The Don’s Real Daughter

Bianca’s birthday party was incredibly lively.

The entire estate was brilliantly lit. There was a twelve-tier champagne tower, the band had been brought in from New Haven, and the fireworks lasted for a full ten minutes.

Meanwhile, I was locked in the cellar.

Father had personally given the order.

He stood outside the cellar door without coming down, speaking to me through the iron bars.

“Alessia Vitale, how could you face your mother after what you did? That pendant was the thing she treasured most. It was your grandmother’s keepsake.

“You hated her that much? So much that you destroyed the last thing she left behind for you?

“If your mother were still alive and saw what you’ve become today, she would regret ever giving birth to you.”

I looked at him through the iron door, my voice so hoarse that it sounded like sandpaper scraping against stone.

“Mamma gave it to me. It was mine.”

He seemed startled by how rough my voice sounded and paused briefly before saying, “Forget it. Today is Bianca’s birthday. Stay quietly in your cellar and don’t come out embarrassing yourself.”

The iron door locked with a sharp click, and his footsteps gradually faded away.

Soon, the sound of music drifted down from upstairs.

The crisp clinking of champagne glasses carried through the thick stone ceiling, mixed with the laughter and chatter of guests. It was so lively, like another world entirely.

Not long afterward, the iron door opened again.

Bianca stood at the entrance holding a glass of champagne, wearing the custom green strapless gown that should have belonged to me.

“Look. Papa is mine, the estate is mine, and even everything Mamma left behind is mine. What about you? Other than this dark, damp cellar, what do you even have left?”

I suddenly looked up at her.

She flinched at the look in my eyes and instinctively stepped back half a pace, but she quickly regained her composure and sneered.

“What? You still want to hit me? Do you dare? Papa is upstairs. The moment you touch me, you’ll sink into the lake tomorrow, and not even your bones will be left behind.”

She walked over and brushed her champagne-covered fingertips across my face.

The cold alcohol against my skin made my stomach turn.

“Alessia, how did it feel hearing Papa personally say you’re a servant’s child?

“You really are shameless. It’s been eight years, and you still refuse to leave. You got Mamma killed. Papa hates you to the bone. Can’t you tell?”

I ignored her and stared at the tiny cellar window instead.

Outside, it was lively.

Balloons, flowers, fireworks. The twelve-tier birthday cake wheeled into the main hall.

Every single year, it was always like this.

I could only stand by and watch someone else celebrate my birthday.

Her expression darkened, embarrassed and furious from being ignored.

“Alessia Vitale! I’m talking to you!”

When I still didn’t respond, she grabbed the broken jade fragments.

“Why don’t you go join your dead mother and—”

She never finished the sentence.

Because I lunged at her and toward the jade fragments.

Her hand loosened, and the pieces flew out through the cellar window, falling into the branch of the Corholt River behind the estate.

I didn’t think about anything.

I shoved Bianca aside, climbed through the window, and jumped into the freezing river in the middle of February.

Water rushed into my ears and my lungs.

Just before I lost consciousness, I heard a voice.

It was soft, overlapping perfectly with the voice in my memories, cutting through eight years of darkness and reaching my ears with absolute clarity.

“Alessia, Mamma is here—”

“Alessia, my baby.”

“Alessia, Mamma’s back.”