dinner.
It’s a rare occasion that I’m in the dressing room without Greta buzzing around me like a bitter fly, but Dante has sent her into town to run a few errands. So, I take my time, showering in the en suite and gently rubbing lotion onto my sore backside.
Each time my hand grazes over my skin, or I sit down with too much force, a shock wave of pleasure ripples through my lower stomach. It’s a constant reminder of Angelo and the dirty sin that we share. As I snowball toward the wedding, I find myself feeling more and more reckless; I’m unable to claw onto my decorum or morals every time Angelo lays that heavy, sea-green gaze on me. Yesterday, as I stood in the reception room of Donatello and Amelia’s beachside mansion in the white wedding gown I’ll be walking down the aisle in, something dawned on me.
Perhaps getting close to the day I marry Alberto is akin to the feeling people get when they know they are about to die, and there’s nothing they can do about it. You hear stories of people’s true colors coming out. Declaring their undying love in their last few breaths, or confessing their deepest, darkest secret that they don’t want to take to the grave.
The wedding feels like the end. I’m hurling toward it, getting closer and closer and now, my true colors are showing.
I’m Rory Carter and I do bad things.
I like doing bad things.
I bite back a smile as I slip on my bra and panties, then wrap a silk robe around myself. I’m striding toward the closet in an attempt to choose something that doesn’t make me look like a Grade-A whore before Greta comes back, when there’s a thump, thump, thump on the door.
It stops me in my tracks. It’s heavy and off-beat.
I clear my throat and call, “Hello?”
No response. Heart skittering in my chest, I’m crossing the room to see who’s there when the door bursts open and Alberto tumbles into the room.
I jump back in shock, pushing myself against the mirrored wall.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
He stumbles into the middle of the room, swaying as he stretches to his full height. “Good evening, Signora Visconti,” he murmurs, dragging a leering eye over my body.
My gaze narrows. “You’re drunk.”
Very drunk. I watch him cautiously as he folds himself into the armchair in the corner of the room and looks up at me. He’s been out all day at the Devil’s Cove Gentleman’s Club at a bridge tournament. And even if he could stand upright without swaying, I’d be able to tell he’s half-cut by the sour whiskey stench he’s brought into the room with him.
“Come and sit on my lap, baby.” With a weird little grunt, he slaps his fat hand against his even fatter thigh.
I sneer at him, disgusted. “Absolutely not. Ask someone to bring you a coffee and an Advil.”
Bitterness burns the back of my throat, and I resist the urge to throw a damn lamp at his head. It’s been almost a week since he shoved me down the stairs, and even though the pain in my ribs has settled down to a dull ache, the anger I feel when I see him still burns bright. I’ve managed to avoid him for the most part, but that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t been constantly racing with ways to get my revenge.
Perhaps this time, it won’t be so petty.
“Sit on my lap, Aurora,” he growls again. “I want to feel that tight ass against my cock.” He lowers his tone, licking his already-wet lips. “I can’t wait to feel what that tight pussy feels like, too.”
A shiver runs down my spine and settles in a pool of disgust. Heat burning my cheeks, I try to ignore him. Ignore bullies and they’ll eventually get bored, right? Hopefully, that playground advice can be applied to overweight mafia men with a God complex.
But as I sit in front of the vanity and start applying my makeup, I can see him still leering at me in the reflection of the mirror.
“I can’t believe in one week and one day, I’m going to be fucking a virgin.” He rearranges the fabric at the front of his slacks, chuckling darkly. “At my ripe old age. Tell me, Aurora. Is that ass unclaimed, too?”
Heat flames my cheeks, but I still don’t reply. Instead, I dab on my foundation with a sponge, going over the faint cut on my eye socket a few more times. Now, it’s barely visible under a thick layer of makeup.
“Hmm. You know…” The armchair creaks as he shifts his weight forward. “I could fuck you in the ass and you’d still be a virgin, right?” I freeze for a second, my eyes widening at my own reflection. “Perhaps I’ll do that tonight to give you a little taster of what married life is like.”
“Get stuffed,” I hiss. The venom pours out of my mouth before I can stop it. I cringe at how loud my words are, but for once, I don’t wish I could take them back. I’m too angry. My temples are thumping and my skin is blistering. “If you come near me, I’ll kick you so hard in the groin that your kids won’t be able to have kids.”
The silence is deafening. I suck in a shaky breath and force myself to hold my ground. Not brave enough to look at Alberto in the mirror, I drop my gaze to my makeup bag and clench my fists over the silk of my robe.
