CRUELLA: The Mafia Princess

The air thrummed with the insistent pulse of celebratory music, a carefully curated playlist designed to evoke an atmosphere of refined revelry.

Crystal chandeliers, their facets catching and scattering the light, glittered like captured stars, illuminating the opulent ballroom.

Outside, a steady stream of luxury vehicles, gleaming like polished beetles, snaked their way up the long, winding driveway to the Ventura villa. Each car deposited elegantly dressed guests, their laughter and chatter carried on the gentle evening breeze.

Cater waiters, dressed in crisp white uniforms, circulated through the crowd, offering trays laden with champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the promise of an extravagant night.

Hidden in the shadows of the guardhouse, a world away from the glittering spectacle, Roselle Ruella Ventura watched the scene unfold with a growing sense of dread. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for escape.

The oversized black hoodie concealed her small frame, a stark contrast to the elegant gowns she knew were waiting for her upstairs. The tight jeans and worn rubber shoes were chosen for practicality, for swift movement. She needed to be ready to run the moment the opportunity presented itself.

She should have been upstairs, in her room, surrounded by stylists and makeup artists, being transformed into a debutante princess. Instead, she felt like a prisoner on the eve of her coronation.

"Come on! Open already! Please..." she whispered, her breath misting slightly in the cool evening air.

She shifted nervously from foot to foot, her gaze darting between the closed gate and the shadows that danced around the guardhouse. Every rustle of leaves, every distant sound, made her jump. She felt a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

Minutes ticked by, each one an eternity.

The music from the ballroom drifted out to her, a constant reminder of the life she was trying to escape. Finally, with a groan of protesting metal, the heavy iron gate began to swing inward.

Two vehicles slipped through the opening: a sleek, black van, its windows tinted and opaque, and a powerful Land Rover, its polished surface reflecting the lights of the villa. Roselle recognized them instantly. They were her father's vehicles.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. This was her chance. She knew she had only a few moments before the Don and his security detail made their way inside. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and then she ran.

Tonight was Roselle Ruella Ventura's 18th birthday. A milestone, a turning point. Or, at least, that's what everyone said.

For Roselle, it felt more like a sentence. Her father, Don Antonio Ventura, was a man of immense wealth and power, a figure whispered about in hushed tones. He was known for his ruthlessness, his coldness, his unwavering control. And he had plans for Roselle. Plans that she had no say in.

Rumors had been circulating for weeks about the significance of this birthday party. Some said it was a business maneuver, a way for Don Antonio to solidify his position in the city's elite circles. Others whispered that it was a more personal matter, a way for him to announce Roselle's future, a future that had been mapped out for her without her consent.

The thought filled her with a suffocating sense of dread. She couldn't bear the thought of being trapped, of having her life dictated by her father's ambitions. So, she had chosen the only option she could see: escape.

"Catch her! Don't let her get away, or I'll have you all shot!" Don Antonio's voice boomed across the grounds, cutting through the music and laughter.

He had seen her. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, had spotted her fleeing figure. His face, usually a carefully constructed mask of composure, was contorted with rage. He strode towards the guardhouse, his expensive shoes crunching on the gravel path, his anger radiating like a physical force.

He had barely stepped out of his Land Rover when the makeup artist, a flurry of nervous apologies, rushed towards him. Roselle was missing. They had searched the house, the gardens, everywhere. She was gone. Don Antonio didn't waste time with recriminations. He knew exactly where she would go.

The chase was brief and brutal. Roselle, despite her desperate flight, was no match for Don's security team. They were professionals, trained to anticipate and neutralize any threat. They cornered her near the edge of the property, their movements swift and decisive.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, her voice raw with terror. She kicked and struggled, but their grip was too strong.

Her escape attempt had failed, once again. Despair washed over her, a cold wave that threatened to drown her. She knew what awaited her. She had defied her father and humiliated him in front of his guests. The consequences would be severe.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ruella," one of the bodyguards murmured, his voice laced with a hint of something that sounded almost like pity. "Please, don't resist. It will only make things worse."

Don Antonio arrived, his face a mask of fury. He didn't even look at Roselle.

"Bring her to the torture chamber!" he commanded, his voice cold and sharp, each word like a shard of ice. He turned and walked back towards the villa, leaving Roselle in the hands of his men.

