“The woman of the house.” His title for me. Yet I had nothing—no car, no credit card, no independence. Every cent I needed, I had to beg for. And asking for more? He demanded receipts. Line by line. Penny by penny.
I spoke up after dinner. He was still seated in the same chair, pistol in hand, the TV flickering with an old Western no one cared about. My chest tightened with nervous rhythm.
“Do you remember what you promised me… on my eighteenth birthday?” I asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t glance at me. “Which promise?”
“That we’d travel together. You said that after the business stabilized, once our son was grown, we’d go on a cruise. Just us.”
“You’re insane,” Marcello scoffed, dark laughter threading his words. “A cruise? Look at yourself. You’re like a stick of dry bamboo—one gust of wind and you’d snap. You think the captain’s gonna roll out a red carpet for you? Bianca, he’d probably assume you’re bringing some walking bacteria aboard.”
“But today is—”