Who Is the Real Mafia Principessa Chapter 08

Who Is the Real Mafia Principessa Chapter 08

Giancarlo, who’d been sitting quiet on the corner bench, looked like he’d aged ten years in one night. Most of his hair had turned white. He lifted his head, eyes bloodshot, his voice old and exhausted.

“Althea… don’t speak to your mother that way. When she was pregnant with you, she almost… she almost didn’t make it. She fought for her life to bring you into this world. No matter what… blood is family.”

I laughed again, the sound cutting sharp through the silent hospital room.

“You’re all disgusting,” I said softly, my eyes drifting over every face twisted with pain and regret. “Even now, you still think you can chain me with this.”

“Didn’t she say it herself?” I turned to Mrs. Moretti, repeating every cruel word she’d spat during her breakdown. “She didn’t have me for me. She had me because Elowen was gone, and she needed a ‘comfort.'”

My gaze fell back to the bandage around my wrist, where a faint pink stain seeped through.

“Having your blood in my veins…” I muttered, hating the sound of my own voice. “I feel disgusting too.”

Then I looked up at them, smiling innocent and curious, yet colder than ice.

“You’re right… blood can’t be broken.”

I paused, as if seriously thinking through a puzzle.

My eyes swept over their instantly pale, terrified faces, watching horror bloom in their expressions. I spoke slowly, clearly, calmly.

“Should I give this life back to you?”

“Fine.”

After that, every sharp corner in the room was padded. All pointed objects were removed. Even the windows were sealed shut, terrified I’d hurt myself again.

Elowen once burst in, banging her head on the floor beside my bed until a dark, ugly bruise formed, screaming that she wanted to “make amends” and “die in my place.”

For the first time, Rafael hit her. He slapped her hard across the face, then dragged her screaming out of the room. Outside, muffled, broken sobs and shouts went on and on.

I felt nothing. I just stared blankly out the window, from day until night.

Mrs. Moretti found a children’s book somewhere and sat carefully by my bed, speaking in a fake, gentle tone.

“Althea, want Mom to read you a story? When you were little, you were so afraid of the dark… you always wanted me to tuck you in.”

I snatched the book from her in disgust, tearing it apart like a mad thing and throwing the scraps right at her.

“Get out!” I screamed. “You’re not my mom!”

All color drained from her face. Tears burst from her eyes, and she finally stumbled out of the room, covering her face.

Giancarlo had a brand-new, obviously expensive grand piano moved into the corner. When he saw a tiny flicker in my eyes, he spoke quickly, almost groveling.

“Our Althea used to love playing the piano. You practiced until your fingers blistered and won gold… Look, Daddy bought you the best one. Do you like it?”

I finally smiled.

Under their bright, hopeful stares, I slowly pulled the covers off and stepped out of bed. Mrs. Moretti and Rafael held their breath, watching expectantly.

I walked to the piano, sat down, and lifted the lid. My fingers brushed the cold keys, then I began to play, graceful and steady.

When the last note faded in the empty room, they clapped right away, faces lit up with relieved, overdone smiles.

I smiled too.

Then I bent down and picked up a heavy hammer the workers had left on the floor next to the piano.

As all their smiles froze and their eyes widened in terror, I raised the hammer high and smashed it down onto the shiny piano as hard as I could, without a single hesitation.