Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

She was addicted to the medication.

Isabella’s legs nearly buckled under the weight of that understanding.

She gripped the balcony railing again, feeling the tremor in her hands, and realized with devastating clarity what had happened.

She’d escaped her father’s house. She’d run away from his control, his plans, his orchestrated future. She’d chosen Dante. She’d claimed her own agency and her own freedom.

Whatever was in those pills, She craved it. And she had no way to get it.

Not for days. Maybe longer.

And in the meantime, her body was going to punish her for every hour she was without it.

Isabella’s breathing became ragged.

She caught her reflection in the window...pale, hollow-eyed, trembling.

She pressed her eyes closed and forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to calm down. Forced herself to remember that Dante was sleeping just inside the villa, and if he woke to find her like this, he would ask questions.

And she couldn’t answer those questions.

Because she didn’t understand what was happening to her body herself.

***

When Dante woke an hour later, Isabella was back inside the villa, sitting on the couch in the main living space, a book open in her lap that she wasn’t reading.

Her hands were still trembling.

Her jaw was still clenched.

But she was smiling when he came to her, pulling her close, kissing the top of her head.

”How are you feeling?” he asked.

”Happy,” Isabella said, and it wasn’t a complete lie. She was happy to be with him. She was happy they’d escaped. It was just that the happiness existed alongside a creeping dread that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

”Good,” Dante said, and he held her against him like she was the most precious thing in the world. ”Because we’re safe now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Isabella nodded against his chest and tried not to think about the medication that wasn’t coming, about the withdrawal symptoms that were going to get worse.

***

For the rest of the morning, she managed to hide it.

She smiled when Dante showed her the kitchen and made coffee. She laughed when he found fresh pastries in the freezer from the last occupant and warmed them. She held his hand and walked through the villa and let him show her every detail of the space he’d prepared for them.

But with each passing hour, the tremors got worse.

Her skin felt increasingly sensitive, the fabric of her clothes irritating, the touch of his hand setting off a cascade of conflicting sensations. Her jaw ached from constant clenching. The anxiety that she’d been managing with the medication, was beginning to bubble up from underneath, a pressure that had no release valve.

She excused herself to shower, claiming she wanted to wash off the night of travel.

***

The shower was hot and steam filled the bathroom, and for a moment Isabella allowed herself to stand under the cascade of water without maintaining any pretense.

Her hands were shaking badly now.

Not subtle anymore. Real, noticeable tremors that made it hard to wash her hair.

She sat down on the shower floor and let the water run over her, feeling her body betray her with physical need for something she didn’t even fully understand.

When she finally got out of the shower, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. The kind of hollow that came from physical addiction, not just emotional distress.

She looked exactly like what she was: a woman dependent on a drug she’d been taking since she was fifteen years old.

Isabella pressed her forehead against the mirror and tried not to cry.

She couldn’t cry. If she cried, Dante would ask what was wrong. If she told him what was wrong, she’d have to explain the medication, the dependency, the addiction. She’d have to admit that she’d escaped her father but his control was still wrapped around her in the most fundamental way possible.

She couldn’t do that.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

So instead, she dried off, got dressed, and returned to Dante with a smile that felt increasingly fragile.

***

By evening, the withdrawal symptoms were becoming impossible to hide completely.

Isabella’s hands shook when she held her wine glass. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that eating was painful. The anxiety had escalated into something that made her skin crawl, made her want to jump out of her body.

Dante noticed.

”You’re quiet,” he said as they sat on the balcony watching the sunset. ”Are you okay?”

”Just tired,” Isabella said. ”The adrenaline of escaping finally caught up with me.”

He pulled her close and she leaned against him, feeling the tremor in her body.

”Sleep,” he said. ”Tomorrow will be better. Everything will be better now.”

But Isabella understood the terrible truth: tomorrow would be worse. And the day after worse than that, and every day without it would be another day of withdrawal.

***

That Night, Isabella lay beside Dante long after he’d fallen asleep, her body tense and trembling, her mind racing with an anxiety that no amount of breathing exercises could calm.

She stared at the ceiling and understood with absolute clarity that true freedom was going to require breaking a dependency she didn’t even know how to name.

And she was going to have to do it alone.

Because telling Dante the truth meant admitting that she was addicted to a drug.

***

*THE NEXT MORNING*

Isabella woke to find her entire body trembling.

Not subtle anymore. Real, visible tremors that shook the bed slightly. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and immediately regretted it, her jaw was already so tight that the pressure sent a spike of pain through her temples.

She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes....she’d fallen asleep in them, too exhausted to change, too anxious to manage the simple task of undressing and putting on pajamas.

The sun was already up, streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom.

Dante was gone.