Chapter 4: I Thought I Could Escape
Aria:
Twenty thousand dollars a month.
The number hung in the air between us like a loaded gun, and my brain—my supposedly brilliant, survival-oriented brain—just... stopped working.
That's two hundred and forty thousand a year. Less than two years, and I'll have enough to disappear when the families start tearing each other apart. When Vito's too busy with the bloodbath to notice one missing bastard daughter.
But my hands were shaking, because I knew better. I knew exactly what this was.
A golden cage. He's not offering me a job—he's buying me.
"I appreciate the offer, Don Castellano," I said carefully, "but I can't commit to something like this without thinking it through. I need to see if Caterina and I are even compatible first—"
"Time." Vito's voice dropped into that low, dangerous register that made my hindbrain scream predator. "Let me be clear, Miss Rossi. The Rossi family currently enjoys certain... protections. Business partnerships. Favorable terms on loans. Your father's little real estate venture wouldn't survive a week if those protections were suddenly withdrawn."
My blood ran cold.
He's threatening my family.
Not that I loved them—God knows Antonio Rossi had never given me a reason to. But Isabella was there.
Isabella who slipped me cash when Father cut my allowance, who let me hide in her room when things got bad, who actually treated me like a sister instead of a stain on the family name.
And the house. The roof over my head. The monthly allowance that let me buy essential oils and glass vials and all the supplies I needed to make perfumes, to make money, to survive.
I can't lose that. Not yet. Not when I'm so close to having enough to disappear.
"If Caterina accepts me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, "then we should discuss a proper contract. Terms, conditions, expectations—"
"I have a few hours," he said flatly. "I can wait."
A few hours. He wants me to meet her now, then come back down and sign my life away tonight.
I swallowed hard. "Alright. Let me meet her first."
He pulled out a sleek black wallet and extracted a slim stack of bills, then turned to Matteo. "Five thousand. First week's advance while we finalize the paperwork."
Oh. So this is just a taste. The real money comes after I'm locked in.
Matteo stepped forward with a plain white envelope, and Vito slid the bills inside before handing it to me. Professional. Impersonal. Like paying for any other service.
"The formal contract and full payment structure will be delivered tomorrow after you meet with Caterina," Vito continued. "Matteo will handle the logistics. But this—" he gestured to the envelope "—is yours now. A show of good faith."
Good faith. Right. More like a down payment on my soul.
I took the envelope, my fingers trembling slightly as I tucked it into my bag.
"One more thing, Miss Rossi." His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but there was steel underneath. "You will call me 'Don' when we're in private. Not 'Mr. Castellano.' Not 'sir.' Don. Understood?"
My throat tightened. "Yes... Don."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good. Caterina's room is on the third floor. Matteo will take you up."
In the elevator, Matteo cleared his throat.
"Miss Rossi, you should know—the Don has brought many perfumers to see Miss Caterina over the past months. Specialists from Paris, from Grasse, from Florence. She refused to see any of them. Most couldn't even get past the door."
My stomach tightened.
Great. So I'm walking into a guaranteed failure. Perfect.
We stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the third-floor corridor. Matteo knocked softly.
"Miss Caterina? Your guest is here."
Silence.
He tried the handle—locked.
"Miss Caterina, please. The Don asked—"
"Go away." The voice from inside was muffled, barely audible. "I don't want to see anyone."
Matteo's jaw tightened. He looked at me and lowered his voice.
"She's turned away at least a dozen people like this. Don't take it personally." He stepped back toward the hallway. "I'll be downstairs. If you need anything—anything at all—just call for me."
Then he was gone, and I was alone in front of a locked door with a broken girl on the other side.
Caterina Castellano. In my last life, she died two years before I did—the papers said she jumped from this building. Called it a tragedy, blamed mental illness and family curses.
*But I'd heard whispers too, the kind people only spoke about in dark corners. About something that happened to her before—a kidnapping, they said. Days long. Multiple attackers.
I never knew if it was true or just another vicious rumor, but the way people's voices dropped when they mentioned her name... that part was real enough.*
I crouched down in front of the door and pulled the vial from my bag—the yuzu and neroli blend, bright and hopeful. Carefully, I sprayed a fine mist toward the gap at the bottom, watching it drift through.
Then I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall, and spoke toward the door.
"My name is Aria. I'm not here to fix you or save you or any of that bullshit. I just... I brought something I thought you might like."
Silence.
"It's a perfume. Yuzu and neroli. It smells like mornings used to feel before everything went to hell. Like maybe things could be okay again, even if they're not okay right now."
More silence. But I thought I heard movement on the other side of the door.
"Why should I believe you?" Her voice was muffled, thick with unshed tears. "Everyone says they understand. No one does."
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.
"You're right. I don't know what happened to you. But I know what it's like when people look at you like you're already broken. Like there's no point even trying."
Silence.
"My father looks at me like that. Like I'm something dirty he stepped in. He brought me here from Sicily seven years ago, after my mother died. I thought maybe he'd actually want me, you know? That he'd care, even a little." I laughed, but it came out bitter.
"He doesn't. He never did. I'm just the bastard daughter who reminds him of a mistake he made twenty years ago. Most of the time he doesn't see me at all—like I'm furniture. But sometimes, when he's in a bad mood or I've done something to embarrass him, he remembers I exist. And then I get punished. For no reason I can figure out. Just because I'm there."
Another long silence. Then I heard movement—fabric rustling, like she was shifting closer to the door.
"You know what they say about me, don't you?" she whispered. "What they whisper at parties when they think I can't hear?"
My throat tightened.
"I know what people say about me too. That my mother was a whore. That she trapped my father with a pregnancy. That I'm trash from the slums who doesn't belong in a family like the Rossis."
I heard a soft sound—maybe a breath, maybe a sob.
