The mansion was too quiet that night.
Not the kind of silence that brought peace — but the kind that crept under your skin and whispered that something was about to break.
Elena Russo stood at the top of the grand staircase, her fingers brushing the railing her mother once loved. Dust clung to the edges now, like forgotten memories. Down below, laughter echoed faintly — Luciana's laughter — sharp, cruel, and perfectly rehearsed.
"Elena!"
Her stepmother's voice cut through the still air, velvet and venom mixed as one.
Elena swallowed the lump in her throat and descended, her steps slow but graceful. "Yes, Luciana?"
Luciana sat near the fire, draped in crimson silk, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. Two men in dark suits stood behind her. Their eyes followed Elena's every move — cold, assessing.
Vincenzo Russo stood beside his wife, his face pale, sweat glistening on his temple. He couldn't even meet his daughter's eyes.
Elena's stomach tightened. "What's going on?"
Luciana smiled — that false, perfect smile that never reached her eyes. "Your father and I have made a decision, darling. It's time you stopped being a burden."
Elena blinked. "A… burden?"
Vincenzo cleared his throat but said nothing.
Luciana rose slowly, circling her like a serpent. "For twenty-two years, you've eaten from our table, lived under our roof, and yet… what have you given in return? You bring shame with your mother's name. You walk around this house like a ghost of a woman who ruined us."
Elena's heart pounded. "You don't get to speak about my mother—"
A sharp slap silenced her. Luciana's hand trembled slightly, not from guilt, but from the thrill of control.
"Your mother was weak," Luciana hissed. "And she's gone because of it."
Elena's eyes burned, but she didn't cry. She hadn't cried in years.
Vincenzo stepped forward, his voice trembling. "Elena, please, listen—"
"Listen to what?" she whispered. "That you've finally decided to sell me off like property?"
Luciana's smirk deepened. "Smart girl."
Elena froze. Her pulse roared in her ears.
"You can't be serious."
But then the door opened, and her world tilted.
A man stepped in — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His expression was unreadable, but the aura he carried filled the room like smoke. He wasn't just dangerous. He was danger.
Luciana's tone turned sweet. "Signor De Luca. How lovely of you to join us."
Elena's breath hitched. De Luca. The name was poison in every whispered story of the underworld. The Mafia.
The man's dark eyes lifted to meet hers. Something flickered there — curiosity, maybe recognition — before it was gone.
"This is her?" his voice was low, rough, like thunder before a storm.
Luciana nodded proudly. "Yes. My stepdaughter, Elena Russo. Pure, obedient… untouched by the filth of the world."
Elena's stomach twisted in disgust.
He studied her in silence for a long moment, then turned to her father. "The debt will be cleared once she's in my possession."
Her father flinched at the word possession.
Elena took a step back. "What debt?"
Vincenzo's face crumbled. "Elena, please, you must understand—"
"No!" Her voice cracked like breaking glass. "You can't just sell me!"
Luciana sighed dramatically. "Enough of this."
The guards moved forward. Elena tried to run, but one grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulder.
"Let me go!" she screamed.
Luciana leaned close, whispering, "You were always destined to be your mother's curse, Elena. Now you'll pay her price."
The words hit harder than the slap.
Elena's world blurred as she was dragged toward the door. Her father turned away — too ashamed to look, too weak to stop it.
Outside, the rain had started to fall, washing over the stone steps like tears the house could no longer cry. The black car waiting at the curb gleamed under the stormlight.
Lorenzo De Luca stood beside it, silent as death.
When the guards shoved her toward him, Elena met his gaze — a gaze as dark as sin, yet strangely human for a heartbeat.
"You can't do this," she said, her voice trembling but defiant. "You can't just take me."
He tilted his head slightly. "I can. And I will."
Then, softer, almost to himself: "You'll thank me one day."
The door slammed shut behind her, trapping her in leather and shadows. As the car rolled away, the mansion disappeared into the storm.
Elena pressed her hand against the window, the reflection of her tear-streaked face staring back at her — and behind it, the faint echo of her mother's voice.
"Run, my little star. Run before the darkness finds you."
But it was too late.
The darkness already had.