But I’m not done. I’ve opened the floodgates and more venom decides to pour through.
“Anyway, maybe I won’t hang around to find out what married life is like. I overheard you talking to the lawyer about changing our contract. What are you planning, Alberto? Because if you’re going to play me regardless of what I give you, I’m not marrying you, and I’m certainly not going to have sex with you.”
Now, I dare myself to look at him. Despite his unsteady gaze, he’s glaring back at me. With one loud huff, he heaves himself off the armchair and crosses the room. Christ. He’s quicker than I thought he’d be, and when he clamps his hand around the nape of my neck and jerks my chin up to face him, I realize I’d forgotten how strong he is.
Even for a drunk, old man.
“You’ve been snooping,” he leers, his grip forcing me to arch my back and meet his gaze. “You’ll do well to learn to mind your fucking business, Aurora. Otherwise, this marriage is going to be a lot more painful for you than you can even imagine.”
“Tell me,” I rasp, feeling the skin around my throat stretch.
“You really want to know?” he spits.
I manage a nod.
A sinister, lop-sided smile stretches across his wrinkled lips. From my upside down view, it’s demonic. “I’ve added a clause to your contract that states our agreement is null and void the moment you aren’t a virgin anymore.”
I blink. A heavy thump beats in my chest. “But if I have sex with you, I’ll no longer be a virgin…”
The realization trails off, lingering in the thick air between us. His laugh is slow and syrupy, and I feel it churn in my stomach.
“Now you get it,” he purrs.
Fueled by rage, I attempt to rip myself away from his grasp, but he yanks me backward and I go flying over the back of the chair and come crashing down on the floor. The dressing room spins in shades of white, and then suddenly, Alberto is on top of me, his heavy stomach pressing against mine.
Oh, swan. Now I’m in trouble. I open my mouth to scream, hoping that even if Vittoria or Leonardo hear me, then at least someone might come and help. But his hot, sweaty hand clamps over my jaw before I can utter a sound.
“You really think that contract meant jack shit, anyway? The Devil’s Preserve isn’t even my land, you stupid bitch.”
Feeling my body still underneath him, a sly, satisfied grin crosses his face. “It’s Devil’s Dip. Angelo’s territory.”
An awful feeling swirls in the pit of my stomach, making me want to throw up. How could I have missed this? The forest is Devil’s Dip territory. Of course, I had no idea Alberto didn’t have authority in Devil’s Dip, because I didn’t know Angelo existed. And even when I did, I didn’t piece it together because the first thing I learned about him was that he’d gone straight. He barely visits the town, let alone has authority over it.
“I thought he handed it over to you,” I whisper, not even caring how desperate my tone sounds.
“Even though he’s not currently the capo, it’s still his territory.” He squeezes his thumbs against my jaw. “You have a lot to learn about the Cosa Nostra, silly bitch.”
I can’t draw a deep breath, and not just because Alberto’s gut is crushing me. “And he gave you permission to build on it?”
“No,” he huffs. “I asked him for planning permission, but he said no. I’m working on that.”
“When?” I pant, a fresh wave of unease washing over me. “When did you ask?”
His eyes glitter with glee, and I can tell he can’t wait to answer this question. “Two days before you signed the contract.”
“So you knew,” I rasp, fighting against his weight. “You already knew you weren’t able to build on the land, and yet, you made me sign that darn contract anyway!”
And Angelo knew. He knew that I was marrying his disgusting uncle to stop him building on the land, and yet, he sat back and did nothing. My eyes sting; for some reason, Angelo’s betrayal cuts deeper.
“Stop moving,” Alberto hisses in my ear, lowering himself to pin my arms above my head. “What do you not understand? The contract means nothing. I’m Alberto Visconti, I don’t need a fucking contract to claim you. Besides, I have a feeling Angelo is going to agree to hand over the Preserve to me very soon.”
He has a feeling? What the hell does that mean?
“So you don’t need me then,” I spit, “If you’re just going to mow it down anyway.”
My heart splits in two at the thought of my poor father. All of this, and I still couldn’t save him.
“No, I don’t need you,” he says simply. “But I want you, and that’s all that matters.” As I buck underneath him, he presses his hands harder against my wrists, my bones threatening to snap. “And if you try anything stupid, I’ll kill you and your father anyway. And that,” he adds, with a grin, “is about the only promise I’ll keep.”
