Legacy

As the motorcycle pulled into the parking lot of the roadside motel, Ophilia tried to at least get some solid answers out of her would-be kidnapper, but the man continued his silence. He waved her down when she went to rise from the bike, removed his helmet, and walked to the front desk. Ophilia shivered, too afraid to run and too anxious to stay still.

And yet, when the man returned, he handed her a key to a room and slipped off to a room of his own. No ropes or ties; no forceful hands or harsh words. She longed for Vivian, but she was growing more and more curious about this whole situation as time passed.

The man had spoken, but only in clipped, brief responses that gave no real answers. His voice bore an accent, but Ophilia had some trouble placing it. He hadn't even told her his name.

Likewise, Ophilia made it a point to give him as little attention as possible, even though questions buzzed through her head like angry hornets. She knew he wouldn't answer her. Besides, she was beyond caring at this point. She was slowly growing resigned that she'd likely die before she ever saw her home again.

Despite her resignation, that first night in the motel felt like a purge. The water of the shower was warm and pleasant – Nick and his goons hadn't allowed her the luxury of a shower, or even a bath. Even if they had, William would've probably been ordered to watch...

She winced at the vision of Will's death as it played over her eyes again. She looked down at her feet which, for obvious reasons, didn't help at all; all it did was let her see the lines of blood and small chunks of... things... going down the drain. The bits from inside his head.

She looked up instead, closing her eyes to the stream of the shower head. She traced a hand up her body, letting out a long sigh. She'd gotten several large bruises during her time in Nick's company. The one on her face from her initial punches had already faded to yellow, but she had two sore spots on her abdomen and one on her collarbone, just over her breast.

As her hand trailed over the curvature of her chest, Ophilia began to wonder – perhaps even fear – what Vivian was doing right then. Was she looking for her? Or maybe she was sleeping soundly. Maybe she was crying, terrified for her. She chewed on her lip, closing her eyes tightly to keep from crying. She'd shed enough tears these past few weeks. She needed a break from them.

When she returned to the bedroom of her space, Ophilia found a fresh set of clothing laid out on her bed in a neat pile. Despite the creepiness of this – she'd locked and deadbolted her door – Ophilia almost squealed at the prospect of being dressed in clean clothes after roughly two weeks in captivity.

She reached for the clothes, eager to get them on, but remembered her exhaustion just as her fingers traces over the clean shirt. She sighed and pulled the panties from the pile, slipping them on and setting the other clothes aside. She'd only make them sweaty overnight.

She was asleep the second her head hit a pillow. She slept so soundly that she didn't remember her dreams – or her nightmares – but she woke covered in sweat. She took another shower, washing the previous night's events away for the second time, and finally took the luxury of dressing. She took her time, drawing on each piece of clothing slowly. To her, it became just another part of her departure from everything that had happened to her.

A knock on the door pulled her back from her thoughts. She knew who it was without asking; it could only be him. She walked over, opening the door sharply. "Yes?" She asked the man, who was standing with his arms crossed.

"We cannot stay here much longer," he said in that strange accent of his. Now that she'd cleansed herself of the past few weeks, Ophilia was finally able to take the man in properly. He wasn't too much older than she was, at most eight years her senior, making him somewhere between twenty and twenty-seven. His hair was black, short, and wavy, but not very well groomed. He obviously didn't pay much attention to it. His eyes were brown and sharp, when they weren't vacant and empty. He had a very athletic build and no facial hair to speak of; he had to have shaved this morning.

She could finally place his accent, too; it was Italian. Very strongly Italian too – so much so that Ophilia was confident that English was his second language. Despite how fluent he clearly was, he spoke in a strange, halting way, as if careful to enunciate clearly.

"We'll leave when I'm ready to leave, whoever you are," Ophilia shot back, glaring. "This is my first morning with cosmetics and coffee in two weeks, and I won't let you take the small pleasures from me."

The man looked genuinely shocked. He blinked several times, then his eyes lit up and he let out a hearty laugh that sounded like it came straight from his belly. "You are quite a... how do you say..." He snapped his fingers rapidly several times. "Ah! A manciata; a handful."

