Duplicity

DUPLICITY Matilda Martel Copyright © 2023 by Matilda Martel All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Cover Design by: Artscandare Book Design Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Epilogue- 3 Years Later Also by Matilda Martel About the Author One Nadia There’s no escaping who we are. Today is the beginning of my end. Every year on a cool night in September, the daughters of dons and capos gather in the opulent home of Donatella Marchesi, the matriarch of the once powerful Marchesi Famiglia, and submit their lives and future happiness, like lambs to slaughter, to the whims of their fathers. It’s the day I’ve dreaded. The one I prayed would never come. But no one answers my prayers. I wake up to the sound of footsteps pacing outside my door and immediately recognize the owner. My nonna’s clunky heels always give her away. She taps her arthritic fist against the high-polished finish cedar door separating me from the rest of the world and waits patiently for me to respond. I rub my eyes and stretch my arms over my head, struggling to shake the sleep from my brain. But something seems off. I gaze at a small crack between the drapes, squinting to focus my sleepy eyes, and glimpse the soft rays of moonlight slipping into my darkened bedroom. Confusion and panic set in. “What’s happened? What time is it?” I mumble apprehensively. Early morning news is rarely good. “Nadia, your father phoned late last night. He’s coming to see you before we leave for the day,” Nonna whispers through a crack in the door and does her best to warn me of the coming storm. Perhaps he’s granting me a reprieve. I roll my eyes at the thought, then slide my legs off the mattress, planting them firmly on the chilly hardwood floor and wishing I’d worn socks to bed. My drowsy eyes shift to the small clock I keep by the bed and realize it’s only a quarter past five. “I’m up. I’ll start my bath now,” I reply through a yawn, bending forward in an all-body stretch before trudging into the bathroom. The frigid tile floor makes me jump, and I skip onto a nearby mat as chills climb up my arms. I twist the brass faucet on my clawfoot bathtub and run my hand across the stream of water, testing the warmth before adding cold. My mind drifts to thoughts of my father’s visit. He never brings kind words or offers excuses for his long absences. I don’t remember the last time I bothered asking, but he always assures me it isn’t because he missed me. Tomasso Corvo doesn’t know how to be a father. His children are ornaments and pawns, collateral to be bartered to the highest bidders, and nothing more. It’s the sad reality of my sorry life. I’ve always understood my place. But that doesn’t mean I accept it. When you’ve spent your life under your father’s thumb, invisible but essential, you learn to keep your head down for fear of having it chopped off. But I can’t let it end this way. I swore I’d find a way to once again feel the sun's warmth on my skin and the cool rush of wind in my hair. I’d run on a beach and kick up surf with my toes. And I’ll find a way. Somewhere deep down, I know I can fight. When push comes to shove, I’ll breathe fire. I step out of my sleep pants and pull my tank top over my head, tossing both into the hamper with an overhead shot, imagining I’m shooting a basket. When every day is the same, you find joy in the simplest things. My brother played basketball as a teenager and taught me what he could when I was young. I miss having him near. My movement draws my attention to the vanity mirror and the sight of my naked body in the harsh fluorescent light. Typically, I avoid looking for fear I’ll stress over every imperfection and flaw, but today I don’t. Today, I gaze long and hard, examining my figure and taking note of changes. The girl staring back hardly looks familiar to me anymore. My face looks gaunt and unhealthy. My cheekbones and jaw feel sharper. They’ve transformed my baby face into something more mature. I feel like I’ve aged ten years since my father brought me home. That was two years ago, just days after my eighteenth birthday—- the day I finally became useful. I run my hand across my breasts, past my puckered nipples, and onto my hips. Ribs poke through the pale skin of my torso, and my concave belly highlights the sad fact that I’ve skipped far too many meals. My father won’t be happy. If he notices, he’ll think I’m deliberately making myself sick. I never set out to lose weight, but misery does terrible things to your appetite. I release a heavy sigh and grab an elastic to gather my hair into a bun. There’s nothing I can do about it now. And although my father always wants me to look my best, he never allows me to be seen. What does it matter? Why should