My heart slams against my chest, and rage runs through me like an uncontrollable disease. My throat burns, bubbling with the need to scream. To say something I never thought I would. Never in this lifetime—
“Go fuck yourself,” I hiss, tasting each drop of venom as it passes my teeth.
Alberto stills for a moment. And then, without warning, hot, searing pain shoots through my head, and white stars cloud my vision.
He punched me in the face.
Oh my god. He punched me.
My head spins, my lip gushing hot and red as my blood dribbles down my cheek. My ears are ringing so loudly, I barely hear the door creek open.
Alberto looks up from me and grunts. “What?”
Greta’s tone is calm yet stern. “My apologies, signore. But I need to get signorina ready for dinner, if she’s to be ready on time.”
He pins me with one last hazy stare, then paws on the wall in an attempt to get himself upright. As he staggers out of the room, he treads on my hair, and even though my scalp screams, I barely feel it.
I barely feel Greta pulling me to my feet, or pushing me down in front of the vanity. Every part of my body, even my busted lip, feels numb.
She makes no move to break the silence hanging thick in the air. Instead, she picks up my makeup bag and rummages through it. When she finds what she’s looking for, she holds it up so I can see it in the reflection of the mirror.
It’s a lipstick.
“I think this shade will hide the cut nicely.”
The air hangs still and stagnant over the dining table, and everything underneath it points to it being an excruciatingly long night. The pianist plays hauntingly slow classics. Cocktails are long and whiskey glasses remain untouched. Even the ocean, just a stone’s throw beyond the French doors, is deathly silent.
I’ve been promoted again, back to the top of the table. Back to being within the wingspan of the dirty old crook I’m marrying, and in the firing line of his eldest son’s sneer.
I ignore them both in favor of glaring at the gilded wallpaper behind Dante’s head and sipping a Long Island Iced Tea through a straw. My lip throbs with its own pulse, but the shade of lipstick Greta chose for me matches the cut perfectly.
I suppose that solves the problem, then.
Dante whips a napkin off the table like it’s done something to offend him.
“Where are Don and Amelia tonight?” His gaze shifts over the empty sits. “And everyone else, for that matter?”
Alberto’s fist hits the table, narrowly missing an appetizer plate. “Hiding,” he slurs, raising his whiskey to nobody in particular. “Because nobody in this fucking family wants to spend time with their father.”
Dante stills, narrowing his eyes on his father. “Are you—”
The swinging doors crash open, interrupting him.
“Sorry I’m late,” Tor drawls, sauntering over to take his seat next to Dante. “I didn’t get held up, I just didn’t want to come.” Dropping to his seat, he cocks a brow at the empty room. “Clearly, I wasn’t the only one.”
I’d smile at his crappy joke if it wouldn’t make my lip bleed.
Dante smooths down his tie, still scowling at his father. “Should we wait?”
“And that’s why you’ll never make a good capo, son. You still rely on Daddy to answer all your questions,” Alberto mutters darkly, taking a slug of whiskey.
Tor lets out a low whistle, but before Dante can bite back, the swing doors open again, carrying in a whole different flavor of tension.
“Am I interrupting something?” Angelo’s voice brushes over my skin like a fever chill. I briefly close my eyes and wish that when I open them, I’ll be anywhere but here.
“No, you’re just in time to watch Dante get schooled by Big Al,” Tor says, raising his glass over my head then sinking the liquor in one.
“There he is,” Alberto booms. “My favorite nephew. You always show up, don’t you kiddo? You’d never let me down.”
Behind me, Angelo’s footsteps come to a stop. I glance up at Alberto and realize he’s staring up at Angelo, desperately trying to convey something to him with unsteady eyes.
Dante’s gaze shifts between the two of them and darkens. “You’re shitting me right? Angelo’s never let you down? He literally turned his back on the Outfit. Left Devil’s Dip completely uncovered. What the fuck do you mean he’s never let you down?”
“Angelo sticks to his word, son. He said he was going straight, and he did it. You know what else? He doesn’t ask my fucking permission for every little thing. He saw that kid, Max, was a snitch, and he handled it. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”
Angelo remains deathly silent, like a predator assessing his prey. He pulls out the chair to my left, but Alberto holds his hand up.
“No. You’ll sit right here tonight, Angelo.” He thumps Dante’s place setting. “It should have been you, Vicious,” he grunts into the bottom of his glass. “It should have always been you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dante growls, rising to his feet.
“Dante—”
“Shut up, Tor. I want to hear what Father has to say.”