He seemed to be an entirely different person than the one she'd seen last night. His smile was so warm that it actually hurt. This man was sub-human. He'd killed twenty people barely a day ago and now he was smiling like anyone else. How did he do it? "Fine, Principessa, take your time. But do not test me." He wagged a finger at Ophilia, the emotion draining from his eyes. "You have twenty minutes."

Ophilia felt a lump form in her throat and nodded at him silently. She closed the door, dead-bolting it again and leaning against it, catching her breath. She shouldn't have said that to him. She should've just let things be. She's even forgot to ask him how he'd gotten into her room! Closing her eyes, she gave her head a shake and started to the bathroom. She only had twenty minutes to make herself presentable.

When Ophilia walked out of her room, feeling like a woman again, the man didn't speak a word about the exchange they'd just had, nor about how he'd placed the clean clothes in her room. Or how he'd known her sizes and had clothes to fit. Even down to her bra size... He simply took her dirty clothes from her, put them into his motorcycle's side-bag, and pulled his helmet on. "The shirt, at least, is ruined," was all he said.

She ended up buying coffee at a drive-thru. Even with the cream and sugar, it still tasted like tar, but Ophilia slurped it happily in the brief time the man allowed her.

The trip continued for two more days, with Ophilia riding behind him on the motorcycle, her hands clasped around his waist. He made two more stops similar to the first, both times at a motel on the roadside. Each time, despite her best efforts, he always seemed to slip into her room when she was showering and deposit clean clothes.

The time in between those stops was spent on his motorcycle, tearing away the asphalt in front of them. She imagined they had to be headed to a different state, but she had no idea which one.

Long after Ophilia had stopped feeling her ass, the man finally pulled into the third stop. At first, Ophilia saw nothing out of the ordinary about this building, until she considered that this wasn't a motel by the road he was stopping at, but an apartment complex in the middle of a small town.

The man propped up his bike on it's kickstand, killed the engine, and pulled his helmet off, giving a small sigh at being freed from it. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat and Ophilia had to bite her lip to not laugh at how ridiculous it looked.

The man snapped his attention to her, making Ophilia nearly swallow her own tongue, and motioned for her to follow him. He left his helmet hanging off the handlebar of his motorcycle, so Ophilia did the same.

Ophilia had begun to notice strange little details about this man over the past three days. For instance, whenever he walked around her, he always kept just out of arm's reach. Also, his eyes always seemed to be scanning any room they walked into at all times. Ophilia wanted to believe that this added to his mystery, but in reality it made something painfully clear; this man was constantly on edge, ready for violence at a moment's notice. It wasn't a very comforting fact.

Finally, he stopped at a seemingly random door and dug a set of keys from his pocket. After unlocking the door, he opened it and held it for her. She stood still for a moment, unsure if this was a trick of some kind, and the man waved her in. "Ladies first," he said smoothly, giving Ophilia a wink. For a moment, she was stunned by the shift from silent and on edge to playful. She walked through the doorway, slightly berating herself; if this man had meant to hurt her, he would've done so by now.

The space beyond was a small apartment, reflecting the smallness of the town around it. Still, Ophilia was genuinely surprised at how... normal it was. After all she'd seen this man do, she expected him to be some secret agent or something of that vein. However, when she walked into what she presumed to be the living room, she saw that it was simple – almost spartan – in design. No 'X'ed off faces of previous targets. No spiderweb of pictures, news clippings, and red string covered some map, all pointing to her. Just a table, kitchenette, a couch, a TV, and an adjoining room – probably the bedroom.

The man walked past her, tossing his jacket onto the couch like any other man. He stretched and groaned, suddenly seeming more human than at any point during their travels. Perhaps it was because he was in his own home, but Ophilia finally didn't feel uneasy at the idea of talking with him.

"Who... are you?"

The man looked back her, blinking in surprise. Then he laughed again, genuine humor flashing over his face. "Che ridicolo! All this time, and I have not even said my name!" He held his stomach as his laughter died down. "My name is Salvatore Fontana, at your service." He gave a small bow at the waist as he said the last part, gaining a sardonic smirk. "I also go by the name Lupo in some places. È un piacere conoscerti."

