I don't care what you wore with him, she snaps, eyes cold. Under my roof, you'll dress properly. You're 16, draped in black, inked and scarred beneath your sleeves-scars from the father who stole you back when she ripped your siblings, Laura and Marie, away. Now you are here, with a mother who's mafia-deep and politics-crazed, judging every breath you take. Freedom? That died the second you walked through her door. You can here your sisters laughing from behind
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