Once Upon A Promise

I said nothing, just slid an agreement across the table.

"If you truly feel indebted to me," I told Mario, "then give me the Lyndette continent medical-equipment company—this is the share-transfer document."

He took it and, without hesitating, signed his name.

"Alessia, I can give you anything. I just want to make it right." He sounded earnest.

I took the papers and, when I saw the signature on the last page, something inside me unclenched. If Mario had bothered to flip one more page, he would have seen what he had really signed: a divorce agreement.

His guilt made him reach for more words, but his phone rang and cut him off. It was Carmilla.

He glanced at me, suddenly guilty. "Alessia, there's an emergency at the company. I have to go. I'll be back later." He answered the call before I could reply and hurried away.

He never came to see me before I was discharged. Instead, I watched a new photo on Facebook: Carmilla, smiling, Mario's back in the frame.

The caption read: [Bootlicker gets everything in the end.]

Jessie sent a message that their team still needed people and they'd welcome me. I agreed without thinking and bought a ticket to Claeyron.

Only Risa Mandolin—the nanny who'd raised me—came to pick me up when I left the hospital. We went to the cemetery. My mother's headstone still wore that calm, painted smile. I brushed the dust from her photograph and felt the old ache.

"Mom, you were right. Once a man's heart changes, you can't hold onto him." My voice broke.

I remembered telling Mario once about my father's betrayal, how it had hollowed my childhood. Back then, his eyes had been red; he'd held me and whispered, "Alessia, I would never betray you. If I did, may I die badly."

Those vows blew away like smoke. He'd followed my father's path after all—yet I swore I would not follow my mother's.

"I won't beg a man who has turned away. I'm divorcing him. I'm going to Claeyron. I'm going to try my luck."

The wind was sharp. Risa hugged me like she used to, patting my back as if I were still a child.

"Alessia, go and create a new world for yourself. Whenever you feel tired and wish to come home, I'll be here waiting for you."

Tears came, and when they broke, I cried until I couldn't breathe.

That night, Risa had a brain hemorrhage. The family doctor was summoned—only he was at Carmilla's, recruited by Mario for prenatal care.

I begged Mario to release the doctor, to help Risa. He said only, "I'm sorry, Alessia. Carmilla's prenatal care is more important."

By the time Carmilla's session ended, Risa was gone.

I chose her grave beside my mother's and watched the photograph on the stone as tears fell.

Footsteps approached. Carmilla stood there, her belly prominent, a look of contempt on her face.

"Alessia, Mario isn't here. What are you doing—making a scene over a dead maid? Trying to make him feel sorry for you?

"You're just as useless as your mother—your dad loved my mother, Mario loves me. You and your mom are pathetic, unloved." The venom in her voice was loud enough to make the air hurt.

I stood, furious. My eyes fixed on her like a weapon.

Carmilla lurched backward, clutching her belly. "Alessia, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see Risa. I didn't mean to upset you. Ah—my stomach—" she cried.

A clean slap landed across my left cheek as Carmilla fell; Mario helped her to her feet and looked at me with a killing cold in his eyes.

"Alessia," he said, voice hard, "how can you be so vicious? She's carrying my child. How dare you—"

He had hit me with everything he had. My ears rang.

"Mario, you'll burn in hell," I yelled. He answered by having me bound and thrown into the villa's basement, where he ordered his men to beat and torture me until I was almost broken.

I clawed my way out with half my life gone and, on time, boarded the plane to Claeyron.

On the flight, I compiled everything I had: years of Mario's drug-deal locations, contacts, and shipment logs. I sent it all to his rival, Gio Agnelio.

'With this,' I thought as I clicked send, 'crippling the Brascos—or even destroying it—shouldn't be impossible.'