For my birthday, I received an application to the Augustine Academy for Young Women.
My fiancé, Julian Valachi, the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit, signed the document, as did my parents.
They conspired to send me away for so-called "re-education."
There, they injected me with tranquilizers and replaced my name with a number.
I was brainwashed day and night, subjected to a year of mental and physical torture. They broke me until I learned how to smile, how to obey.
A year later, I emerged, successfully "molded" into the quiet, elegant, and perfect fiancée they had envisioned.
When Julian saw me again, he announced with satisfaction, "We can finally have our wedding."
I smiled back at him, giving him the submission he craved.
But that smile wasn't submission. It was my farewell before I vanished from their world completely.
They used to loathe me. So why, after I vanished from their lives, did every single one of them seem to lose their minds?
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1
I was released from the academy on the day of my cousin Isla Vance's party—a celebration of her formal introduction to the family.
My parents, Marco and Elena Ricci, informed me that Isla had pleaded on my behalf—the sole reason I was being released.
The so-called "academy" was formally known as the Augustine Academy for Young Women.
It was the private property of the Valachi family, an elite disciplinary institution designed to "polish" defiant girls like us. Everyone knew its true purpose was to deal with those who brought shame to the family.
I had packed my bags early that morning and waited at the academy's gate.
However, an entire day passed, and not a single car from the Ricci family appeared.
It wasn't until darkness had completely swallowed the sky that my phone finally rang.
"What kind of tantrum are you throwing now, Seraphina?" my brother Lorenzo's voice was icy on the other end. "A year in that place and you still haven't learned to be grateful? Today is an important day for Isla. Must you make everyone worry about you?"
A cold, humorless smile touched the corner of my mouth.
I had spent a year in there. Locked in a sterile white room where the lights never turned off. Forced to write "I will obey" over and over again. They injected me with tranquilizers to keep me quiet, to make me submissive, to strip me of any will to resist.
They called it "molding."
Sometimes, I was locked in the "Silence Room." It was so soundless you could only hear your own frantic heartbeat. But crying was forbidden.
After a year, I had finally learned to be what they wanted—smiling, quiet, composed, never talking back.
This was what they called an "education."
Lorenzo continued to berate me over the phone. "Father and Mother said you must thank Isla. If she hadn't pleaded for you, you wouldn't be getting out today at all."
I was silent for a long moment, then replied calmly, "I'm still at the academy. No one came to pick me up."
Lorenzo fell silent. A moment later, he scoffed, "Then figure out a way back yourself. Or are you getting attached to the place?"
I didn't respond.
Attached?
That academy was a prison you entered but never truly left.
The voice on the phone changed. It was my father, Marco. "We did it for your own good, Seraphina. You dared to meet with someone from a rival family. You needed to reflect on what you had done." His voice was deep and powerful.
"I understand, Father," I replied, my voice devoid of warmth.
Marco paused on the other end, then the line went dead.
I clutched my phone, my knuckles turning white.
Night had fallen over the city.
I had to return to that house, retrieve my forged documents, and then disappear forever.
The year of "education" had taught me only one thing—how to turn away gracefully and never look back.