Ophilia felt almost sick. How could this person be the same one who saved her? The same one who...

"Why?" She heard herself asking, without her brain really registering. Already locked into this road, Ophilia steeled herself and finished the question. "Why'd you do all that? Kill all those men? Some of them surrendered. You could've let them live."

At the mention of the killings, his cheerful demeanor fell away. To her, it was impossible to tell what was the mask he wore and what was his true face. "Your father gave me orders to make sure you were well taken care of." He leaned against the couch, voice flat and factual. "They were very clear: there were to be no survivors. A message had to be sent. And he sent me to deliver it. I had assumed that was clear."

Blood pounded in Ophilia's head as she remembered the end of her first conversation with Nick with a sudden, vivid clarity. "You're his... 'Bloodhound,' aren't you? The one the men in white were so afraid of?" She felt her legs shake, but kept on her feet. If she was right, then she had nothing to be afraid of.

"Yes. Colpevole come accusato – how you say 'guilty as charged.'" His rakish smirk didn't seem nearly so coy anymore. "And those men, they were members of the Bianchi Family." He motioned to the bedroom before she could say or ask anything else. "Now, the bathroom is in there. I know how much you love your showers. I will bring in more clothes for you." He crossed his arms again, his eyes deep pools of emotionless black. "I would ask that you not try to leave. If you do, I will have to find you again."

The way he said it raised goosebumps all over Ophilia's body. Those eyes were so empty. "That," he continued, "would be unpleasant for both of us, as well as for anyone you would seek help from." He took another pause, letting Ophilia absorb that threat properly. "Please, think of me as your protector and as famiglia; as family."

Ophilia gulped, nodding quickly. She had no desire to spend another moment in that room with this man. She hurried into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her and quickly scanning her surroundings. Yes, there was a window. Yes, she could run. But, if he was serious – and Ophilia didn't doubt for a moment that he was – then that would be a horrible idea. No, she decided, she'd have to stay. If he wasn't lying to her and he was sent by her father, then it was safe to assume that he really was her protector.

She looked at the shower through the bathroom door with longing. Salvatore had been right about her love for showering after a long day, and the motorcycle always made her sweat and ache. Just as she was starting to undress, Salvatore knocked on the door.

"I'm getting in the shower; what is it?" She asked, a little testy at being interrupted.

"I have received new orders from your father," he said, making Ophilia's heart do a flip. This man could get in touch with him, just like that. "He says we are to not make any contact with anyone, so I have cut off the phone line. Please, respect his wishes in this."

Ophilia balled her hands into fists, wringing her shirt between them. Everywhere they'd gone, it'd always been the same. Phones that were shut off, time and time again. Contact no one; not even Vivian. She hadn't been able to get a message to her before, but now that she knew he was protecting her and not kidnapping her, maybe...

Ophilia walked right up tot he door, leaning her forehead against the smooth wood. "I-I just... I have someone special I need to contact. Someone important to me. Someone I love. I'm sure my father will understand that, right? Please, ask him if I can contact her."

"One moment," was the reply. Ophilia waited patiently, rooted to the spot and holding her breath. After several minutes, Salvatore spoke again. "I am sorry, but your father said to wait. We do not know who is watching us right now and it is better to be safe. Once you see him, you can ask him again in person."

Ophilia's heart froze in her chest. Loathing and excitement battled within that frozen place inside her, making her blood boil despite the sudden cold. "Oh. I see. Now he wants to meet me. I always assumed my father was a disgusting individual, but this is an all-time low, even for him."

Shocked silence was Ophilia's only response for several seconds, before Salvatore answered. "I will not pretend that your father is a likable man, but I am also sure that you do not know why he does what he does. You should not condemn a man without knowing his reasons for the evils he commits."

Ophilia slammed her fist against the door, hard. "I can and I will! My mother died and he did nothing! Not a visit, not a phone-call, not a letter, not even a fucking sympathy card! So don't you dare tell me I can't judge that man!"

