Page 8 of Scar

“Good boys who want to kill me,” I huff.

“Well, they'll all be here for dinner tonight,” Juliana reveals. “So feel free to martyr yourself then.”

I freeze, the knife slipping slightly from my tense grip. “They’re coming here. Tonight?”

Juliana nods, her eyes flicking back to me with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. “It’s Thursday. Family dinner, it's tradition ever since Don Gatti Senior was alive. And now that you’re part of the family, well...” she trails off, leaving the implication hanging heavily in the air.

My heart pounds against my chest as I consider my very limited options. Family dinner could be a battlefield or an olive branch; with the volatile nature of our arranged marriage, it is hard to guess which. Juliana seems to sense my anxiety and puts down her rolling pin, wiping her hands on her apron before placing them on my shoulders.

“Listen,” she starts, her voice firm yet gentle, “I know this isn't easy for you. But maybe tonight is a good opportunity. A chance to see them not as jailers or enemies, but as people. They’re not that bad.”

I want to believe her, to think that maybe there's a way out of this that doesn't end in misery for everyone involved. But doubt gnaws at me, fed by the resentment that's been growing since the day I was told I had no choice in my future.

Juliana gives my shoulders a squeeze before letting go and picking up her rolling pin again. “And if you need an ally,” she adds without looking at me, “you’ve got me.”

As the afternoon wears on and the shadows grow longer across the kitchen tiles, I try to push away my apprehensions and focus on helping Juliana with the dinner preparations. The rhythmic chopping and stirring become meditative, allowing me a brief respite from my spiraling thoughts.

Eventually, evening descends fully and with it comes the tumble of grown men into the house. They fill the house with their grown-up noise, their presence larger than life. My stomach knots with anxiety, but Juliana casts me a reassuring glance as she ushers me towards the dining room.

The table is set perfectly, with gleaming silverware and sparkling crystal glasses catching the light from the chandelier above. Each brother enters one by one, each bearing a resemblance to Scar but lacking his cold demeanor.

Lucky bounds over to me, and I cringe in embarrassment as I remember how rudely I treated him when we first met. “Please tell me you're as good a cook as Juliana,” he beams, his dimples deepening. Before I can respond, he introduces me to Rafi, who is around my age and likely to become my “best friend,” according to Lucky. I highly doubt it. He then points out Brando, the broody middle brother next in line after Scar. I turn to Brando and he gives me a short nod, his lips pressed into a tight line.

My attention is instantly drawn to Scar as he enters last, commanding attention with his mere presence. His eyes meet mine across the room, and I feel something unrecognizable in their depths. Surprise? Curiosity?

“Dinner is served,” Juliana announces, breaking the heavy silence.

Juliana guides me to a seat beside Scar, and I can't help but notice how his suit seems to stretch against his muscles as we eat in silence. Lucky attempts to engage me in conversation, but my attention remains on Scar and the unspoken tension between us. It's our first time being in close proximity since our 'wedding', and I'm not sure what I want from sitting with him and his family. However, I am curious about his intentions for me.

Lucky leans back in his plush chair, pouring himself a glass of dark red wine. A grin plays on his lips as he addresses me.

“So... sister dearest,” he begins, “how are you finding your new home?”

I take a sip of my own wine and set down my fork. “I prefer to call it a house,” I reply coolly. “This is not my home.”

Scar, sitting across from me at the long, ornate dining table, sets down his silverware and turns to face me fully. He chews his food slowly, watching me with intense blue-grey eyes before finally speaking.

“I'm glad you could join us for dinner tonight, wife,” he says in a low voice.

“Allegra will do,” I say through gritted teeth, my tone laced with venom.

Scar's mouth twitches into a smile, but there is no warmth or humor behind it. “You know what your problem is? You don't appreciate freedom.”

My eyebrows shoot up as I point to myself incredulously.“Idon't appreciate freedom? Are you not the one who took away my freedom?” My anger rises with each word, bubbling just below the surface.

Scar leans forward slowly, his eyes hard. “This is your freedom,” he hisses. “You’re lucky I haven't thrown you in my basement cellar yet.”

His words send a shiver down my spine, but I refuse to cower in fear. Instead, I sit up straighter and meet his gaze head-on.

“I am not your property!” I practically shout, my fists clenching on the table.

“You are now mywife,” he reminds me smugly. “And soon, everyone will know you as Allegra Gatti. I’ve already started the process of changing your name.”

I feel a surge of rage and betrayal, but my husband just smirks at me.

“You bastard!” I screech. He took away my freedom…and now he wants to take away my identity?

“I do apologize, Allegra,” he starts, insincerity oozing from his voice. “But you will carry my name, no matter how loathe I am to taint my lineage with the Marone name.”

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