I looked at myself in the mirror: my brown hair fell to mid-back, and my blue eyes stood out. My sister Andrea had applied my eyeliner, accentuating the blue of my eyes. She always told me that my eyes held such warmth and brightness that they could light up a dark room.

When I was in the orphanage, the other children constantly teased me about my eyes, saying they looked like an iceberg in the ocean. I hated them until I was adopted by Dante Caravello, the leader of the New York Mafia, when I was nine. My adoption wasn’t notable for my parents; it was Andrea who mattered to me. She was also adopted, though from a different orphanage.

She was the prettiest little girl I’d ever seen. I was thrilled to have such a beautiful sister, but that joy was short-lived. I soon realized that Andrea, too, would make fun of my eyes. For weeks, I admired her from a distance, too afraid to approach.

One evening, my father called us all for a family dinner. I was anxious since it would be the first time I’d meet Andrea face-to-face. Father laid down some rules, emphasizing that disobedience would have consequences and reminding us to appreciate our luxurious new life compared to the leftovers we had at the orphanage. I barely paid attention, as I was too captivated by Andrea’s emerald eyes, which sparkled like a spring forest.

After dinner, I retreated to my room, expecting Andrea might come to speak with me, but she simply walked away. I sat alone, crying. About ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I quickly wiped my tears and opened it to find Andrea standing there, clutching a beautiful bracelet in her hand.

"Can I come in?" she asked. I stepped aside to let her in.

She looked me straight in the eyes before finally speaking up.

"Were you crying?" she asked, her face full of concern.

I turned away, unable to find the words.

"Don't cry. Your eyes are too beautiful for that," she said. I froze, looking up at her in surprise. At first, I thought she might be sarcastic, but the sincerity in her eyes told me otherwise.

"You know, I brought this for you," she continued, holding out a bracelet. "It's one my mom gave me before she passed away. I'm giving it to you now as a promise to always protect you and to be there to wipe your tears." She smiled, and it was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.

From that moment on, Andrea and I became very close. She was there for me through everything, the one person I could always count on. I still keep that bracelet she gave me all those years ago, safely tucked away in a box.

Andrea grew up to be much more rebellious than I ever was. She defied expectations at every turn. Our adoptive brother, who came into our family a year after us, was especially cruel. He was being groomed to be the next leader of the New York Mafia. His behavior was abhorrent and ruthless. He frequently beat Andrea and me under the guise of discipline. Since he was Dad's favorite, he could get away with almost anything. On top of that, he made lewd and inappropriate comments to us once we turned 16.

Andrea took the brunt of the abuse because she could never hold back her snarky remarks. Sometimes, she even took the blame for me to keep me out of trouble. She was the best sister I could have asked for, but we both had the worst parents. Dad was abusive, and Mom just stood by and let it happen. She would often apologize, but it felt meaningless when the apologies kept coming without change.

I washed my face, wiped off my eyeliner, brushed my teeth, and headed to bed. Just then, there was a knock on my door. I assumed it was Andrea coming to check on me after her secret training session with our head bodyguards.

Andrea was highly skilled in combat. Although she never fought Dad or our brother, she secretly took self-defense classes with our bodyguard starting at the age of thirteen. She was strong enough to take down two men at once. Andrea tried to teach me to fight as well, but she gave up after a few months. Proficient with a knife and one of the best archers, she preferred a bow and arrow for their quieter operation compared to the noise of a gunshot.

I opened the door and came face-to-face with a very drunk Matteo. He shoved me into my room and clamped his hand over my mouth, kicking the door shut behind him. I struggled against his hold, but he was too strong. He forced me down onto the bed and pinned me with his body. As I kicked my legs desperately to escape, he leaned over and tied my hands to the bedpost with his tie, then stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth.

I pleaded with him to stop, but my cries were muffled by the handkerchief he had placed over my mouth. I fought with all my strength, but I couldn't escape. He tore my top and began groping my breasts. I felt a wave of revulsion. With my eyes shut tight, I desperately hoped that this was just a nightmare or that someone would help me.

Soon his hands found their way into my pants. I was so screwed. No one would save me.