More silence. "It seems you will need to see for yourself. I warn you now, your father is not quite what you seem to believe. While I cannot say much, I will say this: whatever else might be true or false, you are... valuable to him."

Ophilia tensed up. Not important or special or even loved. Salvatore had picked that word very carefully. Valuable. She turned that over in her head a few times before leaning off the door and sighing heavily to herself. She continued undressing, wanting that shower even more now – she felt dirty after hearing someone talk so sensibly about her father. She didn't want to admit it, but Salvatore had a point.

The shower was especially relaxing. Not only was Salvatore's bathroom much cleaner than the public ones in the motels, it was also fully stocked with various hygiene products. She used them shamelessly, not even bothering to ask her 'host' if it was okay. If they really were family, he shouldn't mind, right?

As she walked back into the bedroom, drying her hair and humming to herself, she noticed that her dirty clothes were gone, replaced by another meticulously folded set of clean clothes. She was beyond seeing this as creepy, and instead took pleasure in the small ritual the two of them had established. She smiled and trailed her fingers over the clean shirt, silently thanking the man in the other room. She blinked, realizing just how bipolar she was acting towards Salvatore. "I really should apologize, shouldn't I?" She asked herself, dressing with casual slowness before stepping back into the living room.

Salvatore was sprawled out on the couch, flipping lazily through channels on the television. When he saw her, he switched the box off and rose.

"I, uh... I wanted to—" But Salvatore simply walked past her – not speaking to her, nor listening to a word she said. He shut the bedroom door behind him and, seconds later, Ophilia heard the shower start up again. "Well... Good talk..." She grumbled under her breath at the silent treatment, knowing it was basically her own fault.

She sat down where he'd been sitting, switching the television back on. It was the news, and what what they were reporting made Ophilia shiver. Twenty dead; all members of the Bianchi Crime Family; suspects in kidnapping earlier that month; further details pending.

Two days. It'd been two long days, and yet it felt like it'd all happened just a few hours ago. She recalled it all vividly – the blood, the chaos, the death – but everything was shrouded in a thin veneer of abject horror. At the time, she hadn't been entirely certain that everything she'd seen had been real, but...

She'd been so very, very wrong. He'd killed twenty people, entirely by himself.

She stared at the closed door to the bedroom again, her breath deepening as fear gripped her heart. She seriously considered ignoring his warning and running away from this clearly homicidal man. But even if she ran, what would she do next? Call the police? And how many of them would he kill to reclaim her? Go home? What would stop him from just going back and grabbing her again? And what if he hurt Vivian?

She bit into her lip and sank back down into the couch. Maybe she could try to get word to Viv? Just to let her know she was okay, of course. But what if this man was right and there was somebody watching them – maybe even tracking their calls? It was common knowledge that the men who'd held her captive were all dead and that she was missing, but what if that wasn't all of them? What if more of this crime family – the Bianchi Family – came to find her? What if they were outside right now, waiting for her to do something stupid?

Terror crawled through her skin and kept her from moving. She stayed on the couch and stared at the television, not really processing anything she was seeing. She stayed there, exactly like that, until Salvatore walked back into the living room.

He was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a white tank-top. His wavy hair was pulled back into a small, low ponytail. As much as she hated to admit it, Ophilia thought he actually looked almost attractive.

"You can have the bed," he said, motioning behind himself towards the bedroom. "You might want to get some sleep – we will be leaving here early tomorrow. Your father asked to see you before sunset, so we will need to move fast to deliver." His smile was just as painful as the first time he'd shown it to her. "And please, don't try to run when I am asleep. I wake up very easily and this whole apartment is rigged with alarms and traps. At best, I would know you left; at worst, you will really injure yourself. Either way, I will know."

Ophilia tensed at the threat. No matter how plush the prison, a prisoner is still a prisoner. She huffed at him and picked herself up off his couch, storming into his bedroom with as much of an imperious nature as she could muster. Without a word, she slammed the door harshly against anything he might do or say.

And as soon as those all-too-human eyes stopped looking at her, she ran to the bed and cried.

