ELEANOR
I scrubbed the last dish, letting the warm water run over my hands until my fingers felt numb. The rhythmic clinking of plates against the sink was the only sound in the kitchen, but my thoughts were far from calm. Armando’s words from earlier echoed in my mind, and then there was Don Salvatore. His threats, my sister’s pale face in that photo-it all coiled around my chest like a vice.
I kept scrubbing-pretending the kitchen was my sanctuary-and for a moment it almost worked, but then the door creaked.
My body stiffened.
I turned slowly-the soapy plate still in my hands-and my eyes fell on the profile of Armando leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His eyes were calm, but there was an edge to his gaze-the kind that always seemed to confuse me.
“You’ve been hiding yourself away a lot lately,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I don’t remember giving you permission to turn into a ghost. Not in my house.”
I placed the plate on the drying rack, wiping my hands on a towel to buy myself a few seconds. I then turned to him, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve been busy,” I said. “Doing the inhumane number of chores you assign me every day.”
His lips curved into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re always so dramatic Eleanor.”
I clenched the towel tighter in my hands, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “I’m always working, remember?”
He chuckled softly, the sound more unsettling than his anger. “Well, you’re having dinner with me tonight,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Consider it a break from all your… suffering.”
Dinner. With him. My stomach tightened. This wasn’t a request; it was an order from wrapped in false civility.
“I’m not really hungry,” I said carefully, testing the waters.
His smirk grew. “You’ll eat anyway. Be in the dining room. And don’t keep me waiting.”
He left before I could respond, the door clicking shut behind him. I stared at the empty doorway, the weight of his words sinking in. Dinner with Armando wasn’t a meal, it was a game, and I didn’t know the rules.
*******
My heart pounded as I stepped into the dining room-the chandelier casting a warm glow over the long table. Armando sat at the head-his jacket draped over the chair and the top button of his shirt undone-and he looked… relaxed.
Two plates were set with precision-the silverware gleaming-and the aroma of roasted vegetables and seasoned meat filled the room, but my appetite was non-existent.
I slid into the chair beside him-folding my hands tightly in my lap, his dark eyes tracking my every movement.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft but held an edge that made it clear he wasn’t just making conversation.
“I don’t like to talk while eating,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “I didn’t think dinner required small talk.”
He smirked, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “Maybe not. But tonight, I’m in the mood for it. Humor me.”
I reached for my fork, poking at the food as silence stretched between us-heavy and uncomfortable.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he said suddenly, leaning back in his chair.
I looked up, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been doing my job. What else do you expect from me?”
“Hmm,” he murmured, his fingers trailing along the rim of his wine glass. “That’s the thing. You’ve been doing your job, but something feels off. You seem like you’re here, but not really here. Makes me wonder.”
“Makes you wonder what?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but his smirk stayed in place. “It makes me wonder what’s on your mind. What’s keeping you so preoccupied that you’re barely present.”
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the fork. “Nothing’s on my mind. I’m just tired. That’s all.”
“Tired,” he repeated, his tone flat. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth,” I said, forcing myself to sound calm. “What else would it be?”
He tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to pick apart my words. “That’s the question, isn’t it? What else could it be?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I’m not hiding anything. I’m just tired of being treated like a prisoner.”
His smirk faltered, replaced by something colder. “Prisoner? You don’t know the first thing about being a prisoner Eleanor. Trust me.”
I looked up sharply, the challenge in his tone cutting through me. “Then maybe you should tell me. Enlighten me.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze locked on mine. “Careful,” he said, his voice low. “You’re walking a very fine line.”
I didn’t flinch, but my heart was racing. “I’m just saying what I feel. Isn’t that what you wanted? Conversation?”
His smirk returned, colder than before. “Conversation, yes. But don’t mistake this for a chance to play bold. You won’t like where that leads.”
I dropped my gaze back to my plate, my pulse thundering in my ears. The air between us was thick, the tension almost unbearable.
The silence between us stretched on, heavy and suffocating. I shifted in my seat, staring down at the food I hadn’t touched. The tension in the room pressed against my chest, thick and unrelenting. Normally, I would’ve expected Armando to say something sharp, to reassert control, but instead, something in his expression shifted.
He leaned back in his chair, his usual air of authority faltering just enough for me to notice. His gaze turned distant, almost haunted, and for the first time, he didn’t look like the man I feared. He looked… human.
“You know,” he began, his voice quieter than I’d ever heard it, “I used to think loyalty was the one thing you could count on. That no matter how bad things got, family would always have your back.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his words. For a moment, I didn’t know if I should respond, but then I found my voice. “What changed?” I asked softly.
