I didn't know where they were taking me.
That was the worst part—not the guns, not the silence, not even the fact that I had just walked away from my mother and everything I had ever known. It was the uncertainty. The endless stretch of road with no name, no direction, no promise of return.
The car moved smoothly through the night, but my thoughts were anything but calm.
I sat in the back seat, stiff, my hands clenched so tightly in my lap that my nails bit into my skin. I welcomed the pain. It reminded me I was still here. Still alive. Still able to feel something other than terror.
No one spoke.
The driver's face was hard and unreadable in the dim light. The men beside him were massive, their shoulders wide enough to block out the windows, guns resting casually against their chests. The weapons didn't frighten me as much as the ease with which they carried them.
Like extensions of their bodies.
I tried to focus on my breathing, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother's face.
Her hands shaking.
Her voice breaking.
The way she looked when they took me away—as if I had already died too.
I swallowed hard, forcing the image away, but it kept coming back. She had already lost so much. Years of fear. Years of bruises she pretended didn't exist. Years of loving a man who hurt her because she didn't believe she deserved better.
And now she had lost me.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching unfamiliar streets blur past. I wondered if she was still sitting on the couch, staring at the door, waiting for me to walk back in. I wondered if she would sleep at all tonight.
The thought nearly broke me.
I had promised her I would be okay.
I didn't know if that promise was a lie.
The car slowed.
I straightened immediately, my pulse pounding in my ears. Tall shapes rose out of the darkness ahead—iron gates, looming and severe. They opened without a sound, and the car passed through like it belonged there.
I barely noticed.
All I could think about was my mother being alone.
The driveway stretched on, winding and long, but I didn't look out at the grounds or the lights or the shadows. My eyes stayed fixed on my hands, trembling despite my effort to keep them still.
Where are you taking me? I wanted to ask.
But my voice felt buried somewhere deep inside my chest, too afraid to come out.
The car finally stopped.
"Out," one of the men said.
I obeyed.
The night air hit me, cool and sharp, and for a moment I thought about running. Just turning and sprinting into the darkness, not caring where I went as long as it was away from them.
But I didn't.
Because running wouldn't save my mother.
I followed them inside.
The doors closed behind me with a heavy sound that echoed through my bones. I flinched, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. That sound felt like something ending. Like a door closing not just on a place—but on my old life.
Still, I didn't look around.
Not really.
I saw flashes—dark walls, glints of gold, shadows stretching high above me—but none of it registered. It was just space. Just emptiness filled with danger. It could have been a palace or a prison; it didn't matter.
My thoughts were miles away.
Are you eating? I imagined asking my mother.
Are you crying again?
Did you lock the door before you went to bed?
We walked for what felt like forever. My footsteps echoed too loudly, reminding me that I didn't belong here. Every sound felt amplified. Every breath felt watched.
Finally, we stopped.
A door opened.
"This is your room," someone said.
I stepped inside.
The door closed.
The lock clicked.
That was when the strength I had been forcing myself to hold shattered completely.
I stood there for a moment, frozen, my heart racing as the silence crashed down on me. Then my legs gave out, and I sank onto the floor, my back sliding down the door until I was sitting against it.
The room was big. I could tell that much. My voice echoed slightly when I breathed too hard. But I didn't care about the space or the furniture or the luxury I vaguely sensed around me.
All I cared about was the fact that I was alone.
And my mother wasn't.
The tears came suddenly, violently, like my body had been waiting for permission. I pressed my hands over my mouth, my shoulders shaking as sobs ripped through me silently. I cried for everything I hadn't cried for yet—for my father's body on the floor, for the years my mother had suffered, for the choice I had made without knowing what it would cost me.
I cried because I was terrified.
I cried because I was strong enough to leave but not strong enough to know what came next.
When the tears finally slowed, my head ached and my chest burned. I wiped my face roughly with the sleeve of my jacket and forced myself to stand.
Crying wouldn't help her.
Breaking wouldn't protect her.
I had to stay strong.
For her.
I looked around the room then—not because I cared, but because I needed something solid to anchor myself. The bed was massive, untouched. The curtains were thick and dark. The walls were painted in deep tones that made the space feel closed in despite its size.
A phone sat on the bedside table.
My breath caught.
I picked it up with shaking hands and dialed my mother's number, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst.
She answered on the first ring.
"Elena?" Her voice was raw, fragile. "Oh my God—are you okay?"
"I'm here," I said softly. "I'm okay."
The lie tasted bitter.
"They didn't hurt you?" she asked.
"No," I said quickly. "They didn't."
She let out a shaky breath. "I was so scared. I thought—"
"I know," I whispered. "I know."
There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to apologize for leaving her. I wanted to beg her not to blame herself. I wanted to promise things I wasn't sure I could keep.
"I'm going to figure this out," I said instead. "This isn't the end. I promise."
"You don't have to be brave for me," she said, her voice breaking. "You've already done too much."
"Yes, I do," I replied gently. "Because you're my mother. And I love you."
"I love you too," she said. "More than anything."
When the call ended, the silence felt heavier than before.
I set the phone down carefully and moved toward the window, pulling the curtains back just enough to see outside.
The night sky stretched endlessly above me.
Stars dotted the darkness, distant and untouched. They didn't know fear. They didn't owe anything to anyone. They burned quietly, freely, without asking permission.
I pressed my forehead against the glass.
For the first time since I left my mother, something inside me softened.
I didn't know where I was.
I didn't know what Alessandro De Luca planned to do with me.
I didn't know how I was supposed to survive this world.
But as I stared up at the stars, I made myself a promise—silent, fragile, but real.
I would not let this place erase me.
I would not let fear make me forget who I was.
And no matter how long it took, no matter how lost I felt along the way, I would find a way out of this mess.
For my mother.
For myself.
For the girl who once believed she could be free.