The next morning, Ophilia felt horrible. She'd slept not a wink and couldn't stop thinking about Vivian for a second. She missed her bubbly lover more than anything, and now that she was 'free,' she wanted her back. She'd asked for very little of life, but happiness with Viv was one of those few things she demanded. She'd worked hard to secure their life together, and now it had all been torn away by something outside of their control.

Salvatore unceremoniously loaded her onto the back of his motorcycle and the two sped down the thruway, careening towards her new future.

Ophilia clung to him, thinking about her father. Supposedly, he wasn't like she imagined him to be, and that was believable enough. She imagined him as entirely heartless, but according to Belle, he had loved her mother just as much as she loved Vivian, if not more so. He'd been devastated by her death, of course, but Ophilia recognized that nothing had stopped him from reaching out to her and sharing in their mutual burdens. Instead, he'd suffered on his own, and forced her to bear the pain in isolation as well. He probably wasn't some soulless monster, she reflected, but she doubted that would make her like him any more. Even if a part of her wanted to.

It wasn't until Salvatore pulled down a long driveway that lead to a soaring mansion – white pillars adorning the front and glorious gardens splashing the grass with color – that Ophilia began to understand the full extent about what Salvatore meant by her father not being what she knew.

Her rescuer and captor kicked his kick-stand down, stepping off the bike, and helping her off, all while Ophilia gaped and gawked like the commoner she so clearly was. "He... my father can't live here. He's a small-scale businessman. He doesn't own any chains or large-scale companies, so... how?" She turned on her heel while she spoke, trying to see everything and understand what was happening.

"Your father's business might not be in the public eye, but it is large nonetheless." Salvatore replied cryptically, putting his helmet in it's usual place on the handlebars. "I assure you, it is larger than you could ever conceive." He held out a hand, taking her helmet from her stunned hands.

As she collected herself, Ophilia gulped down some of her bitterness. She was determined to not carry her negativity into this meeting; beyond wanting to try and enjoy the presence of her last remaining parent, Ophilia also refused to be the one to cast the first stone.

This became much harder as she laid eyes on the entryway.

Servants bustled this here and there – butlers and maids – all going about this job or that job. Magnificent pictures and statues rested on or near the walls and vases held beautiful flowers of a hundred hues. Supposedly, she'd been sent away for her own protection. Apparently, she considered with a sneer, she was – in fact – being protected from her family's wealth and prestige.

She snorted, but couldn't hide her amazement at it all. She was a part of all this. Trailing a hand over a flower, Ophilia stopped to smell it's delicate scent, fully aware of Salvatore's eyes on her. She sighed whimsically at the sweetness and started walking again, her eyes trying to absorb it all in at once.

The door that turned out to be their destination, however, was simple and unadorned. Ophilia decided, however, that it was probably made of some high-grade wood like mahogany or something along that line. Salvatore knocked as soon as she was by his side, eyes locked on the door before him.

"Come in, Salvatore."

Ophilia shivered. That was the voice of her father. She knew it, but she didn't believe it. He sounded so... cold, like how Salvatore looked sometimes. He sounded like a winter storm blowing through the branches of dead trees, only more refined, as if it were somehow snowing flakes of frigid gold. Salvatore stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. Taking a deep breath, Ophilia swallowed her nerves and opened the door.

Salvatore followed her in, pushing her forward gently as she froze in the doorway. The room was a neat, tidy office with a casual air. This was a place someone spent most of their day, working, organizing, and planning. A cabinet along the wall to one side was filled with wines and liquors, while the other side had a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony overlooking an expansive back yard. In the center of the room, near the back, was a desk – it was a large desk, meant to hold all the papers and gears one would need to work.

The man sitting behind the desk – made of the same wood as the door, Ophilia noted clinically – had to be him. She had his eyes: like twin pools of grass, if the blades of the grass were sharp like actual blades. When he looked up from his desk, his stare tore through her clothes, her skin, her muscles and bones, exposing her completely and utterly. She felt the sudden need to hide behind Salvatore, like some small child hiding at her mother's hip when meeting a stranger for the first time.

