The Don Locked Me Away, Then Learned I Was Dying

Minutes pass. Then hours. Damon never comes back to check on me. Instead, he sends a guard down with a remote. The guard shoves it through the narrow slot in the door. "The Don says to turn on the screen." The second the screen lights up, my heart drops. Mia is standing where I should be. At the altar. Next to Damon. Every eye in the room is on them. Damon's voice cuts through the speaker, cold and clear. "May I present to you, my Donna, Mia Bellini.” He slides the ring onto Mia's finger. She smiles and leans into his arms. A sharp pang shoots through my heart. I cough up a mouthful of blood. Locking me up isn't the only punishment. Damon plans to leave me here and make me watch as he hands everything that was supposed to be mine to Mia. It isn't the first time he chooses to believe Mia. But it is the first time Damon chooses to be this brutal. Is this how a Don is supposed to act? I laugh bitterly, pain still pulsing through my heart. --- The basement has no water or my medicine or any fresh air. My heart starts beating wrong. Sometimes, too fast, too hard, then suddenly too slow. I think of last night, when I sent Damon my cardiology report with shaking hands. Severe cardiomyopathy. High risk of cardiac arrest. Avoid dehydration, smoke, heat, panic, and emotional distress. Damon read it and laughed. "Don't use hospital words to get attention, Ava." Now my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Sweat runs down my back. My nails split against the door. "Damon," I whisper. "Help me." Pain bursts white behind my eyes. Then everything goes quiet. --- When I open my eyes again, I am floating near the ceiling. Below me, my body lies curled beside the locked door. My lips are blue. My skin is pale. One hand is still pressed over my heart. I stare at myself. I am dead. --- Upstairs, music is still playing. Damon stands in the center under soft gold lights, holding Mia steady while she smiles. "Leave her down there until dessert," he says. "Let's see if she ever fakes sick again." I scream his name. No one hears me. A few minutes later, Marco, a young associate, comes to Damon with a bottle of water and a small white box. My pills. "Don DeLuca," Marco says carefully, "maybe we should pass these down to Miss Romano." Damon turns. "The rule is the rule." "She looked really sick, Don." "She looked dramatic." The hallway goes silent. Mia leans against Damon's arm. "Ava is probably enjoying the attention right now." Damon pats her back. Then he orders a guard to bring a chain and a second lock. I watch him lock the basement again. Chain around the handle. Iron bar through the ring. Padlock snapped shut. Inside, my body lies twisted on the floor. Damon pulls out his phone and opens my last message. The report is still there. He reads it for two seconds. Then he deletes it. "Ava, don't blame me. Being a Donna isn't just about money and jewelry." "If I don't teach you a lesson today, there will be more problems in the future," he mutters. He turns to the guards. "No one goes near that door until this dinner is over." "Yes, Don," they answer. He is sure I will come out crying and apologize. But dead women cannot apologize, Damon.

Two hours pass. The engagement dinner keeps going upstairs. Guests eat lobster and veal under crystal chandeliers. Dons and their Donnas drink Damon's wine and gossip. I float by the door, watching everything from above. A maid carrying empty glasses steppes out of the service tunnel. Her face is completely pale. "Don DeLuca…" Everyone in the back hallway looks over. "There's blood coming from that wine cellar..." --- Under the basement door, a dark red liquid is slowly spreading across the stone floor. It comes out in a thin line at first. Sticky. Thick. Then more follows, pooling near the bottom step. In the warm air, the edges turn almost black. The hallway erupts in whispers. Marco takes one step forward. "Jesus Christ." Mia moves faster. She pinches her nose and steps back. "Oh my God. Ava is unbelievable." Several people look at her. Mia points at the stain. "That's fake blood," she says. "Mixed with outdated red wine. Ava probably smashed a bottle down there." My soul shakes with rage. Red wine? That is from my mouth. From my split lip. From the blood and bile that spill out after my heart stops and my face hits the floor. But Mia keeps talking. "She knows tonight matters. She's trying to ruin it because Damon saw through her fake excuse and wouldn't let her leave early." The fear in the hallway quickly changes to annoyance. This is Mia's gift. She does not need people to believe her completely. She only needs them to doubt me for one second. Damon comes down the stairs. His black suit is still perfect. His cuff links shine. His face is calm. When his eyes land on the dark stain. For one moment, something flickers there. Then Mia touches his sleeve. "It's a stunt," she whispers. "You know how she gets." The flicker dies. Damon walks to the door. "Ava," he calls. "Enough." No answer. Of course there is no answer. My body is lying in stale heat, empty of breath. Damon's patience runs out. "I said enough." He lifts his foot and kicks the metal door. The sound cracks through the hallway. Inside, the force shakes the door so hard that my body tips sideways. My shoulder drops first. Then my head hits the rusted metal shelf beside me. A dull, sickening thud rolls through the door. Everyone hears it. The maid gasps. Marco's face goes gray. Even Mia freezes. For one second, Damon goes still too. Then he laughs. "You hear that?" he says. "Still strong enough to throw things." Marco's voice is barely a whisper. "Don, that didn't sound like—" Damon cuts him off with one look. Marco shuts his mouth. Mia lets out a shaky laugh. "She's kicking boxes around. She always gets violent when she doesn't win." I float between them, screaming without sound. Damon looks up at the narrow vent above the basement door. It is the only place air can pass through. A thin rectangle cut into the old wall, covered with a dusty metal grille. His eyes narrow. "If she wants to hide," he says, "let her hide properly." He points at two guards. "Cover the vent." The guards hesitate. Damon's voice drops. "Now." They run. --- When they come back, they carry a heavy black tarp from the loading bay. The kind they use to cover crates from late-night shipments. One guard climbs onto a chair. Another passes him rope. Together they pull the tarp over the vent and tie it tight. The last thin breath of air disappears. The basement becomes a tomb. Inside, the heat has nowhere to go. The smell thickens. My body lies in the dark with one hand still pressed over my heart, as if I can hold it together after it has already failed. I claw at the tarp. My fingers pass through it. I try again. Nothing. I turn on Damon. I hit his chest, his face, his throat. My fists sink through him like smoke. He does not even shiver. He only looks at the covered vent with satisfaction. "She wanted to rest," he says. "Now she can rest." A few men force out low laughs. Most stay silent. Fear sews their mouths shut. Mia slips her arm through Damon's. "You're doing the right thing," she says. "If you give in now, she'll use this for the rest of your marriage." Damon nods. He believes her. He always believes her. The guests begin to whisper again. "She is making a scene." "At her own engagement dinner?" "Romano girls are too proud." "She should just apologize." I look at the dark liquid under the door. Then at Damon. Then at Mia. For the first time since dying, I stop screaming. My life means less to him than her lie.

