The Empty Chair

Victor lifted his crystal glass, the expensive champagne catching the warm light of the chandelier. The massive roast beef resting in the center of the mahogany table had already gone cold.

"To new beginnings. And to the future union between our families." Victor forced a booming, unnatural enthusiasm into his voice.

Silvio nodded with practiced, diplomatic politeness. Lucia offered a gracious smile and gently clinked glasses with her son. Matthias hid a lazy, knowing smirk behind the rim of his red wine. Bianca sat perfectly still, sweeping her dark, calculating gaze over the room as if trying to determine who would draw their weapon first if this dinner suddenly turned into a bloodbath.

Dante stared at his untouched porcelain plate.

Genevieve sat directly across the wide table, radiating smug satisfaction. She maintained flawless posture.

"I assume you aren't too thrilled about this arrangement." She leaned slightly forward and whispered the words to Dante.

Dante raised a single dark brow. "Are you, Genevieve?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. Not when my father is a tyrant and my future husband is in the Mafia." Genevieve shook her head, dismissing the concept with a wave of her manicured hand.

Dante let out a low, dark chuckle. He shifted his attention away from the polished blonde and thoroughly studied the dining room.

Six place settings rested on the fine lace tablecloth. Six heavy silver forks. Six crystal water glasses. Six embroidered napkins.

No seventh chair existed. No forgotten plate waited at the far edge of the wood. No one at this table had even bothered to ask the kitchen staff if they should hold the first course for another family member.

She was not here.

The barefoot girl with the scarred face and the voice like soft silk remained hidden away in the dark.

Dante leaned back against the plush upholstery of his chair. He tapped his index finger against his thigh in a slow, rhythmic, predatory beat. He waited with absolute patience until the polite chatter reached a natural lull. He needed the space just long enough for his voice to cut clean through the dull hum of the room.

"Victor." Dante spoke the name with cold, slicing authority.

The entire table froze. Every pair of eyes snapped toward him.

Victor straightened his spine instantly, the desperate need to please rolling off him in waves. "Please, call me Victor, son."

"Alright, Victor. I saw someone else in the house earlier." Dante kept his tone flat and dangerously unreadable. "A girl. She looked about twenty or so. Maybe younger. I passed her in the corridor on my way to the washroom."

A suffocating, heavy silence dropped over the dining room.

Victor’s eager smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "You must have been mistaken. There is no one else."

Genevieve let out a light, careless laugh and took a delicate sip of her white wine. "Oh my God, Dad. He probably means Marcy."

Victor shot a lethal, warning glare at his golden daughter.

Genevieve waved a hand in the air, ignoring her father's silent threat. "My sister. My older sister. Her name is Marcella, but we call her Marcy. She lives here, but she isn't really the dinner party type."

Dante tilted his head. "Marcy. That is her name?"

It suited her, he decided.

Victor exhaled a sharp, angry breath through his nose. "Yes. She is my older daughter, Marcella. She is quiet."

"She is painfully shy. She doesn't like to be around guests." Elena jumped into the conversation, her voice trembling as her eyes darted to the Persian rug.

Dante did not buy a single word of the pathetic excuse. Elena refused to make eye contact with anyone at the table. Victor gripped the delicate stem of his wineglass hard enough to snap the crystal in half. Genevieve kept smirking like the situation was an entertaining television show.

Shyness had nothing to do with her absence. They were purposely burying her.

"I would like her to join us." Dante delivered the demand without raising his voice.

Victor blinked in rapid, panicked succession. "That is really not necessary. She has probably already gone to bed."

"It is not that late. I want her to join." Dante stared Victor down, letting the crushing weight of his gaze press into the older man.

Victor turned a desperate look toward Silvio. He clearly expected the Marsetti boss to step in and shut down this ridiculous request to save the evening.

Dante shifted his focus to his mother.

Lucia kept her warm smile firmly in place. "Dante is right. This is a family dinner. If Marcella is part of this family, she should be sitting at this table."

Silvio lowered his scotch. He looked across the table at Victor and gave one sharp, authoritative nod. "Bring her."

Victor’s jaw clamped shut. A vein throbbed near his temple. He stood up from his head chair with the rigid, unnatural calm of a man being forced to swallow broken glass.

"Of course." Victor marched out of the dining room.

The silence left in his wake felt heavy. It bristled with dark, unspoken expectation.