"Ophilia," he said softly. Those razor eyes softened instantly and suddenly everything was okay. "My God... You look so much like your mother..." She forgot all her hate. It was still there, of course, but for now it would sit there behind her happiness and fester. She was here, in a room with her father. She squealed then, an undignified sound to be sure, but she didn't give a damn. She ran around the desk, grabbing her dad and pulling him into a hug.

He drew back but didn't push her away, as if he had no idea what to do. Slowly, very slowly, he put his hands around her, patting her back. "It's so wonderful to finally be able to meet you," he said, sounding achingly genuine.

After a half-second, Ophilia felt very silly. She was nineteen, and here she was acting like a ten-year-old. She took a sedate step back clearing her throat loudly. "Likewise, father." She looked at him again and finally saw him clearly. He looked like a jolly sort of man, despite those sharp eyes. The lines on his face showed signs of both good and bad times, and Ophilia felt her chest tighten. Salvatore had been right; he was nothing like she'd assumed.

"Salvatore," he said, turning in his seat to stare at the other man. "Have you updated her on the situation?" And that was all. Just like that, she was invisible to him. Ophilia felt the clenching in her chest turn molten and drop down to her toes.

"Not yet, sir. I believed it best to leave that to you."

Ophilia's father sighed in a painfully familiar way. Ophilia vowed she'd never sigh again, knowing full well that she'd break that promise in under an hour. "Explaining things is a tedious business, Salvatore. Next time, take it upon yourself, please." Two hours, Ophilia amended with a haughty snort.

"As you wish, sir," Salvatore replied, bowing his head slightly. "Shall I retreat to the hall?"

Her father waved for him to sit and turned back to her. "Please my dear, take a seat. We've much to discuss."

"What happened to my mother?" Ophilia shot back as she walked around the desk again, not breaking eye contact with him as she went.

"All in due time," her father replied, holding up a hand. "Let us deal with the current crisis first, shall we? I'm glad to see safely out of the hands of the Bianchi Family. I assume Salvatore has told you that much at least. I apologize that it took as long as it did."

Ophilia gave a shudder at the memory of her time in captivity. Especially the last few hours of it. "No, it's... quite all right. They didn't treat me poorly, all things considered. Not all of them were terrible people." The words felt like lead on her tongue, heavy and poisonous.

Her father waved a dismissive hand. "Good or bad, they're all dead now, down to the man." The calm way he said it made goosebumps run along Ophilia's arms. What was wrong with these people? She knew, right in that moment, that perhaps her father was exactly as evil as she'd once believed.

"Now, let me start this reunion off by setting a small rule. My name is Charles, my dear. I know you've known that for some time, but I say it to remind you; I am not 'daddy' or 'papa' or anything as frivolous as that. I am either 'Charles'. 'father', or 'sir.' Do I make myself clear?"

Ophilia wet her dry lips with a swipe of her tongue. "Like crystal, sir."

"Very good," Charles shot back with a charismatic smile. It no longer seemed jolly. "Secondly, I should assume you are still slightly alarmed about all this finery." He motioned to the room around them with a half-smirk on his lips. "I believe you said I was a... small-scale business owner, correct?"

Ophilia blinked, unable to hide her surprise. "How—?"

"It is an accurate judgement, in some aspect, but it's overall very, very wrong. My business is only small in that the world at large doesn't see much of it. You see Ophilia, my business is the oldest business; the business of sin. I work in the dark for those who live in the dark and I have been blessed with great success. My business – or perhaps organization would be a better word – as well as this manor and all this wealth has been passed on from generation to generation. And now, you are home at last." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers like a cliche mastermind. Those laugh lines on his face looked downright sinister all of a sudden. "Welcome to the Family, my dear."

There was a distinct difference in the way Charles had said the word Family. Namely, Ophilia could hear the capital 'F' very clearly. "T-the Family?" She asked, hoping that she was digging too deep into all this and that he was just welcoming her home. That none of this was true.

