Page 12 of Killer Love

I don’t mean a word of it. I’d rather my little sister be dead than be Gio’s bride.

She hits me again, her eyes glancing around for nonexistent listeners. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You shouldn’t be talking at all…”

“I’m allowed to talk to you,” I say. “I’ve broken no vow.”

Rosalie sighs. “But don’t you want to be pure for Gio in every way? They say that every word you speak during your silent weeks brings one year of hardship to your marriage.”

I stare at her through the black filter. “Good.”

She tilts her head at me but says nothing, most likely to deter me from speaking again.

One year of hardship. I might as well be reciting poetry from dawn until dusk. If that superstition is true, then I should speak ten thousand words to ensure that Giovani Zappia dies a miserable, broken, old man.

I smile.

It feels strange, so incredibly out of place that it makes me dizzy. The very thought of Gio dying alone, embarrassed, and humiliated makes me smile. I have not smiled like this since…

I look over the balcony again at that distant garden shed.

A bolt of warmth surges down my spine until it tickles my toes, but it disappears just as quickly.

Rosalie nudges my ribs. “Chin up, Sofia,” she says, her voice chipper than ever.

“You can’t even tell it’s down.”

“I’m your life maiden. I can feel it.”

She throws an arm around me and we both look out into the distance together — or what we can see of it. Life outside of the epic walls of the Zappia estate is one of pure mystery to both of us.

We were sent here to Rome as young children. Our parents died after she was born, and the Zappia family was generous enough to take us in. However, we have never been treated like family. We shared a room in the servant’s quarters until I turned seven. Then, I was moved into the main house where Beatrix began training me in the Zappia way.

A Zappia woman must never speak to a man outside of her bloodline.

A Zappia woman is always eager to please her kin.

A Zappia woman greets each new day with a smile.

That’s when she told me about the marriage. It was all Antony’s idea. Bring me into the house, train me in their ways, and pair me with one of their boys to continue their bloodline for a new generation.

Enzo, as the eldest, was to focus on the business. Marty was younger than I am and since a Zappia bride may not be superior to her husband in any way (age included), he was deemed ineligible for the union.

That left Gio.

He’s claimed ownership of me ever since.

I am his. He’d bark it at anyone who would listen — family, friends, visitors — even his own mother when she dared to disagree with him over where I should sit at the table or what I would wear to chapel on Sunday morning.

I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. I had no voice, no say. Any attempt to speak out was met with the threat of an open palm. Or worse.

My only solace comes in my dreams. A gentle hand will appear in the darkness, beckoning me to take it. I’ll look up, and the boy would gaze at me with his big, gray eyes.

“Come on out. I won’t hurt you.”

I reach for him, but his hand fades into the black mist before I can grab it.

Luka Lutrova.

The boy in the garden shed with kindness in his eyes.

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