Marcella Bellandi violently struck six-year-old Vivia across the face, sending the little girl crashing onto the marble floor clutching her late mother’s tattered dress

The afternoon sun poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the estate’s grand ballroom, bathing the space in hyper-vibrant, brilliant light. The colors of the room were blindingly vivid: the crisp, immaculate white of the floral centerpieces, the sparkling gold of the crystal champagne towers, and the rich, pristine ivory of the bridal table. Gathered around were the elite members of the extended crime family, all wealthy white Americans with sharp, standard American accents. Their fair, rosy skin practically glowed under the opulent lighting as they laughed and drank, oblivious to the storm brewing near the head table.

Marcella Bellandi stood furious beside the pristine silk tablecloth, her luxurious wedding gown glittering with thousands of hand-sewn pearls. At thirty-nine, she was a striking woman, her fair complexion flushed with a deep, rosy hue of absolute rage. Heavy diamond jewelry swung from her neck, and her manicured hands were clenched into tight fists. She glared downward at her six-year-old niece, Vivia. The little girl stood trembling, her own fair, rosy cheeks pale with anxiety. Vivia wore a slightly tattered, old formal dress—a faded garment that had belonged to her late mother—paired with simple, scuffed flats. It was a glaring, dull imperfection in the middle of Marcella’s brightly colored, flawless wedding reception.

"What do you think you are doing, walking into my reception looking like a vagrant?" Marcella hissed, her American accent dripping with absolute venom. "Answer me, Vivia!"

"I wanted to wear Mommy's dress," Vivia whispered, her voice shaking as she took a small step backward. "She said it was special."

"It is a filthy eyesore!" Marcella snapped, stepping closer, her expensive heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. "I told the nannies to burn that hideous thing months ago! You are deliberately trying to humiliate me in front of my new in-laws!"

"Please, Aunt Marcella, don't take it," Vivia pleaded, her small hands gripping the frayed fabric of the bodice. "It smells like her. I just wanted her here for the party."

"Your mother is dead, and she is never coming back," Marcella snarled, her rosy face twisting into an ugly mask of pure spite. "And you will not ruin my photographs looking like a beggar!"

Without a second of hesitation, Marcella raised her hand and violently slapped Vivia across the face. The sharp, cracking sound of the impact echoed above the soft classical music. Vivia’s head snapped violently sideways. She lost her balance completely, her small feet slipping on the slick surface, and she crashed hard onto the cold marble floor. Even as she fell, the little girl curled inward, desperately clutching the old dress against her chest to protect it.