Page 23 of The Fox

Turn. It. Off.

AMELIA, AGE TWENTY-TWO

Papa is away, and for the first time, in what feels like forever, I am able to breathe.

The blade sits in my palm, its edge taunting me as I glance at the makeshift target. It’s a picture of Rafe, the image hidden behind my closet door. No one dares to enter my bedroom, but I trust not a single soul under Papa’s employ. They are all beholden to him—restless bodies in need of a paycheck, some without morality. Rubbing my lips together, I question my own existence.

I am the daughter of the most feared man in Chicago. The offspring of il cupo mietitore, the city’s very own Grim Reaper. Death and devastation is woven into my bloodline, so innately part of who I am. The weight of my lineage is overwhelming. Who I am and what I must become are vastly different, and if I am to survive in a snake pit of men overseen by the devil himself, then I cannot allow weakness.

I don’t know the last time I cried. My emotions are locked behind a fortress of steel, impenetrable, though most men have tried. It has been a revolving door of suitors, as Papa calls them. Men who have been deemed worthy of marrying such a prize. I huff, the thought of myself being a prize amusing. Women reduced to barely more than cattle, living only to provide an heir and ensure that the men are entertained. The looks these men have given me, as I sit gracefully in Papa’s office? Atrocious. It is as if they see me naked, beady eyes roaming my curves.

None are comparable to Rafe’s glances, however. I’m glad Papa took him on the trip this time. I consider the target once more, determination settling along my spine. One deep inhale and on the exhale, I fling the knife toward the target, smirking when it hits dead center.

If only.

AMELIA, AGE TWENTY-FOUR

My palms slap against the wood. Papa leans back in his chair, steepling his hands as he considers my outburst. “I demand to be in the room. You cannot keep me from this.” My chest heaves, anger pulsing through my body, and I am livid.

Papa thinks I cannot handle the dark side of this life. He would much rather see me relegated to hosting fancy dinners and being a woman who does not speak her mind.

Fuck. That.

My eyes do not break contact with his. I have one year until I must marry someone of his choosing and I will be damned if I allow a man to place his filthy foot on my throne. This is my chair. My name. My fucking legacy. But, Papa doesn’t see it that way. Despite having beat all emotion from me. No, I am nothing more than a womb to him—my importance now becomes one of child-bearing.

“You know that I can handle it.” I fling my hand toward Santiago, hoping he’ll chime in. “He knows. This whole fucking Family knows.” I clench my jaw, glancing down before lifting my eyes to him once more. “I have trained for this. You built me for this.” Santiago grunts, and I refuse to acknowledge him.

“You are a woman, Amelia.” I watch as Papa sets his jaw, the spine of Chicago’s most feared going ramrod straight. “Your place is not among bloodshed, among brutality.”

“My whole godsdamned life is shrouded in brutality. I was raised in it!” I sneer, fully aware of my escalating tone. “YOU demanded it of me. YOU decreed that I was to be married, forever cementing MY PLACE IN HELL.”

Papa stands abruptly, the feet of his armchair scraping the hardwood floors. “You will respect me, bambina. You best remember your fucking place,” he says, the quietness a deception of what lies beneath. Santiago moves toward us, but Papa raises a finger and halts his footsteps. Papa moves around the large desk, and I stand, pivoting to maintain my position.

“I am your daughter.” I take two steps toward my father, our toes meeting. “I am the last of your bloodline.”

He erupts, the veins in his forehead now popping against his tanned skin. “No, my daughter would FUCKING BACK DOWN AND DO HER DUTY TO THIS FAMILY.” Shame begins creeping up my skin, slithering into the spaces my father has carved over the years. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, waiting for the final blow. This is what he does, and it is a dance I know well. “Look at that, silent. As you fucking should be.” Papa spins, walking from me before facing Santiago, dismissing me from his office.

I’ve never been one to go silently.

“I am Amelia fucking Conte, daughter ofil cupo mietitore. You cannot deny me my birthright.”

Santiago’s gaze lifts to meet mine, a swirling of fear and admiration within it. I see my father become the Head of this mafia family. His body straightens, the broad shoulders rolling back, and his hands clench themselves into fists. Papa slowly turns to face me, and I see the instant my father is no longer in the room. No, I’m dealing with the devil himself.

“You want to play with the men, bambina?” His voice lethal, causing every hair on my body to stand. Papa stalks toward me, coldness now settled in his eyes. “Fine.” He reaches me, and I freeze as his hand flies up. The slap stings, pain radiating across my face. I cannot react, I cannot allow myself to give Papa the satisfaction. This isn’t the first time he’s hit me, and I know it won’t be the last. Made men keep women in line…by any means necessary.

Papa brushes my shoulder as he passes, knocking me off center. He walks out the room, Santiago nodding my way, telling me to follow.

The walk to the basement feels longer than I know it to be. Hidden behind a false wall, Papa’s torture chambers lay ready for his bidding. For his…entertainment. The air here is different, echoes of screams heavy in the chill. There is a man, tethered to the ceiling, his hands wrapped in thick chain. My stomach drops and I can feel my heart trying to escape my chest.

Turn it off, Amelia.

Papa circles the man, a smirk growing on his face. “Well, here we are. Tell me, figlia, is it everything you dreamed?” He runs his palm down the man’s side before yanking him, stretching the restrained body further. The man screams, eyes now wild in his pain. “Would you like to return upstairs?”

I see Santiago out the corner of my eye, standing at a metal table filled with implements. Something in my gut tells me that the next decision I make will decide my future. I step further into the room, shedding my sweatshirt to reveal my black tank top. “What did he do?” I tilt my head, waiting for a response I may not get.

“He crossed Dimitry and his Pakhan called in a favor.” Dimitry is Nikolai’s father, the leader of the Russian Bratva. He is one of the six families, and an ally of Papa. I move forward, noting the injuries already inflicted upon the offender. His skin is mottled with bruises, the flesh sliced open, and he’s missing a few toes. Because his hands are above his head, the man’s body is stretched to the limits, barely allowing him to brush the concrete floor. I spot a blade on the ground, the blood on it now dried. Dropping to a crouch, I grab the weapon and peer up at my father. I’m not sure what he expects me to do but I do know that whatever I do, I will be a disappointment.

Papa comes closer, and I wait. “I want him skinned alive. You, dear daughter, will be the one to remove his brand.” I breathe deeply, the realization of just how far into the devil’s lair I’ve gone hitting me. “You asked for this, remember?” I stand, gripping the blade firmly. Approaching the man, I am overwhelmed with the stench of urine. I run my eyes up his body, stopping once I reach his face. I don’t recognize him, but then again, I was usually in the courtyard with Nikolai and Parker, not roaming the halls of the Pakhan’s estate.

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