Mafia bride

ces on her lap. The silence in the room surrounding her was suffocating, and the air was thick with a sense of impending dread. The once-bright yellow curtains, now faded and tat

ening too quickly. The notice she held felt like a fatal blow to everything she had diligently strived to protect. She collapsed to the floor, grasping the envelope as if it were a lifeline, her long-suppressed tears finally releasing. What happens now? She closed her eyes and let the silence settle around her. There had to be a way out. There had to be. She couldn't risk losing the house. Ultimately, she couldn't afford to take the risk. She couldn't let go of the memories her parents had created. She couldn't let go of the memories her parents had created. What else could she do? Vivienne pushed herself up from the floor, wiping away the tears. She had to keep fighting. She had to do something. With a sudden, desperate resolve, she turned toward the attic door at the far end of the hallway. If she was going to lose the house, she needed to know everything. She needed to look through her parents' things, to hold onto whatever scraps of their life she could salvage. Maybe there was something in the attic that could help her. Something, anything, could give her a chance to hold onto the only home she had left.A Bitter Reminder.The attic was colder than the rest of the home, and the air smelt vaguely of dust and old wood. Vivienne's footsteps echoed as she climbed the creaking stairs, each one complaining beneath her weight. The attic door creaked open, revealing a chamber filled with ancient boxes and lost memories. The low light from the one bulb overhead formed deep shadows on the walls. It seemed like walking into another world, one locked in time. Her parents had never truly gone through the stuff they had left behind. The boxes held remnants of their lives, stored and unused for years. She made her way to one of the larger crates, dragging it down to the floor. The lid was heavy, but she managed to open it with a gentle groan. Inside, she found old photographs, newspaper clippings, and letters, pieces of a life long past. Her father's handwriting was on most of the letters. She picked one up and opened it gently, the paper yellowed with age. It was a letter to her from when she was younger. Her father's crisp, precise handwriting dominated the page, the ink fading but still discernible. Vivienne, I