~-~

Marcy sat on the hardwood floor beside her bed. She pulled her knees tight against her chest. Her mug of tea sat forgotten on the nightstand, the dark liquid long cold. The heat had vanished from her trembling fingers, but her pulse hammered relentlessly against her ribs. The sound echoed in her ears like a rhythmic war drum.

She had never meant to be seen.

She had barely meant to step out of her bedroom at all.

But the terrifying man had been standing right there in the dim corridor. He looked like a lethal villain ripped straight from the pages of a dark, gothic thriller.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dangerous. His presence commanded the space with a serious edge that felt sharp, yet restrained.

His face possessed brutal, chiseled angles. He was not conventionally beautiful. His features lacked the smooth refinement of a polished, high-society gentleman. His nose bore a slight bump, hinting it had met a violent end in a street fight. His mouth held a firm, unyielding shape that commanded absolute attention. His jaw looked forged from stubborn iron.

Then there was his hair. A deep, earthy brown that caught the hallway light and flickered with a dangerous red warmth. Like timber catching fire in the dead of night.

His eyes were the weapon that truly undid her.

They were not brown. They were not hazel. They were green. A piercing, vibrant green that made her forget how to draw breath. When those eyes locked onto hers, they stripped away the shadows she hid behind. He looked right through her defenses. He made her feel entirely exposed, entirely seen. It was a terrifying sensation. She had no idea how to process the exposure. He was not a handsome prince, but a raw, magnetic pull radiated from his massive frame.

The most startling part of the encounter still twisted her stomach into knots. He had not flinched.

He did not gasp when he spotted her.

He did not recoil when he saw the massive, ruined skin stretching across her face.

Marcy curled her fingers inward. Her hand drifted up, hovering just inches from the scarred edge of her cheek.

She could still feel the phantom heat of his intense stare. He had not just looked at her. He had studied her. He had cataloged her features like she was a vital piece of information he needed to memorize for a war. Every other person in her life looked away in disgust or hollow pity.

Not the man with the green eyes.

Marcy groaned softly. She buried her face against her knees, pressing her forehead into the worn fabric of her oversized sweater.

Her sweater had a frayed hole near the cuff. She had spilled a drop of tea on her right sock. Her sketchbook remained open on the coffee table downstairs, displaying a graphite drawing of a girl with half a face staring up at the empty ceiling.

The Marsetti man terrified her. How could Genevieve possibly marry someone with that kind of lethal energy? How could her perfect sister share a bed with a predator? A violent shiver traced its way down Marcy's spine at the mere thought of those large, rough hands touching bare skin.

A heavy fist hammered against her bedroom door.

"Marcy. Come downstairs. Now." Victor barked the order through the solid wood.

Marcy stopped breathing.

Come downstairs?

She snapped her head up and stared at the vanity mirror across the room. Her scarf had slipped down her shoulder, leaving the jagged, burned edges of her reflection visible in the glass.

"Did you hear me? You were asked to join the Marsettis for dinner. Do not be an ungrateful burden." Victor raised his voice, the venom bleeding through the door frame.

Marcy swallowed a massive lump of pure panic.

She scrambled to her feet. Her heart slammed against her sternum. She unlocked the door and pulled it open with shaking hands.

Victor stood in the hallway. Unrestrained fury boiled in his dark eyes.

He raked his gaze over her baggy sweater and mismatched socks. He looked at her as if her very existence was an intentional insult to his precious legacy.

"You couldn't even fix your damn hair?" Victor sneered, his upper lip curling in disgust.

Marcy reached up instinctively. Her trembling fingers fumbled as she tried to smooth the loose strands of her messy braid. "I didn't know I was expected."

"Do not argue with me. Just walk." Victor cut her off with a vicious whisper.

He spun on his heel and stormed down the corridor. He did not wait to see if she followed. His heavy leather shoes clicked off the marble floor, a rhythmic warning of the punishment that awaited her if she lingered too long.

Marcy stood frozen in the doorway for one long, agonizing breath.

She forced her feet to move.

Her legs felt numb. The long hallway stretched out in front of her like the gaping maw of a beast. She forced herself to place one foot in front of the other. She kept her chin tucked to her chest. She pulled the frayed sleeves of her sweater down over her knuckles, desperate to hide as much of herself as possible. Her pulse roared so loudly she feared the entire mafia dinner party would hear it before she even reached the stairs.

The sharp scent of lemon wood polish and rich roasted meat grew stronger. The muffled sounds of the gathering drifted up to meet her.

Laughter. The scrape of fine silver against porcelain.

