Chapter 9 - Ashes and Iron
The grand ballroom smelled of sawdust, hydraulic oil, and centuries-old oak. A heavy aluminum scaffolding structure filled the center of the room, surrounded by six specialized restoration workers wearing hard hats and high-visibility vests.
Dominic stood at the base of the scaffolding, holding a pair of heavy leather work gloves, talking to the master carpenter.
As I walked into the room, the workers paused, stepping back to give me space.
The thick, decorative ceiling beam—the sixteen-foot span of dark, varnished heartwood where my wrists had been bound—had been carefully cut away from the structural roof supports. It now rested horizontally across two steel sawhorses in the center of the floor.
The iron ring was still screwed deep into the center of the timber.
Dominic looked at me, then handed me a heavy, long-handled sledgehammer that rested against the sawhorse.
"Your turn," Dominic said quietly.
I looked down at the iron ring, then up at my brother.
I took the sledgehammer from his hands. The wooden handle was smooth, heavy, and cold in my palms. I adjusted my grip, spread my feet shoulder-width apart on the marble floor, and lifted the iron head high over my right shoulder.
For five years, I had carried the silence. I had absorbed the condescension, the cruelty, the casual dismissals of a family that thought money made them gods.
I swung the hammer down with every ounce of force in my body.
CLANG!
The iron head slammed directly into the steel eyelet. A shower of sparks exploded across the dark wood, and a deafening, metallic ring echoed off the bare walls of the ballroom. The iron ring bent sideways, splintering the aged oak around its threads.
I didn't stop. I lifted the hammer again and drove it down a second time.
CRACK!
The heartwood fractured down its center line. The heavy iron ring snapped free from its mount, clattering uselessly against the floor tiles, bouncing twice before coming to a stop at Dominic’s boots.
I dropped the sledgehammer. It hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
My hands were stinging from the vibration of the impact, my breathing fast and shallow. But as I looked at the splintered beam, the last lingering ghost of that humiliating birthday night evaporated completely into the dusty air.
Dominic reached out, kicked the bent iron ring across the floor toward an open metal scrap bin, and looked at the carpenter.
"Take the rest of the wood out to the courtyard pit," Dominic ordered. "Burn it until there’s nothing left but ash."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," the carpenter replied instantly, signaling his crew to lift the broken timber.
May you like
I wiped a thin bead of sweat from my temple and smiled at my brother. "Thank you, Dominic."
"Always, Elena," he said softly, wrapping his arm around my shoulders as we walked out into the bright afternoon air. "Always."
