Wrong Sister Claimed By The Mafia King

-Asaraiah Montova-

“Cut her.”

The words hit me before the belt did.

I flinched just in time for the leather to crack against my back, sharp and hot, slicing through the silence like a whip of fire. Blood pooled beneath my skin, and still, I bit down on my lip.

If I made a sound, if I cried or whimpered, they’d start all over again.

So I stayed quiet. I always did.

My knees crashed onto the cold marble, the pain from the impact a dull throb compared to the searing agony across my spine. I tasted salt, blood, sweat, and tears mixing on my tongue, but I swallowed it down.

I swallowed everything down.

Everyone was watching.

No one cared.

My father sat in his armchair, pretending to read the newspaper like I wasn’t right there, being beaten to a pulp in front of him. My step-siblings: my sisters, my brothers, they stood around me like a pack of wolves, their laughter cold, their eyes gleaming with hatred.

I was the Montova family’s mistake. The bastard born from an affair.

The invisible daughter.

The ghost.

I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood from my palms. The pain outside was nothing compared to what lived inside me.

“Get up,” one of them snapped, voice curling with disgust. “You’re pathetic. How dare you envy your sister’s clothes?”

“I didn’t,” I whispered. My voice barely carried. God, I didn’t even stare.

“What did you say?”

A manicured hand yanked my hair from behind, dragging me backward and slamming my head into the mirror in the hallway. The glass shattered, shards slicing into my face, arms, and shoulders. I didn’t even scream.

“You bitch! You stupid, jealous bitch!” my stepsister shrieked, her voice manic with rage. “Apologize! Now!”

She kicked me hard. I fell again, face-first into broken glass.

Another kick. Then another.

I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t fight. All I could do was crawl.

I grabbed her feet. those feet that never knew dirt, pain, or hunger, and looked up at her through blood in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I coughed. “I’m sorry for envying your outfits... I’m sorry.”

She jerked her foot away from me in disgust.

I staggered to my feet. Barely.

My father didn’t say a word. His glare alone burned more than the belt ever could. My brothers stood in a circle, watching, their faces blank. Hungry for the next excuse to beat me again.

I didn’t wait for it.

I limped away, ribs screaming with every breath. I could barely see through the tears and blood, but I knew where to go. I always did.

The shed.

The old, rotting shed at the edge of the estate. The place they forgot existed.

The only place I could breathe.

That was my sanctuary.

I didn’t make it far before I collapsed on the grass, trembling. My body felt broken, every step agony. But I knew from experience, whenever they beat me this badly, I had about three days before they remembered I existed again.

Three days of freedom.

Three days of silence.

If I could get there.

“Just a little further,” I whispered to myself, tears streaking down my cheeks.

I pulled a shard of glass from my foot and gasped, the pain sharp and white-hot. Blood trailed behind me as I limped through the estate, past the stone statues and flower beds that weren’t for me.

But I couldn’t make it.

My legs gave out beneath me again, and this time, I couldn’t move.

I lay on the grass, gasping, blinking at the grey sky above me.

The shed was still too far.

My bedroom. It was closer.

If I could just get there without being seen—

Without being dragged back into the house of monsters.

I pulled myself up with shaking arms and stumbled back toward the east wing, ducking beneath the garden archway, cutting through the servant path. My hands bled. My knees were scraped raw. I kept going.

The hallway was silent when I slipped in.

Empty.

They must have left.

They always went to that stupid annual gala at the embassy around this time of year. Pretending to be the perfect Montovas in public while I hid like a dirty family secret.

I pushed my bedroom door open with the last of my strength, dragging myself inside and closing it behind me.

The room was cold. Dark. Mine only in name.

I collapsed onto the floor, bleeding onto the rug. My breaths came in shallow gasps. My body screamed.

I didn't hear the footsteps. Just the soft gasp.

Then—Afsana.

“Oh, baby girl…” She dropped to her knees beside me, horror etched across her face. “What did they do to you this time?”

I tried to smile. Failed. “Happy birthday to me.”

She swore softly under her breath, hands already moving. She tore the hem of her apron, pressing it to the gash on my thigh. Then her fingers brushed my face, and she flinched. “Your cheek’s been cut open. Did they throw you in the mirror again?”

I couldn’t answer.

“Shh,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Don’t speak.”

She helped me sit up against the bedframe and worked fast, cleaning the wounds, wiping the blood, whispering soothing words like it would erase the pain.

I winced when she dabbed alcohol on my back, but I didn’t make a sound.

I never did.

“You need stitches,” she muttered. “But I can’t call anyone. If they find out I helped you—”

“I know,” I rasped.

She pressed a cloth to my mouth. “Just bite this. Try not to scream.”

I bit down. Hard.

For the next hour, I sat in silence as she patched me up with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes. She’d done this too many times. I hated that she knew exactly how to stop the bleeding.

When it was done, she wiped my forehead and kissed my temple. “They’ve all gone to the gala. You’re safe for a few hours. Go now. Go to the shed.”

I nodded slowly.

She reached under my mattress, pulled out a small pouch, and pressed it into my palm. “Food. Bandages. And your mother’s rosary.”

My heart stopped.

“I found it last week,” she whispered. “It was hidden in the laundry. I thought you should have it.”

I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

She helped me into a hoodie, something oversized that covered most of the blood. I pulled the hood low and limped out through the back stairs, down the garden path, past the oak trees and statues.

The shed was there.

Silent. Waiting.

My sanctuary.

I slipped inside and bolted the door.

Collapsed onto the straw mattress in the corner.

I was safe.

For now.

And as I clutched the rosary to my chest, I didn’t cry.

Not this time.

I wasn’t going to be the weak Montova daughter forever.

They would regret what they did to me.

All of them.