"Miss Elina! Miss Elina! Look what I made!"
Elina turned just in time to catch a whirlwind of tiny limbs charging towards her. Sophie skidded to a stop, holding out a crumpled sheet of paper with all the pride in the world.
"It's me and you!" Sophie beamed. "See? You're holding my hand, and we're giving out candy to all the kids."
Elina crouched down to take a better look, smoothing the edges. The crayon drawing was clumsy, the colours clashing, but the joy in it made her chest ache.
"It's beautiful, Sophie. And you gave me pink shoes! I love it."
"Because pink is your favourite!" Sophie giggled, throwing her arms around Elina's neck. "Don't go, okay? Stay here forever!"
Before Elina could respond, another child tugged at her sleeve. "Miss Elina, I built a tower with blocks! It's taller than me now!"
"And I drew a cat!" a third chimed in, holding up her paper triumphantly.
Elina laughed, her arms suddenly full of tiny papers and eager voices. "Alright, alright, one at a time! I want to see every masterpiece."
For a few precious minutes, she was swept into their world—all crayons and toy towers and wide-eyed excitement. The chaos was comforting.
"Miss Elina, will you come to the picnic next week?" a boy asked, peeking at her with shy hope.
She hesitated. "I'll try, sweetie. I really will."
Just then, Rachel's voice called from the entrance. "Elina! You've got about fifteen minutes before your fairy-tale turns into a lecture from the queen and king of darkness."
Elina groaned, gently detangling herself from the group of children. "You'd think I was running from the CIA."
Rachel strolled towards her, coffee cup in one hand, eyebrows arched. "You are, kind of. Mafia edition. And they'll kill me if they find out I let you sneak in again."
Elina rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not. Remember last time? Your mum called me a corrupt influence. A 'charity cultist,' I believe were her exact words."
"She's dramatic."
"She's terrifying. And your dad? Even worse."
Rachel stopped a few feet away, glancing at the children still clustered around. Her voice softened.
"But you still came. Even knowing the risk."
Elina shrugged, forcing a small smile. "I had to. This place… it feels like breathing. Like I'm actually alive here."
Rachel nodded. "I get it. But Elina, one day they're going to catch on. And what then?"
"I don't know." Her voice wavered. "But I can't stop. I won't. If I give this up, then what's left of me?"
Rachel studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're stubborn. Reckless. And kind of an idiot. But I love you anyway. Now go."
Elina leaned in to hug her. "Thanks for covering for me again."
"Always. But next time, wear a watch."
With one last wave to the children—their hands high in the air, shouting goodbye with all their might—Elina turned and hurried towards the car waiting at the gate.
And as the laughter faded behind her, the silence ahead felt heavier than ever.
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Elina's world was gilded with luxury, yet it felt more like a cage with velvet bars. As the only daughter of the Castellanos—one of the most powerful mafia families in the region—her life had been one of privilege and suffocation.
She lived in a sprawling estate where security was tighter than any prison. Guards patrolled the grounds, their eyes always watchful, their presence a constant reminder of the dangers lurking outside. But it was not the threats from the outside that frightened her—it was the iron grip of her own family.
Her parents, Antonio and Isabella Castellano, ruled their empire with an iron fist. Antonio was a man of power, his name alone enough to make enemies tremble. Isabella was sharp, cunning, and elegant, her words often more lethal than any weapon.
"Elina, you must understand," her mother said, her voice cold but deceptively gentle. "Your life is not your own. You have a duty to this family."
Elina had heard those words so many times, they echoed in her head even when Isabella wasn't around.
"A duty to obey?" Elina asked, bitterness lacing her voice. "A duty to keep pretending that everything we do is… noble?"
"Don't be dramatic," Isabella replied, sipping her tea with poised indifference. "We protect our bloodline. We maintain order. We command respect. That is what matters."
"But I don't want to live in fear and control," Elina pressed. "I want to create something. Build something good. Is that really so wrong?"
"Wrong?" Isabella raised a brow, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "It's not wrong. It's naïve."
"I'm not a child anymore," Elina said. "You can't keep locking me in this life I didn't choose."
"You're our daughter," her mother replied calmly. "Which means you don't get to run wild with idealism. You were born into a legacy. That legacy has rules."
"And if I break them?" Elina asked softly.
There was a pause. Then her mother leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing.
"Then you break us."
That line struck her like ice. It wasn't anger in her mother's voice—it was control, threaded delicately into every syllable.
"You always said love is loyalty," Elina whispered. "But sometimes it feels like loyalty is the only thing you care about."
"And what would you know about love?" Isabella shot back. "Love is sacrifice. We've sacrificed everything for you. All we ask is that you do the same."
Elina didn't reply. Her chest ached with the weight of unspoken dreams and invisible chains.
She turned away without another word, her footsteps soft but determined. As she reached her bedroom, she stepped inside and quietly shut the door—not just to keep her mother out, but to hold in the scream rising in her throat.
________________________________________
Later that evening a knock on her bedroom door snapped her from her thoughts.
"Miss Castellano," a familiar voice called. It was her father's trusted right-hand man, Marco. Loyal, efficient, and utterly obedient to her parents' commands.
"Yes?"
"Your parents are expecting you in the study. There are matters to discuss."
She sighed, already knowing what that meant. "I'll be there soon," she replied, forcing her voice to sound calm even when frustration simmered beneath her words.
She straightened her posture, preparing herself for another battle she was already tired of fighting.
________________________________________
Elina entered the grand study, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floor. Her father, Antonio Castellano sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his expression stern, while her mother, Isabella stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the immaculate gardens below.
"Elina," Antonio's voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "Sit."
She obeyed, her back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap.
"I hear you've been sneaking out again," he continued, his eyes narrowing. "Playing the saint, giving away money to worthless causes."
"It's not worthless," Elina replied, her voice low but firm. "Those children need help. They need hope."
"Our family doesn't do charity," Antonio snapped. "We control."
Isabella's lips tightened, her tone dripping with disapproval. "What will people think if they learn the Castellano heir is wasting her time on street rats and beggars?"
"It's not a waste. It's—"
"It's over," her father cut her off. "You are to stop this nonsense immediately. Your duty is to this family, and you will do what is necessary to strengthen our position. Which means marrying someone suitable."
Elina's jaw clenched. "So you can control me?"
"To protect you," Isabella corrected, her voice icy. "And to ensure you do not ruin everything we've built."
Elina met their stares with burning defiance. But deep down, fear twisted her stomach. They would never understand her dreams. And they would never let her live them.
"You are to be married, Elina," her father declares one evening, his voice cold and resolute. "To a man who will take responsibility for you and put an end to this childish obsession of yours."
"Marriage?" The word felt foreign and sharp on her tongue. "You're using me as a bargaining chip."
"Enough!" Her mother's voice is a lash. "You are a daughter of the Castellano. Your duty is to protect our legacy, not to waste your life chasing fantasies."
Their words cut her, but what terrifies her more is their determination. Her opinions, her dreams, her entire future—they are nothing but inconveniences to be stamped out.
Her father's warning echoes, "You will marry, Elina. Make peace with it. Your dreams are nothing but childish fantasies. The sooner you accept your place, the better."
His words struck her like a blow, the finality of his tone making her stomach twist. But even as despair threatened to consume her, a spark of defiance remained. It wasn't over. Not yet.
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