"What the hell is going on down here?" Vincent's voice cuts through the hallway. The DeLuca consigliere walks in with a black folder under one arm. Gray neat hair, face unreadable. He looks at the people gathered near the basement stairs. Then he sees the door. His face changes. "Damon," he asks slowly, "where is Ava?" Damon does not move. "In there." Vincent stares at him. "You locked your future Donna in a wine cellar?" "She needed a lesson." "In this heat? With no air?" "She's faking." Vincent steps closer. His voice drops low and dangerous. "Open the door." Damon smiles without warmth. "Careful, Vincent." "I am your consigliere," Vincent says. "My job is to tell you when you are about to destroy yourself. Open that door before this becomes a corpse." Too late, I think. Too late. Damon reaches into his pocket and takes out the key. For one wild second, hope rises in me. I know I am dead. I know my body cannot be saved. But I still want that door opened. I'd be satisfied if even one person knew the truth. Vincent holds out his hand. "Give it to me." Damon looks at him. Then he lets the key fall through the drain grate beside the stairs. The tiny clink echoes from the dark below. The hallway goes silent. Vincent freezes. Mia gasps softly, like she is shocked, but her eyes are bright. Damon spreads his hands. "Looks like we wait for bolt cutters." Vincent's jaw tightens. "Have you lost your mind?" "No," Damon says. "I am done letting her humiliate me in my own house." "She is a Romano." "She is my fiancée." "She is a person." Damon's eyes go cold. "She is acting like a child." Mia steps forward at once. "Vincent, please don't blame Damon," she says. "Ava heard all of this. She's choosing not to answer." Vincent turns to her. Mia lowers her eyes. She continues. "She shuts down until everyone gets scared. Then Damon feels guilty, and she gets whatever she wants." A few people murmur. The dinner has been delayed. The speeches have stopped. Guests are crowded near the hall now, sweating in their suits and gowns, angry that the night has turned ugly. One of Damon's cousins mutters, "She picked a hell of a night for drama." Another woman whispers, "She should just apologize." Someone else says, "This is why you don't let spoiled girls marry into power." Their words hit the door like stones. Vincent ignores them. He steps to the door and pounds on it twice. "Ava!" he shouts. "If you can hear me, answer." Nothing. Only the smell rolls out from the crack beneath the door. Blood. Vomit. Heat. The smell of Death. Vincent's face drains of color. He turns to a guard. "Get cutters. Now." Damon moves in front of him. "I said no one opens that door until I give the order." Vincent looks him in the eye. "Then give the order." "I am the Don." "And I am trying to keep you from becoming a murderer." For a moment, the whole hallway holds its breath. No one talks to Damon like that. Damon's hand curls into a fist. Mia rushes in before he can speak. "Damon," she says, grabbing his arm, "don't let them turn this on you. Ava wants this. She wants everyone to think you're cruel." "She is not answering," Vincent snaps. "She is stubborn," Mia says. "She would rather sit there all night than admit she lied." The guests start again. "She's holding the whole dinner hostage." "She's embarrassing both families." "Someone should have corrected her years ago." I float above them, curled in on myself. I used to think if I behaved well enough, Damon would finally see me. If I smiled through every insult, stayed quiet when Mia touched his arm. If I sent him my medical reports and used small words and begged instead of demanded. He would believe me. Now I know better... I can never expect a heartless man to truly see me. The moment I show my real needs, even for a second, all he sees is a spoiled, childish woman—not his lover, not his equal. Vincent sends another guard running for tools despite Damon's order. Damon watches him go with a cold smile. Mia stands close beside him, safe in the warmth of his body. And I hover above the door, dry-eyed and empty. I cannot cry anymore. My tears died with me. All that is left is silence.