"Indeed. I am the current head of this city's strongest Mafia Family, now that the Bianchis are all dead. We are the Melody Family, my darling daughter, and you... you are my one and – sadly – only heiress." He shook her head as if she were some great disappointment.

Ophilia barked out a sudden laugh, leaning forward towards her father as she spoke. "Y-you're kidding me, right?" She felt herself settle into an adequate glare. "It it's so horrible that I'm all you have, then I'll head right back out that door. If you want the honest truth, I want no part of you, or this Family of yours." Ophilia hadn't really considered her words before she spoke them and the poison in every syllable was shocking, even to her. Now, looking back, she was more shocked that Charles hadn't had Salvatore kill her on the spot.

Instead, Charles studied her, lightly tapping his fingers together. "You misunderstand me, child." He lowered his hands, resting them on the desk. "It is not horrible that you're here, not do I resent anything you've done or said. On the contrary, your mother – bless her soul – she wished for you to live a normal life, away from all this. She died with that wish in her heart and no siblings born into the world for you. And with the intervention of the Bianchi Family, it's become plain that – as I said, sadly – her dream cannot remain a reality any longer."

Ophilia sank back into the chair, information raging through her mind. Pieces began falling into place so fast, she fancied she could hear the clicks in her mind.

Click, click, click.

"You... my mother wanted to protect me. You both sent me away so I could live a normal life, and you were both distancing yourselves so I wouldn't be wrapped up in anything involving this life... That's why I grew up with Belle. Why I never saw or heard from either of you..."

Click, click, click.

"But then, these people – the Bianchi Family – they came for me. I'm your only child, and they kidnapped me to use me as a bargaining chip. You were after them, for some reason or another, and they wanted to use me to keep themselves safe – to barter for their lives..."

Click. Click. Click.

"So now... now I'm not safe. I can't keep apart from this life anymore. Others will see my value and come for me if I try. Everyone I love will be... in danger..."

Click!

She felt tears burn their way into her eyes, clenching her fists tightly. "I'll either accept your disgusting lifestyle, or live my entire life on the run, not able to be happy, all because of the life you and my mother lived." She gritted her teeth, grinding them for a moment before continuing. "Not to mention... here I am, your only child. Your heiress, right?"

She drew into herself, muttering just under her breath. "You... you bastard. You absolute fucking bastard. You've ruined my life..." She toned her voice up, feeling herself rise in pitch, a mocking tone entering into her words. "And now, now you expect me to dance on your strings – your own little marionette. Well, I won't do it!" She was shouting now, about ready to jump out of her chair. "I won't be your fucking puppet! I just won't!"

Anger flared through Charles' eyes and he leaned forward in his seat. Later in life, she would realize that this action meant one of several things: Charles was either trying to be persuasive and charismatic, was genuinely curious about something, or was very, very angry. She had no idea how close she'd come to dying right then.

"First, you misunderstand me and now you make assumptions about my intentions? You are either willful, stupid, or both. To be fair, I believe you are willful and ignorant, which is easier to cure. And requires less cleaning up afterwards." His voice dropped lower, entering a tone so frigid, it could freeze water. "I'm your father, child. And last I checked, I'd just saved your life." He motioned to Salvatore, who was sitting quietly and patiently. "By proxy, yes, but Lupo acted on my orders. He saved you from those men. I can't deny, my life-style – yes, my lifestyle; not your mother's – intruded on your own blissfully ignorant facade of an existence, but it would have eventually, one way or another. With your mother dead, I have no other children." He slid back into his seat, suddenly deflating. Mentioning his wife's death so bluntly had drained away his vitality, leaving a pale, miserable man behind. Even Ophilia could see the extent of his pain, and it made her chest ache again.

"I'm growing old, child, and I don't plan to remarry. Your mother was my angel – my life – and I will not disgrace her memory and scramble to have another child simply because you choose to ignore the fact that I brought you into this world, just as surely as your mother gave birth to you. You are our child – my child – and I need you now. My empire, this legacy our family has built, must pass to someone of my blood. I want it to be someone of her blood as well." He paused, seeming to gain some color in his completion again. "As such, you are the only one I could possibly give it to. Once you have it, you are free to do with it what you will, but do not think to sit there and tell me – your father – what you will and will not do. Do not test me, child. I have done far worse in my time than discipline a willful, ignorant child."