The words "torture chamber" echoed in Roselle's mind, sending shivers down her spine. Her blood ran cold. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale and trembling. She knew what her father was capable of. She had seen it before.

Inside the dimly lit room, Don Antonio dismissed his men with a curt flick of his wrist. The heavy oak door closed behind them, leaving only him and Roselle in the oppressive silence.

"D-Dad, I..." Roselle stammered, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry..."

Don Antonio stared at her, his eyes like chips of flint. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter, flicking it open. The flame flared, illuminating his face for a fleeting moment, then died down as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around his head like a ghostly halo.

"Haven't you learned anything, Ruella?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "How many bodyguards do you want to see punished for your escape attempt this time? You know escaping from me doesn't hurt you physically, but it does hurt the people responsible for you. Do you want them dead, just like the others? How can you be so stubborn after all this?"

Roselle's eyes widened in horror. The memory of the last time she had tried to escape flashed through her mind. The consequences had been brutal. The bodyguards who had failed to stop her had paid the price. She couldn't bear the thought of them being hurt again, all because of her.

"Dad! No! Please, don't! Just punish me! They had nothing to do with this! Please, leave them alone..." Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the remnants of her hastily applied makeup. She knew her father. His threats were never idle.

"Then stop this nonsense and get ready for your birthday celebration," he snapped, his voice hard. "You know I don't appreciate you running off like a prisoner, desperate to escape. It's embarrassing. It makes me look weak."

"Dad, please," she pleaded, her voice choked with sobs. "I... I don't want this."

Don Antonio crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, his jaw tightening. He stared at his weeping daughter, his expression hardening. "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Ruella?"

"Dad, I don't know if you truly don't understand, or if you simply refuse to. Have you ever asked me if I wanted this life? You didn't! You never pay attention to what I truly want! This isn't the life I want!" she cried, her voice rising in desperation. "I'm not a doll to be dressed up and paraded around. I'm a person!"

"Tell me why," he demanded, his voice laced with steel.

"I... I want to live a normal life," she whispered, her words barely audible through her sobs. "I want to go to school, have friends, make my own choices. I don't want to be surrounded by bodyguards and servants every minute of every day. I don't want to live in a gilded cage."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" he growled, his fists clenching. "What do you know about a 'normal' life? You've never had to worry about money, security, or anything! I've given you everything!"

"I want my freedom, nothing else," she begged, her voice breaking. "Please, just let me go. Let me live my own life."

Don Antonio inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with the force of his barely contained anger. He remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Roselle, perhaps searching for a flicker of defiance, a hint of rebellion that he could crush. However, he saw something different, something that made his anger waver, if only for a moment. He saw not defiance, but despair-a raw, aching despair that mirrored something within himself.

He knew she was right, in a way. He had given her everything, materially. But he had failed to give her the one thing she craved most: freedom. He had built a cage around her, a cage of luxury and security, but a cage nonetheless. He had done it to protect her, he told himself, to keep her safe from the dangers that lurked in their world. But in doing so, he had imprisoned her spirit.

He wanted to lash out at her, to remind her of her duty, of the sacrifices he had made for her. But the words wouldn't come. He saw the pain in her eyes, the desperation in her plea, and he couldn't bring himself to inflict any more pain.

He turned away from her, his gaze settling on the wall behind him. A framed portrait of Roselle's mother hung there. He stared at her face, her gentle smile and a wave of sadness washed over him. He remembered the dreams they had shared and the hopes they had held for their daughter. He wanted to give Roselle the life her mother would have wished for a life of happiness and security. But somewhere along the way, he had lost his direction.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to compose himself. When he opened his eyes, his expression was cold, his voice flat.

"Get out," he said, each word clipped and precise. "I don't want to see you again. You can do whatever you want. I'm cutting you off."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Roselle stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. This was it. Her freedom. But it felt less like liberation and more like banishment. She had wanted her freedom, but she had never imagined it would come like this, with such finality, such coldness.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, yet she remained silent. She simply nodded slowly, acknowledging his words. She stood up, her legs a bit shaky, and walked toward the door. She paused for a moment, her hand on the handle, as if hesitating, as if wanting to say something, to ask him to reconsider. But the words wouldn't come. She swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat, and then she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"Thank you, Dad."