Episode 3

📖 Chapter 3 – Sharp Tongue, Firm Soul

Three months had passed since the plane landed on Italian soil. Ninety days in which Alessandro Moretti's mansion seemed more like an icy castle than a home. Silence was my greatest companion. My father, always busy with meetings and mysterious trips, barely appeared at home. Jade, when she showed up, was always in a hurry, going out to parties, dinners, or dates that I preferred not to know about.

Most of the time, I had the mansion to myself — a golden prison where the echo of my footsteps was the only answer I received.

That's when I decided to occupy my mind with something my mother always advocated: studying. I enrolled in an intensive Italian course, and soon, the words stopped seeming like indecipherable codes and became a part of me.

That afternoon, Professor Lucia handed me the corrected test with a proud smile.

"Jasmim, you are a brilliant mind," she said, her Italian accent full of sweetness. "In three months, fluent! You will go far with this focus. Congratulations!"

Her praise warmed my heart. It was the first time, since my mother's death, that I felt proud of myself.

But the world around me remained indifferent. That night, during dinner — a huge table occupied only by me, Jade, and Alessandro — I decided to bring up a subject that gnawed at me from the inside.

"Father, I was wondering if I could resume my technical course in nursing. I was close to graduating in Brazil. It's what I love to do."

He raised his eyes from the plate, his expression as cold as the white porcelain on the table.

"A nurse?" he repeated, as if the word were poison. "That would be shameful for an advisor of the Italian mafia. You must learn to be worthy of the surname you bear, not stoop to caring for the sick like a maid."

I felt my stomach churn, but I remained upright. He didn't care about what I wanted. He wanted to mold who I was.

Jade let out a mocking laugh, taking the opportunity to poke at me:

"Of course, the poor thing wants to take care of the injured and clean up old people's shit, right? That's the most you can be, you little bastard."

Her words, spoken in Portuguese so that her father wouldn't understand, were like a slap. Jade smiled smugly, sure that I would shut up as always. But I took a deep breath and, in a calm — but firm — tone, retorted in perfect Italian:

"Meglio pulire la merda che vivere una vita vuota come la tua, sorella. (It's better to clean up shit than to live an empty life like yours, sister.)"

Her smile vanished instantly. I stood up, pushed the chair back elegantly, and walked out of the dining room, leaving Jade stunned, alone with her venom and her own insignificance.

I went upstairs, feeling my heart beating strongly — not with fear, but with satisfaction. Every lesson from my mother pulsed in my veins: I didn't need to cower before anyone.

In the room, I placed the Italian course uniform on the bed and lay down, thinking about how proud my mother would be to know that, even far away, I continued to be who she raised me to be: someone who never bows her head to injustice.

Outside, night fell over Milan, and I knew that my destiny remained uncertain. But one thing was certain: I would no longer be just the ignored shadow of a powerful family. I was Jasmim da Silva Moretti — and I wouldn't let anyone extinguish my light.

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