Salvatore shifted to Ophilia's side and she flicked her eyes over to him. He shook his head very slightly and Ophilia deflated. She knew this was serious, deep down in her heart. She felt that old hatred bubble up in her chest and she embraced it like an old friend, gripping the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. Salvatore had been right after all: her father wasn't what she'd envisioned of him. He was infinitely worse.

"I... Fine. What would you have me do? Sir." She clipped the word and filled it with as much malice as she could, sitting up straight, her eyes forward, meeting his gaze.

Charles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "My dear, believe me when I say that I genuinely had no intention of dragging you into this world. However, every other option has been exhausted. Your exclusion from this lifestyle was her dying wish. One of them, anyway." He reached down to the drawers of his desk, pulling out a cigar and closing the drawer silently. Ophilia wrinkled her nose at it: she detested smoking.

Whether he missed her distress, or he he chose to ignore it, Charles clipped and lit the cigar, puffing it a few times before he continued. "As you are now, you're a target. You're weak in more ways than one, and my enemies – or should I say our enemies – will break you without much effort. As it stands, I offer you two options," he said, punctuating his words with a long pause to take a deep drag from the cigar. Ophilia was beginning to understand that these long pauses were a normal part of any conversation with Charles. He loved to make you wait on his every sentence. He slowly let out the smoke before moving on.

"The first option is the easiest: you will become like a wallflower, raised in this manor, never leaving the grounds. Here, you'll receive the best education money can buy, and will learn the arts of subtly, manipulation, and tact. You will run the Family as a shadow boss, pulling the string and making the puppets all dance, as you so aptly put it."

He admired his cigar as he finished, considering his next words. "Or," he continued, "you can depart with Salvatore when he returns to Europe. There, you will train under him and learn how to be like him. When you come back, you will be free to go wherever you want, do whatever you want, and this Family will be like putty in your hands once you inherit it." He took another long drag, sighing out the smoke quickly this time. "Decide."

Ophilia was stunned. How could she choose between those two options so suddenly? Both were downright horrible, no matter how you looked at them! She began to think, her mind assimilating all the facts and considering all the options. If she stayed, it was likely she could convince Charles to allow Belle back into the Manor. Ophilia mentally winced. How much had her old guardian known? Was she a member of the mob too?

What about Vivian? If she decided to stay...

"L-let's say I decide to stay... Can I bring in someone I trust? Someone I'm in a relationship with now?"

Charles considered her with his razor-blade eyes. "I assume you're speaking of the blue-haired woman you've been living with for a year or so now?" Ophilia flinched. How long had he been watching her? "No. You will not be able to bring someone from the outside into our fold. If you desire a relationship, it will be with someone from within the compound. There are plenty of suitable candidates, I assure you."

Ophilia resisted the urge to sneer. She could hear exactly what he wasn't saying: he wouldn't have someone who couldn't give him a grandchild dating her. He wanted to make sure that his precious Family was secure for generations beyond him.

Ophilia chewed her lip. "And... if I leave with Salvatore...?"

"Upon your return, you may invite whoever you wish into the compound. However, you will have certain... responsibilities as the heiress to the Family. But Salvatore will enlighten you on those, as a part of your training, I assure you."

Ophilia saw no contest between the two. She sat up defiantly, rebellion burning in her eyes. "Fine. I'll go with Salvatore. And when I get back, Vivian will come to live with me."

Charles sighed out more smoke. "So confident. It will be quite a long time before you return, my dear. I suppose that, if nothing else, this will test her love for you, won't it? But I'm glad you chose wisely, Ophilia." Charles sneered, and it put all of Ophilia's best attempts to shame. It was like an arrow straight through her chest. She'd taken the cheese and the trap had snapped. "You leave tonight. I already have a plane prepared. Salvatore," Charles waved a hand to the murderer beside her, turning to him and ignoring Ophilia again. "She is yours to care for. Do try and bring her back alive..."