Genevieve’s melodic voice.

Marcy stopped at the top of the sweeping staircase. She took a deep breath through her nose, gripping the polished wooden banister to steady her shaking frame. Then, moving with the silent, cautious grace of a ghost, she descended the stairs.

The entire table stopped talking the moment she reached the bottom step.

They were all watching her.

Or maybe only he was watching her.

Dante Marsetti.

He had turned his upper body in his dining chair to face the archway. His muscular arm rested casually across the back of the seat. The movement projected a relaxed confidence, but his posture held the coiled stillness of a striking predator. His vibrant eyes locked onto her instantly.

They were still green. They were still impossibly calm.

Marcy’s breath caught in her throat.

Victor cleared his throat aggressively. He thrust a stiff hand in her direction. "This is Marcella."

He was the only person in the world who called her that.

"Marcy." Lucia smiled. The older woman possessed striking red hair and a warm, welcoming expression. "I am so glad you joined us. I am Dante and Matthias's mother, Lucia."

Marcy gave a small, jerky nod. She had no idea if she was permitted to speak. Her hands remained curled into tight fists at her sides. She braced her shoulders as if waiting for a physical blow to strike her from across the room.

Genevieve picked up her wineglass and took a slow, theatrical sip. "I told you she was shy."

Matthias lifted his own glass in the air, offering Marcy a lazy, mocking salute. Bianca remained perfectly silent, but her dark, calculating eyes tracked Marcy's every micro-expression.

Dante did not move a single muscle.

He just kept staring at her.

He did not look at the ruined skin.

He did not look at her worn clothes or the floor.

He looked directly at her.

Victor pointed a sharp finger toward the empty chair positioned at the far end of the table. A chair that had clearly not been meant to be used tonight. "Sit."

Marcy moved toward the chair. She slid into the seat with slow, careful movements.

A maid appeared from the kitchen and set a plate of cold sliced meat and stiff vegetables in front of her. Marcy did not pick up her fork. She did not even look at the food.

She dropped her gaze to her lap and stared hard at her own hidden hands.

She did not belong in this room. No one had set a place for her. No one had brushed her hair or told her what dress to wear to impress the mafia boss. She smelled like graphite pencil lead and dusty paper. She felt the heavy, suffocating weight of being the forgotten daughter dragging her down into the heavy wooden chair.

"Do not be nervous, sweetie. We are not as bad as we look." Lucia spoke with a gentle, motherly tone.

Marcy risked a rapid glance down the length of the table toward Dante. He had not spoken a single word since she entered the room. Was he angry with her? Did he hate her for not correcting his assumption in the dark hallway?

The clinking of expensive cutlery resumed. It sounded like someone had flipped a switch to restart the background noise. Crystal glasses lifted. The hollow, polite small talk echoed through the dining room once again.

Matthias launched into an exaggerated story about a wealthy rival family in Milan. He detailed how their exotic pet peacock got loose during a charity gala and knocked over a million-dollar marble sculpture. Bianca rolled her eyes at her husband, but she supplied the brutal punchline of the story right on cue. Genevieve quickly hijacked the conversation, steering the topic back to designer fashion lines and exclusive wedding guest lists. Victor nodded along to his golden daughter's words, pretending to understand high couture.

Marcy remained dead silent.

She did not know if she was even allowed to open her mouth. The last time she had spoken out of turn during a formal dinner, her father had dragged her into the hall and delivered a ringing slap to her cheek.

"Marcy," Lucia said. The older woman leaned forward, directing her full attention down the table. "What do you like to do in your spare time?"

Marcy flinched. Her brown eyes darted up to meet Lucia's gaze. Her pale lips parted slowly. "I draw sometimes."

Lucia’s face lit up with genuine delight. "That is wonderful. I paint a little myself."

"A little? Luce is an excellent artist. She even managed to make my ugly mug look good on canvas." Silvio projected his deep voice across the room, his eyes shining with undeniable pride as he looked at his wife.

Lucia let out a bright laugh. "Oh, stop it, Silvio. You are too old to be flattering me."

A chorus of polite laughter circled the table.

Genevieve reached across the table and grabbed a slice of bread from the woven basket. She shot a cruel, sideways glance at her sister. "Marcy only draws girls with half faces and broken wings. She has got a theme."

The malicious intent hung heavy in the air, a public strike designed to humiliate.

Dante locked his intense green eyes onto Marcy. He held her gaze with unwavering, protective force. "I like themes."

Victor drank more wine.