed out before pulling the letter back out, holding it like a secret too sacred for the air.
> Congratulations, Amelia Grey. You've been awarded a full scholarship to Westmont University.
Tears slipped down my cheeks silently. I wasn't crying because I was happy—I was crying because I had something to lose.
And I knew life never let me keep good things.
——
It happened the next morning.
The apartment was cold, my father was gone, and there was no note. Not that he ever left one. I assumed he'd gone to place another bet he couldn't pay off.
I didn't expect the knock at the door.
It came sharp and sudden—three loud bangs that made the thin walls tremble. I froze.
We didn't get visitors. Especially not ones in broad daylight wearing all black.
I opened the door an inch.
The man on the other side was massive—broad-chested, tatted hands, black sunglasses.
"Amelia Grey?" he asked in a voice that sounded like a knife scraping metal.
I didn't answer. He didn't wait.
The door slammed open with brute force, throwing me backward. My head hit the floor, vision spinning.
Two other men rushed in, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me up like a rag doll.
"Wait—what are you doing?!" I screamed, kicking, twisting, fighting—but they didn't care.
"Your father's debts are due," the first man said flatly, pulling something from his coat pocket. A photograph.
Of me.
In front of the community college. Laughing. Smiling.
"You've been sold."
---
The limo was black. Sleek. Sinister.
I was thrown inside like merchandise, the door slamming shut behind me with a finality that tasted like death.
My breath came in short gasps, my heart pounding so loud I thought it might shatter.
"What… what is this?" I whispered to no one.
The divider slid down slowly.
On the other side sat a man in a suit so sharp it looked like it was stitched with cruelty. His tie was black silk. His cufflinks? Real diamonds. But it wasn't the wealth that froze my lungs.
It was his eyes.
Icy gray. Unblinking. Like a storm had settled in his skull and refused to pass.
He was maybe late twenties, early thirties. Hair slicked back, jaw lined with faint stubble, a scar running from his cheek to his jawline.
Beautiful in the way fire is beautiful—when it's burning down your house.
He stared at me in silence.
And then he smiled. Barely. It was the kind of smile that meant nothing good was coming.
"You're awake," he said calmly, like we were discussing the weather.
"Wh-who are you?"
He reached into his coat pocket and tossed something onto the leather seat between us.
A contract.
"You'll be my wife for one year. You'll obey. You'll be silent. In return, your father stays alive."
My hands trembled as I picked up the paper. It was thick. Formal. With my name already printed across the top.
"This… this is insane," I whispered.
His smile didn't move. "Then don't sign it."
My heart jumped. Was that hope?
"If you refuse," he added smoothly, "we send your father's head to you in a box. He's not exactly useful anymore."
Tears burned down my cheeks. "Why me?"
"Because he owed us," the man said. "And you're the only thing he had left to sell."
---
I signed.
Not because I agreed. Not because I believed I could survive this.
But because I didn't want to find my father's head in the fridge.
And when I looked back up, the man leaned closer.
"I'm Dante Virelli," he said.
The name hit me like thunder. The Virellis were whispered about in every shadowed alley in the city. Mafia. Blood money. Torture. No one crossed them and lived to tell.
He leaned closer, voice like poisoned silk. "You belong to me now, Amelia. Try to run, I'll break your legs. Try to scream, I'll break your throat. But if you obey…"
He trailed his fingers along my jaw. Cold. Possessive.
"I might even let you keep your soul."
---
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay on a bed that wasn't mine, in a mansion that swallowed sound. The walls were marble. The ceilings vaulted. The sheets smelled like lavender and money.
But I felt like a corpse.
Every light was off. Except for one—his office down the hall. The door was cracked open. I could hear the sound of a man drinking in silence.
Dante Virelli hadn't said a word to me since the car ride.
I didn't know what he wanted. I didn't know why I was really here.
But I knew one thing:
Silence wouldn't save me this time.
—