From Mafia Doll To Montana Queen

Olivia POV

The cold in the Ice Cellar wasn't merely a temperature; it was a physical assault.

It sliced through my thin dress, gnawing at my bones with invisible teeth.

I sat in the corner, knees pulled tight to my chest, listening to the maddening *drip, drip, drip* of condensation.

Hours passed. Maybe days. Time had ceased to exist in this darkness.

Suddenly, the door groaned open.

Light flooded in, violent and blinding.

Marcus stood framed in the silhouette. He held a riding crop in his hand, the leather tapped rhythmically against his leg.

"Stand up," he commanded.

My legs were stiff, locking in protest, but I stood. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crawl.

"You disrespected a made man," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, any recognition. "You destroyed a life."

"I did nothing," I croaked. My throat was dry as sandpaper.

The leather cracked through the air.

The crop hit my thigh. A sharp, stinging fire that stole my breath.

I gasped, but I bit my lip until the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. I wouldn't scream.

"Admit it," he said.

"No."

He struck again.

This time it was my shoulder.

I stumbled back, hitting the rough stone wall hard enough to bruise bone.

Above us, through a small grate near the ceiling, I heard a low, melodic laugh.

I looked up. Izzy’s face was pressed against the bars, shadowed and cruel. She was holding a phone, the screen glow illuminating a picture. It was her and Marcus, kissing.

"He's mine, little girl," she whispered, her voice dripping like poison. "All mine."

I looked back at Marcus. He was preparing to strike again, blind to everything but his own rage.

I remembered the garden. The sun. Him laughing at something I said.

The memory twisted in my gut like a serrated knife.

"Do it," I spat at him, my voice trembling with defiance. "Beat me. It won't make her lie true."

He struck me again. Harder.

The pain washed over me, hot and white. But with every blow, the love I held for him evaporated. It was being beaten out of me, replaced by a cold, hard hatred.

"From this day on," I gasped, locking eyes with him, "we are nothing. You are nothing to me."

He stopped. His chest heaved. For a second, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes—a ghost of the man I knew. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

He turned and left, slamming and locking the door.

I slid down the wall, the stone rough against my bruising skin.

Later—an eternity later—the door opened again. But it wasn't Marcus.

It was my father.

David Hayes looked older. Haggard.

He didn't speak. He walked over to me and draped his heavy coat over my shivering shoulders, his touch gentle.

Then he pulled something from his pocket. My sketchbook. The one I hadn't burned. And my diary.

"He doesn't know," David whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I recovered them."

He handed them to me.

Then, he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag.

"And this."

I opened it. It was the family crest I had carved for Marcus out of wood when I was twelve. I had left it on his desk as a peace offering.

"He... he stepped on it," David said, his voice breaking. "He didn't even look at what it was. He just crushed it under his boot."

He showed me the pieces.

The final illusion shattered.

"He thinks you're a child who needs to be broken," David said, his hands trembling with suppressed rage. "He told me you'll learn your place and go back to being a princess."

I looked at my father, my eyes dry. "I'm not a princess anymore, Dad."

"I know," he said. A single tear leaked from his eye. "And you can't stay here."

"I heard them talking," David continued, his voice low and urgent. "The other Capos. They say Marcus is going too far. But they won't stop him. Izzy has him wrapped around her finger."

He gripped my shoulders, anchoring me.

"My daughter will not die in a cage."

He pulled a small key from his pocket.

"Tonight," he said. "When the guard changes. I've paid off the night watch. Go to the tunnels."

"Dad..."

"Go," he ordered. "I have resources. Offshore accounts he doesn't know about. I'm getting you out."

He left before I could argue.

I was alone again.

I touched the bruises on my arms. They throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of my new reality.

I picked up the charcoal pencil I had hidden in my pocket days ago. It was broken.

I crushed it in my hand, the black dust coating my skin like war paint.

*Marcus is dead,* I chanted in my head. *The family is dead.*

I wasn't waiting for a savior anymore. My father was opening the door, but I had to be the one to walk through it.

I squeezed my fist tight, my nails digging into my palm until I felt the sharp sting of skin breaking.

Pain meant I was alive.

*I will live,* I vowed. *I will live just to spite him.*