Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Cracked Porcelain**

**Aurora’s POV**

As I step into the kitchen, an unsettling stillness envelops me. The air hangs heavy, thick with an absence of sound that feels almost oppressive.

My eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, betray the turmoil I’ve been through. I’ve shed tears enough to fill the vastest of oceans, yet somehow, they’ve dried up, leaving behind a parched landscape of grief.

All I crave is water. Just water. Something cold and refreshing, something that will ground me in reality, reminding me that I still exist in this world, despite the chaos swirling around me.

Leon is already there, leaning casually against the counter, exuding an air of ownership as if the entire house bends to his will. His gaze flickers in my direction, sharp and assessing, then settles into an inscrutable expression that feels like a knife poised to strike.

I remain silent, choosing to walk purposefully to the sink, my mind a whirlpool of thoughts. I don’t want to stir the pot; I just want to find a moment to breathe, to collect myself.

But trouble, it seems, has a way of finding me, regardless of my intentions.

“You look like hell,” he remarks, pushing himself off the counter with a lazy grace. “Worse than usual.”

I grip the edge of the counter tightly, feeling its coolness seep into my palms. “Thanks for the compliment,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with sarcasm.

“You think that’s sarcasm?” he retorts, a sneer twisting his lips.

“It’s not. You strut around this house like a martyr, as if the world owes you something,” I shoot back, my heart racing.

Suddenly, I freeze, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a dense fog.

He steps forward, invading my space, his presence overwhelming.

“You really believe that crying in corners and skipping meals makes you some kind of warrior?” His voice rises, quiet yet brutally piercing. “You’re not brave, Aurora. You’re just weak. Too weak to ask for help. Too weak to even help yourself.”

His words strike me like a physical blow, tightening my chest and draining the color from my face.

“You’re useless. Even to yourself.”

And with that, something inside me shatters.

In a split second, I reach for a mug resting by the sink—one of the nice ones, the kind that I liked—and before I can second-guess myself, I hurl it against the wall with all my might.

The sound it makes is deafening, a sharp crack that reverberates through the silence, like glass screaming in agony.

Just like me.

I pivot to face him, my breath coming in ragged gasps, tears finally spilling over and cascading down my cheeks. My voice trembles, yet it refuses to be silenced.

A heavy silence blankets the room, thick and suffocating, settling deep within my chest and refusing to dissipate.

For just a fleeting moment, his expression shifts. I catch a glimpse of something that isn’t anger—perhaps it’s shock, guilt, or even a hint of regret.

But just as quickly, it vanishes, replaced by that familiar hardness.

He steps toward me, slower this time, as if he’s navigating treacherous ground.

“You think yelling makes it stop?” he asks, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “You think breaking things changes anything?”

I remain silent, my hands still trembling, my throat raw from the intensity of my outburst.

He scoffs softly, a sound that seems to echo in the stillness, and runs a hand down his face in frustration. “Fine. Go ahead and break the whole damn house if it makes you feel better.”

There’s no hint of sarcasm in his tone, no trace of the rage that once colored his words.

He simply turns and walks away, muttering over his shoulder, “But don’t expect anyone to clean it up for you.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I’m left alone in the silence, surrounded by the shards of shattered porcelain and the unspoken truths that linger in the air, heavy and unresolved.