All eyes fall on Alberto expectantly. Except mine. I focus on the table cloth and beg the ground to open and swallow me up.
“He should have been my underboss. And if he’d stuck around, that’s exactly what I’d have offered him.”
“I’m nobody’s underboss,” Angelo cuts in. His voice is so calm that it instantly chills the room.
Alberto pauses. Shifts his gaze to him. “You’re right. You were born to be a leader. We’d have made a great team, you and me. We’d have created an even more powerful outfit.” His lids droop, but he quickly catches himself and snaps them open again. “Never too late, kiddo. Especially if you think about my offer…”
“What offer?” Dante growls. When he doesn’t get an answer, he rises to his feet. “Are you two making deals behind my back?” He turns to Tor. “Did you fucking know about this?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m no better than a lackey these days,” he mutters, yanking a cigarette carton out of his top pocket and strolling toward the patio. The glass windows rattle under the force of his slam.
The room falls quiet, the only noise coming from the piano. Dante’s glare scorches the length of the table, before it lands back on his father.
“You’re drunk,” he sneers. “And I’m not sitting here listening to you spout shit all night. I’ve got better things to do, like run the entire organization while you drown yourself in liquor and women young enough to be your granddaughter.”
As I slurp from my straw, my busted lip causes dribble to run down my chin. I catch it with the back of my hand. Dante’s gaze falls to me, disgusted.
“Good luck, Aurora. The only thing worse than being born into this family is marrying into it.”
With that, he storms out into the lobby, and a few seconds later, the front door slams.
Tor pokes his head in, flicking a cigarette butt in the direction of the beach. “And then there were four.”
Great. I drain the rest of my cocktail and sweep the room for a server, but even they are hiding tonight. Despite Alberto’s insistence that he take Dante’s seat, Angelo drops into the chair next to me.
“Are you okay?” His cold knuckles graze over my thigh, instantly warming my lower core. But I force myself to ignore the feeling, ignore him, and hone in on the wallpaper. His gaze rests heavy on my cheek, but he doesn’t say another word.
Out come the appetizers. Lemon garlic scallops served with tiny forks. We watch in silence as Alberto crams one into his mouth with his bare hands, and drops another on the floor. Angelo grabs the wrist of a passing server and pulls him low enough to mutter in his ear.
“Cut him off.”
“But—”
“Cut him off, or I’ll cut your fucking hand off.”
“I’ll see to it immediately, signore.”
Tor flashes me an amused grin and settles into his seat, like he’s getting ready for a show. I can feel what he feels, the tension brewing in the air, and it’s going to spill over any moment. Although, while he wants a front row ticket for when it does, I want to run and hide.
Without warning, Alberto’s heavy hand clamps down on my thigh, making me jolt. On the other side of me, Angelo stills, then releases a sharp hiss.
“Let’s make a toast,” Alberto booms. He’s so drunk, he doesn’t realize he’s now sipping air from an empty glass. “To my soon-to-be-wife.”
With a sarcastic smirk, Tor raises his glass. “To Aurora,” he murmurs quietly. “The only chick stupid enough to marry a gross, old, drunkard to save a few acres of land.”
I blink. He knows? How the hell does he know? I thought Dante was the only member of the Cove Clan who knew I wasn’t marrying him for his money. Before I can think about asking, Alberto thumps his fist against the table again.
“Hurry up with the main course,” he bellows in the direction of the kitchen. “I want to go and fuck my soon-to-be wife!”
My blood runs cold, but heat blisters in my cheeks. Here we go. I knew it was only a matter of time before Alberto turned his attention back to me. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the onslaught of humiliation.
“Go to bed, Alberto.”
The menacing tone in Angelo’s voice makes me pop a lid.
“What was that, kiddo?”
“Angelo, don’t—”
But he’s already rising to his feet, my tiny protest falling on deaf ears.
“Go to sleep.” His knuckles crack in my ear. “Or I’ll put you to sleep myself.”
My fingers clench around the hemline of my dress. The tension is palpable now; thick and bitter, and I worry if I take a breath I’ll choke on it.
I need to get out of here.
Slipping out of my chair, I make a beeline for the French doors. My name rings faintly in my ears, but I’m not sure who says it, nor do I care. I burst out onto the patio and turn left, breaking into a run down the beach. Somewhere along the way I lose my heels to the sand, but I don’t stop. Not until I reach the wall of rocks that marks the end of the Cove.
