Possessive Vows

Possessive Vows AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE MAFIA ROMANCE THE SANTORO MAFIA BOOK ONE IVY DAVIS Copyright 2022 by Ivy Davis - All rights reserved. In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved. Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher. Contents 1. Pia 2. Dario 3. Pia 4. Dario 5. Pia 6. Pia 7. Pia 8. Dario 9. Pia 10. Dario 11. Pia 12. Dario 13. Pia 14. Dario 15. Pia 16. Dario 17. Pia 18. Pia 19. Dario 20. Pia CHAPTER 1 Pia I’ve spent most of my life mute. I was shy as a little girl, but once the incident happened, I stopped talking. I’ve been like this for years and grown used to my solitude, so it isn’t so bad. At times, I wish I could communicate more with people, but I haven’t seen another person other than my father in years. Mostly, I wish I could get through to him and make him understand how he scares me. How I wish I could never see his face again. But I can’t tell him. He ignores my sign language, insisting I talk. But I know what he’s done. I can never forget it. It’s my father’s fault I’m this way. I stare out through my tiny bedroom window, looking down at the lush Italian countryside below, full of olive trees and green grass for miles. My window is barely big enough for me to stick my arm through. Not that I could do that, to begin with, seeing as the window never opens. But I appreciate this window because it lets me see out into the world at least, giving me a chance to imagine a different life than the one I have. My life, as it is now, is full of quiet and loneliness, stuck in my room inside my father’s mansion. I feel like Rapunzel at times—alone with no one to talk to, trapped in a literal tower. My father constructed this part of the house when I was a little girl. He blended gothic and rustic Italian architecture to create this imposing addition to the house—a tower he locked me away in. All because I saw something I shouldn’t have. He doesn’t want me to ever talk about what I saw—he would kill me if I told the truth. But even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I remember the incident so vividly. It’s part of why I’m unable to speak now. The memories of that day swirl in my head, again and again, enough that I can’t imagine ever forgetting it enough to heal. The day my mother was murdered. By my father. I saw how he held her as she bled out, a bloody knife in his hand. I remember the stab wounds all over her body. There were so many that it almost looked like one giant stab wound across my mother’s body, slowly killing her. Her head was tilted back, and her eyes met mine as I stood in the doorway. My father hadn’t noticed me yet. It gave me a chance to say goodbye to my mom, not with words, but with our eyes. She blinked when she saw me. Her dark hair, so like mine, hung around her face, obscuring some of the blood from my view. I always loved my mother’s hair. Its vibrancy. The way it was so dark, yet full of color, a mixture of browns and reds creating a stunning depth. She was so beautiful. Everyone told me I was lucky to have a beautiful mom since I’d look just like her when I got older. But now I have no idea if that’s true. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror since I was a child. I could be the exact opposite of my mom for all I know. The one thing I’m sure about, though, is that my hair matches hers, which comforts me. As life slowly crept out of her, her eyes searched mine. It was like she was looking for comfort herself. I felt like I was the only one who could provide that for her. The barest smile passed her lips as she looked at me, and then her eyes glazed over, and I knew she was dead. It was hard to see through my tears, but I watched every minute of it, even though I was only eight years old. I wanted someone to remember my mom, and if no one else could do it, I would take that burden on myself. After she died, no one ever spoke about her again. Not my aunts and uncles, not my parents’ friends, and especially not my father. It was like she’d never existed. When my father found me standing in the doorway, he punished me. I’d never been spanked before, and it left bruises on my behind for weeks. Sitting was impossible for days after. My little legs hurt standing for hours on end, but I viewed it as fitting—if my mom suffered in her final days, I would suffer with her. She would know, even in heaven, that she was not alone. It took my father a few weeks before he finally locked me up for good. I asked too many questions for his liking, like why he’d killed my mom. Of course, he never answered. All he said was that she deserved it, and that was that. I’ve never gotten closure. How could I? The person who did it won’t give me answers and, instead, locked up in his mansion. I continue to stare out my small window, seeking solace in the sun shining down on the olive trees. Those trees are the only way I feel alive. They represent life, growing in