In the shadow of the mafia king

Hera Daniel's POV

I have always believed that pain has a way of finding people

who least deserve it. I was no exception. My name is Hera Daniels, and this is

my story-a tale of betrayal, despair, and a darkness I never saw coming.

The tragedy began with my step father's death and my

mother's death.They both fell victim to a tragic car accident, leaving me alone

with my stepbrother, Damian. While the world saw him as the grieving heir to my

father's fortune, I knew better. He was a snake, coiled and ready to strike at

the first opportunity.

After the funeral, my life took a sharp turn. The warmth of my father's

house turned cold. Damian didn't waste time showing his true colors. He ordered

me to cook, clean, and handle every household chore. It was as if I had become

his personal maid overnight. I wasn't even allowed to sleep in my own room

anymore. My bed was a thin mattress in the laundry room.

It was raining relentlessly one evening, a curtain of water pouring from the

heavens as if the world itself mourned my fate.. I was in the kitchen,

scrubbing the floor for the third time that week. Damian was particular about

the floors, claiming they needed to gleam like polished gold.

My fingers were raw from the cleaning chemicals, and my knees ached from

hours on the cold tiles. But I didn't complain. Complaining only made things

worse with Damian.

Damian wasn't home yet, but I knew it wouldn't be long before he arrived. He

always found a way to ruin my evenings, and I was sure tonight wouldn't be any

different.

As if on cue, I heard the front door slam. Damian's heavy footsteps echoed

through the house

"Hera!" he shouted. "Why does it smell like a hospital in here?" I rolled my

eyes. "Maybe because I've been cleaning all day," I muttered under my breath.

Damian appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair wet from the rain. He

looked annoyed, as usual. His suit looked fancy-way too expensive for someone

who barely worked.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, completely ignoring my exhaustion.

I didn't even look at him. "What did you cook?" I shot back.

His face tightened. "You know, for someone living in my house, and Eating my

food you sure have a smart mouth."

"And for someone who's supposed to be in charge, you're not very helpful," I

replied.

Damian glared at me, of course I knew I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't

help it. Annoying him was one of the few things that made me feel alive in this

miserable house.

After Damian demanded dinner, I sighed heavily and rose from the floor. My

knees protested every step, but I ignored them. If I didn't feed him soon, he'd

just keep barking orders at me, and I didn't have the energy for that tonight

I grabbed the leftover stew I'd made earlier from the stove and ladled it

into a bowl. It wasn't fancy-just potatoes, carrots, and some meat scraps I'd

found in the freezer-but it was food. Damian didn't deserve more effort than

that. I then leaned against the counter, waiting for his usual complaints. It

was like a ritual-he never ate without first finding something wrong with the

food

I watched as he picked up the spoon, gave the stew one stir, and then...

nothing. He set the spoon down and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed

as he stares at the food. What exactly is the problem again I said to myself not

too long he picked up the spoon again

Sure enough, after the first bite, he grimaced.

"What is this?" he demanded, holding up the spoon like it was covered in

poison.

"It's stew," I replied flatly. "You know, food? The thing you eat to

survive?"

"This isn't food," he shot back, pushing the bowl away. "It's an insult to

taste buds everywhere.

I rolled my eyes. "If you don't like it, you can make your own dinner."

He ignored me, poking at the potatoes with his spoon like they'd personally

offended him. "Did you even use salt? Or is bland your new specialty

At that moment I could feel my temper bubbling up, just like the stew I'd

spent hours making. "You know, Damian, you could try being grateful for once.

Not everyone has someone to cook for them."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Grateful? For this?"

"Yes, for this," I snapped, gesturing to the bowl. "Do you think I enjoy

slaving away in this kitchen? Do you think I like cleaning up after you every

single day? Newsflash, Damian: I'm not here because I want to be

For a moment, he didn't say anything, just stared at me with that

infuriating smirk of his. "And yet, here you are," he finally said, leaning

back in his chair.

"You want to talk about ungrateful?" he yelled, his voice echoing in the

small dining room. "You live in my house, eat my food, and you have the nerve

to act like you're the victim?"

My heart was pounding, and I could feel tears of frustration threatening to

spill. "I didn't ask to be here, Damian! If I had a choice, I'd leave this

house and never look back!"

He glared at me, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep

himself from saying something worse. Then, without another word, he stormed out

of the dining room, slamming the door behind him.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the chaos he'd left behind. The stew

dripped slowly down the walls, pooling on the floor around the shattered bowl.

It felt like the perfect metaphor for my life-messy, broken, and impossible

to clean up.

With a heavy sigh, I grabbed a rag and got to work. Again.

As I scrubbed the floor for the second time that day, I thought about

everything Damian had said.

My house. My food.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. But what choice did I have?