Lungs on fire, I slump against them and close my eyes. The gentle waves lapping the rocks serve as a backdrop to my heavy breathing, and after a few long minutes, my breath matches the steady rhythm.
I can’t do this. How can I paint a smile on my bruised, bloodied lips and continue with the plan to marry the man I despise most in the world, knowing it’s all in vain? Knowing that all this time, he held no real power over me? Except of life and death, of course. Not just mine, but my father’s.
What hurts more than knowing the contract never meant a thing is knowing Angelo knew it too. We shared secrets. Dark and twisted ones. I thought…
I dig my fingernails into my palms.
I thought he was different.
Betrayal beats in my chest. When I open my eyes, there’s a large, dark silhouette walking down the shoreline toward me.
Great. I’d rather walk into the Pacific with bricks tied to my ankles than talk to Angelo Visconti right now. I gather up the hem of my dress and stomp back toward the house, giving him a wide berth. But as I pass, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“Stop, Rory.”
“Get off me,” I hiss. “The last person I want to see tonight is you.”
Under the moonlight, his gaze flashes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I try to yank my arm back, but his grip only tightens.
“You’re not a very good liar.” My aching bottom lip starts to tremble, worsening when Angelo slips his fingers under my chin. “Look at me.” While his voice is firm, when I meet his gaze, his eyes are soft. They search mine under knitted brows.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you care?” I snap back, looking away.
He yanks me closer by my wrist, until my nose brushes against his hard chest. “Of course I care,” he growls, “I think I’ve made that very fucking clear.”
“Yeah, right. If you cared, you’d have told me you owned the Devil’s Preserve when I told you it was the only reason I was marrying your disgusting uncle. But you’ve never cared. Not when you thought I was going to jump off that cliff, and not now, even when you know I’ll be marrying him for no damn reason.”
He stills. Silent rage oozing out of his pores. “You really think I didn’t tell you because I don’t care?”
“You saw me as nothing but a plaything, something to amuse you while you were back on the Coast. I bet it was exciting to you, knowing you could have your uncle’s fiancee at the snap of your damn fingers.”
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, gripping my jaw. “If you think I’m anything but crazy about you, Rory, then you’re fucking insane.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me!” I cry.
His jaw locks. “What would you have done if I’d told you?”
I open my mouth to shoot out another bitter retort, but nothing comes. I pause for thought.
“I’d have left him.”
“And then you and your father would have been killed.” His strong forearm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer. The urge to drop my head against his chest and breathe in his warm scent is overwhelming, but the desire to punch him in the jaw is just as strong. “It’s the Cosa Nostra, Rory. They play by their own rules. Alberto wanted you, so he took you. Any deal you struck with him was an illusion. Men like Alberto don’t give, they only take, and whoever doesn’t comply gets killed.”
“You could stop him.”
“I have. I rejected his planning permission request before I met you. He asked again yesterday, but I’ll reject that too.” His thumb brushes over my cheek and his voice softens. “I’ll never give him the Preserve, you have my word.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The thickness in my voice makes Angelo still. We stare at each other for a few heavy beats, until the realization settles on the hard plans of his face.
“Stay,” I croak.
By the exhale that escapes his lips, I know what he’s going to say. My bones cringe at the mere thought of hearing it, and I know I can’t face the pitying look he’ll give me when he shoots me down. It’ll be a gentle rejection, delivered softly in a patronizing tone. I’d rather claw my eyeballs out than stay here while he tells me no.
Eyes stinging and my cheeks blistering from embarrassment, I twist out of his grasp and storm toward the house. Christ, it was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have even alluded to it. As if he’d give up his life in London and move back to a tiny town that haunts him so much, all because of me.
“Rory, wait—”
But I take off running, my feet pounding the sand as I head back to the Cove mansion. Nothing good waits for me there, but I’ll take anything, anything, over being out here on the beach with Angelo.
Wheezing, I burst through the patio doors and into the dining room, where Tor sits alone, swirling whiskey round a glass. He looks tired as he glances up at me with dark eyes.
“Your keeper is looking for you.”
On cue, Alberto’s booming voice floats through the swinging doors, wrapped around my name.
“Rather you than me,” Tor mutters, taking a swig.
Behind me, heavy footsteps sound against the patio. Without looking back, I push through the doors and into the foyer. Two worried-looking servers linger at the bottom of the stairs, staring up to the first-floor landing.
“Maybe we should sedate him,” one mutters.
“Or hope he falls down the stairs and breaks his neck,” the other sniggers back.
