Page 1 of Bred To Be Owned

Chapter 1

Toula, Age 14, Year O

I ran down the hall of our family compound, the squeak of my sneakers bouncing off the walls. As I rounded the corner, my feet slid on the imported marble floor in my hurry. Peeking into my sister’s art room, I sealed my fate. Irini wasn’t there to divert the attention, and I was officially in trouble. I had no one to blame but myself.

“You’re late,” my mother sneered as I took my place next to Irini at the dining room table. “You’re lucky. Your father took an important phone call.”

I didn’t feel lucky. Most of the time, I could ignore my mother and her spiteful comments. I usually let them bounce off me, pretending I was unbreakable. My mother didn’t know when to stop, and the next time she felt like punishing me, she’d aim for my jugular, guaranteeing it would hurt.

“Happy birthday, Irini,” I whispered, lowering my eyes to my lap. My father had to sit down before we could start breakfast, even though the food was already on the table. The serving staff would bring myfather a hot plate, and we’d have to deal with room temperature. My book was looking more appealing by the minute.

My father was the don of the οικογ?νεια, Greek for family, and made sure we knew he held all the power in his hand, wielding it for his pleasure only. My mother made sure we never forgot we were pawns in someone else’s game. Those who neglected their roles quickly learned the cost.

“Thank you.” Irini knocked her elbow against mine in solidarity, making it look like a subtle shift in her seat. I didn’t know how my sister had come from my parents. She was a gentle soul, and both of them were more apt to put a bullet between your eyes.

It was common knowledge that Irini didn’t want to leave the compound after she graduated from high school in the spring. She was sharp as a whip, but higher education had never really appealed to her. Unless you showed promise in running a business or gaining a skill that would help the Family, they didn’t encourage you. Boys became men, and fathers sold off daughters to further their own agendas. It was the way things were, and as the first daughter, men would offer twice the normal amount for Irini.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but I wished my father would hurry. My stomach rumbled, and my head pounded. I thought about asking to be excused, but I was in enough trouble. Finally, my father walked into the dining room, and we stood until he took his seat at the head of the table. After placing his napkin on his lap, he took a sip of his coffee and then motioned for us to sit.

“Happy Birthday, agapiméni.” My father patted Irini’s cheek and then picked up his fork. The wait staff had been on standby. The moment he allowed us to sit, the serving girl placed a fresh plate before him.

I faced the breakfast table, but I felt Irini’s gaze out of my peripheral vision. Her eyes darted towards me, then quickly back to her plate. My father had called Irini treasured in Greek. He only used terms of endearment when he wanted something, ensuring you would comply. There wasn’t a choice in the matter.

“Thank you, Patéras,” Irini whispered. Her face was pale, her wide eyes betraying the fear she fought to hide. Irini locked her hands together in her lap, and I could see her struggling not to show that she was shaking. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving angry red crescents.

“Today is a fortuitous day.” My father buttered his toast. “I’ve just accepted a marriage proposal for Irini.” He was the only one unfazed by the bombshell. My eyes darted to my mother. Across the table, she kept her composure, her expression quickly schooled as she reached for the fruit bowl, like this was an everyday occurrence.

I lowered my eyes again, my stomach churning, though my appetite had vanished. Arranged marriages were inevitable in our world, but to actually see my father carelessly give Irini away made me angry. He’d called hertreasured, but he hadn’t treated her any differently than a servant. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, but it wouldn’t make a difference. The women in my family suffered in silence. I knew they would treat me the same way when my time came.

“We have agreed to set the wedding date for the week of Irini’s twenty-first birthday. Maria, you’ll have to prepare her.” My father leaned back in his chair, surveying us like the king of his castle.

No one spoke. The only sound in the room was the soft chime of the grandfather clock in the corner and the scrape of my mother’s fork as she forced down pieces of watermelon.

I didn’t know where Irini found the courage, but she stared at my mother, silently begging her to ask for more details. My mother pretended not to see her and simply stared at my father as she ate. Theyheld a silent conversation. As a child, I had thought it was romantic, not understanding that it was ruthlessness that held my parents together.

Irini tried again to get my mother’s attention.

Finally, my mother broke the silence. “To whom?” she asked.

“Giuseppe Lombardo,” my father answered, as he took another sip of his coffee.

My mother waited to see if my father would say anything else before she pried. “The Old Man or Junior?” She was the only one who could question my father without being snapped at.

“The Old Man.” My father smirked before he took a bite of toast.

I glanced at my sister. She was trying her best to hold it together, but I could tell she wanted to flee from the room. As soon as she could, she’d run to her sanctuary on the third floor. When the news reached Markos, he’d make some excuse and meet her up there. Markos would be dead if my father ever found out they had feelings for each other. Mafia princesses didn’t fall for their bodyguards.

“Maria, the Italians will be here for dinner tonight to celebrate the contract. Prepare for their arrival.” He took one last sip of coffee and walked out of the room.

Irini waited until my father turned the corner, heading to his office. “Mother!” she yelled softly. “I can’t.”

“Hush. You will do your duty.” My mother didn’t have any compassion for the situation. Her response didn’t really surprise me, but I refrained from adding my two cents into this conversation. It wouldn’t help Irini, and it would place an even bigger target on my back.

“He’s an old man,” my sister retorted. “He’s older than Patéras.”

As long as the girl was eighteen, she was legal to take part in an arranged marriage. It didn’t matter if her groom was old enough tobe her grandfather. I had to give it to Irini. She hadn’t given up yet, even though she wouldn’t win this argument. We never did against our mother.

“So, what? You think Markos is going to save you? You were bred to be owned.” My mother had been aware all along.

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