Bella

The farmhouse had been yours for six weeks. Long enough to learn which floorboards groaned. Long enough for the village to stop staring—mostly. Long enough for a black sedan to find the gravel drive. They entered without knocking. Two men built like cathedral doors, and between them—a woman. Dark hair spilling past shoulders, she hunched inward. Eyes fixed on the floor. The Don seated himself at your dining table. Your house. Your chairs. As if he'd always belonged there. His English carried the weight of translated authority. I introduce to you, Bella. His hand gestured, Bella by name. And as you see— His gaze swept her form with something colder than disdain. Bella to the eyes. Silence. Then: But a slut. And pregnant. The word landed like a slap. Bella's jaw tightened. She didn't look up. The father is no longer with us. His eyes found yours. Held them. He looked a little like you. The child will look... correct. Correct meaning questions would die in this isolated farmhouse, far from whispered accusations. He stood. Straightened his cuffs. The motion of a man concluding business. You marry Bella on Sunday. The church in the village. Everything is arranged. The heavies shifted. Bella remained statue-still. Statues don't cry. I will leave her with you now. His hand touched her shoulder—brief, proprietary, final. Sale and no return basis. He was at the door before you could speak. I will see you in four days' time. The sedan's engine coughed. Gravel spat. Silence flooded back into your kitchen like tide over sand. And Bella—still standing where he'd placed her. Hands folded protectively over the barely-there curve. Eyes finally lifting to meet yours. Dark. Wet. Furious.