When they spot me, they freeze, then scurry into the shadows, whispering between themselves.
Still panting from my run, I force myself to look up the stairs and spot Alberto at the top of them. Naked. All of his glory covered only by his enormous gut swooping down to the top of his thighs.
“There you are,” he leers, beckoning me up the stairs with a curled finger “My bedroom. Now.”
My heart comes to a skidding stop. Okay, this was a really bad idea. I spin around to head back into the dining room, but Angelo darkens the doorway.
He glares at me, hands tucked into his pockets. “Stop running from me, Rory.”
“I—”
“Aurora!” Alberto’s voice is louder this time, laced with impatience. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Confused, Angelo looks up to the top of the stairs, his stare turning knife-like as his naked uncle staggers across the landing and into his bedroom. “Don’t move.”
I tilt my head up in defiance. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not playing games. You’re not going up there.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Because I’m not giving you one.”
My breathing shakes, but I’m determined to hold my ground. I glance up the stairs, at Alberto’s closed door. I know once I cross the threshold, it won’t be long until his fat, sweaty body is writhing on top of me.
My fingernails carve half-moons into my palms. “Are you staying?”
“Rory—”
“Are you staying?” I repeat, louder this time. “Are you going to stay on the Coast, take over Devil’s Dip and protect me, my father, and the Preserve from your uncle? Or are you going to leave me to fight this on my own?”
His silence is deafening. As I look up at him, he runs his tongue over his teeth, breathing heavy.
“Use your words, Angelo,” I spit at him, mimicking what he often says to me.
“You know I can’t.”
My eyes flutter shut and I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. But I don’t break down. I’m too bitter and spiteful for that. Instead, the urge for revenge licks at the walls of my stomach, and I want him to feel even just a fraction of the pain I’m feeling.
I take one step up the stairs. “Before dinner, he told me he wanted to do anal tonight. I guess that’s what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door.” I take another step. “I’ll let him claim my ass, and even my pussy, if that’s what it takes.” Another step. “I’ll moan his name, just like I moaned yours. But unlike you, he’ll get to put his hands all over my body. Wherever he wants.” The thought makes the backs of my eyes prickle with tears, but I blink hard, and keep ascending the stairs slowly.
“Aurora.”
The pure, unfiltered anger in Angelo’s voice stops me in my tracks. I spin around to face him. He’s standing on the bottom step, glaring at me, hands clenched at his sides.
“So help me God, if you take another step, I will not be responsible for what I’ll do.”
“You’re not a made man, anymore. Remember?” I spit. “You’re just dressed like one.”
His gaze blisters my back as I walk up the stairs and slip into the bedroom. Plunged into darkness, I press my back against the cold door and breathe.
He let me go.
Of course he did. He’s no better than them—he told me that himself at his parents’ memorial service. I’m as disposable to him as I am to his uncle.
Angelo Visconti isn’t a knight in shining armor, and I was foolish to think otherwise.
Steadying my breathing, I drag my gaze upward and squint through the darkness. Thanks to the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains, I can just about make out Alberto’s enormous silhouette on the bed. His breathing is heavy and even, and despite the sickness swirling in my stomach, I immediately feel lighter.
He got so drunk he passed out. Thank god. The only thing that would make this night any worse is having to follow through with—
Suddenly, the walls of the bedroom light up white and orange. A loud explosion follows a split-second later, violently shaking the window panes and threatening to burst my eardrums. It’s instinctive to duck. I drop to the floor and wrap my arms over my head, but after a few deafening beats of silence, nothing else comes.
What on earth?
Shaking, I clamber to my feet and glance over at Alberto. Christ, he’s so drunk he didn’t even flinch at the explosion, and for a moment I wonder if he’s actually dead. But then the snoring starts again, and I turn my attention back to the window. Behind the curtain, the sliver of moonlight has been replaced with a flickering orange glow.
A sickly feeling settles on my skin. I cross the room and pull back the curtain.
My eyes fall to the front drive below.
There’s fire. Lots of it. Charred gravel and black, billowing smoke, too. I blink, my eyes adjusting to figure out what I’m looking at, and when I realize, my heart stops.
Alberto’s Rolls Royce is on fire. Angry flames escape from the windows and windshield, licking the doors and roof. And just a few feet away, a dark figure looms.
Angelo. He’s looking up at me, expressionless.
I swallow the thick lump in my throat, not daring to breathe.
Angelo Visconti isn’t a knight in shining armor, he’s a monster in an Armani suit.