His jaw tightened, the faintest twitch betraying his emotions. “Reality,” he said flatly. He met my eyes, but his gaze seemed to go beyond me, like he was looking at something-or someone-I couldn’t see. “I learned the hard way that the people closest to you are usually the first to betray you.”
His words hung in the air-heavy and bitter-and I stayed quiet, watching him as he spoke, his tone raw in a way I’d never heard before.
“I was a kid,” he started, his voice low but steady, “My father… he was a powerful man. He built an empire with his own two hands, brick by brick, and I thought he was invincible.”
I didn’t interrupt, even though my chest ached with an emotion I couldn’t name.
“But power makes enemies,” he continued, his tone hardening. “It doesn’t matter how loyal you think people are. Greed changes everything. One day, those closest to him decided they wanted more. They didn’t just take him out-they burned it all to the ground. Our home, our empire, everything. Gone.”
The bitterness in his voice was like a knife, sharp and cutting. I felt a lump rise in my throat as I watched him, his shoulders stiff and his expression unreadable.
“They didn’t care about anything except their own ambition,” he said. “I was just a kid, and they turned my whole life into ash. All because they thought they deserved a bigger piece of the pie.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine that kind of loss, that kind of betrayal. But his pain was so clear, etched into every word. Finally, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be. It taught me something important. Trust is a liability. Even family can turn on you if the price is right.”
His tone shifted again, colder now, the vulnerability retreating as quickly as it had appeared. He straightened in his seat, his usual commanding presence snapping back into place like armor.
As Armando’s voice faded, I sat frozen, staring at the table, my thoughts tangled in ways I couldn’t untangle. The man who had dictated my every move with an iron will now felt different-less invincible and more human. His story wasn’t what I’d expected. Pain, loss, betrayal-they were all there, etched into every word he’d spoken.
It was hard to reconcile this glimpse of him with the man I knew. The man who had shaped my life into a cage.
The room felt stifling. The air itself seemed heavier, suffused with the weight of everything unsaid. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me, studying me.
“You’re quiet again,” he said. His tone was smooth, but I could hear the edge behind it.
I looked up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My fingers tightened around the stem of the untouched wine glass in front of me. “I’m just…thinking. About what you said.”
His lips curved slightly, not into a smile but something sharper, something that didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you? Or is there something else on your mind?”
My pulse quickened, the question hitting too close to home. He was testing me. I could feel it in the deliberate way he spoke, the sharpness in his stare, as if he was trying to peel back the layers and see what I was hiding.
“No,” I said carefully, keeping my voice steady. “It’s just…a lot to process. That’s all.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond. The silence between us stretched thin, taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed slightly, and I felt the weight of his scrutiny settle heavily over me.
Then, just as quickly as the tension had built, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. He picked up the wine glass in front of him, but instead of drinking, he turned it slowly in his hand, watching the liquid swirl.
“You’re not lying to me, are you?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
The question sent a jolt of fear through me, but I didn’t let it show. I couldn’t let it show. “Why would I lie?” I asked, keeping my tone light, though every word felt like walking a tightrope.
He chuckled, but it wasn’t a warm sound. “Because everyone lies, Eleanor. Even the ones who think they have good reasons.”
I didn’t respond, afraid that saying too much or too little would give me away. Instead, I kept my hands, my gaze, and everything about me steady.
He watched me for another long moment before standing abruptly, the scrape of his chair against the floor breaking the suffocating quiet. He adjusted his cufflinks, his movements sharp, precise. I sat frozen, my eyes following him as he moved toward the door.
But just as he reached the threshold, he paused. His hand rested lightly on the doorframe, and when he turned back to look at me, his face was colder, harder than I’d ever seen it.
“I wonder,” he said quietly, “what’s really going on in that head of yours.” His eyes bore into mine, and the room felt even smaller under the weight of his words. “Don’t forget-everything has a way of coming to light eventually.”
And then he was gone.
I stayed in my seat, my body rigid, my heart hammering against my ribs. I should have felt relieved that he’d left, but I didn’t. If anything, the tension in my chest grew tighter.
The dining room felt hollow now-the silence almost unbearable. The wine bottle, the untouched plates, the faint scent of rosemary and garlic-all of it seemed ghostly like a reminder of a moment I couldn’t escape.
I rose slowly, my legs unsteady, and made my way back to my room.
I replayed his words over and over in my mind, his story, his questions, the warning in his voice. He’d shown me a piece of himself tonight-a crack in his armor, a hint of the man beneath the surface.
Now I couldn’t convince myself that I hated him. Now, I couldn’t stop thinking about the pain behind his cruelty, the scars hidden beneath his control. And worst of all, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d do if he ever found out the truth about me.