A mute girl finds herself entwined with a powerful mafia billionaire who becomes dangerously obsessed with her.
Despite her silence, his intense feelings compel him to pursue her relentlessly, ultimately forcing her into a marriage she never desire...
Sorina swept the dust near her wagon, the bristles of the broom whispering over cobbles worn smooth by generations.
She wore a faded vishnitz dress, its indigo fabric frayed at the hem but meticulously embroidered with blackthorn vines.
Her hair, usually a cascade of ink, was braided lose , the missing strand near her temple hidden beneath a scarlet diklo headscarf.
Her face, pale and drawn, betrayed nothing. Only the tremor in her hands hinted at the storm inside.
The growl of engines shattered the morning calm.
Lucien’s convoy rolled into the camp like a pack of wolves.
His Bentley gleamed like wet obsidian, flanked by two armored SUVs. He stepped out, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his shirt crisp white, the serpent tattoo peeking from his rolled sleeve.
Gold-framed glasses perched on his nose, catching the sun’s first rays. A basket of figs and pomegranates dangled carelessly from one hand gilded fruit for a sacrificial lamb.
“Good morning, dulcețea,” he purred. (sweetness)
The caravan emerged slowly, eyes downcast. Grandma Viorica stood rigid by the fire pit, her knuckles bone-white around her walking stick.
Liora hovered beside her, clutching a doll made of corn husks, her face brightening at the sight of the fruit.
“Look, Sorina!” she cheerfully exclaimed. “He brought gifts again!”
Sorina’s grip tightened on the broom.
Lucien handed the basket to a guard, who thrust it at Liora. The girl reached eagerly, but Viorica slapped her hand. “Marimé,” the old woman hissed. (taboo)
Lucien chuckled. “Still feisty, old granny? Admirable.”
He snapped his fingers. A guard produced a leather-bound dossier, its pages crisp. “The marriage contract. I’ve already signed.” He held out a fountain pen, its nib gold. “All that’s missing is your girl’s… consent.”
The crowd murmured. Aunt Dessa hid her face in her shawl. Uncle Tavi’s drum hung limp at his side.
Viorica stepped forward, her voice gravel. “We accept.”
Liora gasped. “Really—!”
“Silence!” Viorica barked, her amber eyes glistening.
She turned to Lucien, jaw trembling. “You will honor your word. No harm comes to our people.”
“Of course,” Lucien said, smooth as oil. “I’m a man of honor.” He tilted his head toward Sorina. “Come, little girl. Let’s make it official.”
Sorina didn’t move. Mira lunged from the crowd, her hennaed hands flying. “Don’t touch her!”
Lucien’s guards seized her arms, dragging her back. Sorina dropped the broom, signing frantically. “Let her go!”
Lucien smirked. “Sign, and I will.”
The pen hovered between them. Sorina’s gaze flickered to Liora, who stared wide-eyed, clutching her doll. To Viorica, whose silent tears carved paths through the dust on her cheeks. To Mira, thrashing against the guards.
She took the pen.
The contract blurred—*legal jargon, Thorne Mining Co. Letterhead, Lucien’s jagged signature*. Sorina’s hand shook as she scrawled her name, the ink bleeding like a wound.
Lucien plucked the paper, admiring it. “Lovely.” He tucked it into his jacket, then brushed Sorina’s cheek. She flinched. “Pack your things. You leave afternoon. My men will pick you up.”
As he turned, Liora darted forward, clutching a fig from the basket. “Thank you,” she said not realizing what’s beneath the situation, beaming.
Viorica yanked her back, but Lucien crouched, his smile venomous. “You’re welcome, little bird.”
The engines roared to life. The crowd dispersed, shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of the sky.
Sorina stared at the contract’s shadow in Lucien’s pocket. Her braid felt like a noose.
Mira broke free, rushing to her. “We’ll find a way,” she assured her in desperate.
The wagon smelled of lavender. Sorina folded her mother’s quilt with methodical precision, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of the star-patterned stitching.
She packed light: the quilt, the cracked photograph of her parents, a pouch of dried sage, and left the money box box her family.
Her vishnitz dresses indigo, crimson, charcoal—lay coiled in a leather satchel older than she was, its buckles tarnished but stubborn.
Mira stood in the doorway, the blue glass beads clinking behind her like tears. “You don’t have to do this,” she signed, her hands trembling. “We could run. Tonight. Take Liora and—”
Sorina shook her head, cutting her off. She pointed to the shrine—Saint Sarah’s icon, the black feather, the sprig of rosemary—then pressed her palm to her chest. “They’ll hurt her if I flee.”
Outside, the camp buzzed with hollow activity. Women scrubbed pots that didn’t need scrubbing.
Men sharpened knives already sharp.
All avoiding the SUV idling at the edge of the arroyo, its engine a low growl.
Lucien’s men standing and scanning the wagons like vultures while waiting for their new mistress.
Grandma Viorica entered, her coin-adorned shawl dimmed to a dull bronze.
She wordlessly pressed a murshika into Sorina’s hand—a charm bracelet strung with iron bells, a tiny dagger, and a sliver of mirror to deflect the evil eye. “Wear it,” she told her with gestures rough with grief. “The God will walk with you.”
Liora burst in, her braids undone, cheeks streaked with dirt.
She clutched Sorina’s waist, burying her face in the indigo fabric. “Don’t go, I will miss you...” she signed blindly, her fingers digging into Sorina’s ribs.
Sorina knelt, cradling Liora’s face. Her hands shaped the words slowly, each movement a blade. “Be brave. Listen to Grandma.”
“No!” Liora tore away, knocking over the satchel. The money box spilled open, coins and few cash scattering like broken promises.
Mira pulled her close. “Shh, chavi. We’ll visit her.” (child)
“Liar!” Liora sobbed, but let Mira lead her outside, the accusation hanging like smoke.
Sorina stood, clutching the murshika.
The desert wind hissed through the wagon’s cracks.
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