Page 51 of To Hell

“And what do you think revenge will accomplish? Do you think killing him will erase the pain, the nightmares? It will only make you more like him,” I thunder, my voice bouncing out of me in rumbles.

“Don’t you fucking say that to me,” he lunges forward, and I lose my balance but quickly find my feet before falling over. “You don't fucking get it, do you? You're too wrapped up in your new life to see the truth. He needs to be fucking stopped,” he growls.

I’m simmering but trying as hard as I can to hold still, “I get it, Cesare. I understand more than you could ever fucking possibly think. But I also know that living for revenge will destroy you.” I know this because I have spent fucking years nursing it, and it got me thirsting for so much blood that I have lost myself completely.

I go to him, trying to still him with my hands on his shoulders, but he comes at me instead with a swinging punch. I slap my hand into it, catching it midair, but no less feeling the pinching impact of it in my palm. The force rocks the both of us.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” My grip tightens around his fist, but we are both grappling to see who gets to make the other back down. “Get your shit together,” I twist his hand, and he seethes. “Get. Your. Fucking. Shit. Together,” I force his hand down.

“Why do you care so much about this new life? Why is Zoe so important to you?” He comes back at me with another shove, but I’m prepared for this.

“Because she's a reminder that we can have something better, something good. She's my light, Cesare. And you can find someone like her too if you allow yourself to.”

“I don't know if I can, Ettore. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I hear his voice. It's like he's still controlling me,” he picks up the bottle of whiskey, but I snatch it from his grip, flinging it across the room so it slams into a bookshelf and smashes onto the floor.

“You're stronger than him,” I say, closing the distance and taking his face in my hands. “Look at me,” I repeatedly tap him on his cheeks until he glares at me. “You are stronger than the nightmares. We can face this together, but not through revenge. We need to find a way to heal, not to hurt.”

“Stop going fucking Shakespeare on me,” he slaps my hands away but lets his shoulders sag as he breathes out heavily, “I don't know if I can do it, Ettore. I don't know if I can let go.”

“Yes, you can.”

He corks an eyebrow at me. “Go open a fucking book club or something, damn it,” he sucks his teeth and bounces out.

That went well.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ZOE

There is something about icons wearing iconic outfits to the Met Gala that always has the media whipping around their pinky fingers for months. But there are a few appearances that have broken the internet and still cause an uproar years later.

Like Cher in the first-ever Met Gala in a naked dress with a glittering sheer design by Bob Mackie. Then there is Princess Diana wearing that daring navy blue Dior dress in 1996. Or the bold statement Rihanna made with Guo Pei in 2015 in that canary yellow cape gown.

The stars will no doubt have the media spiraling. However, a nobody in the creationof a legend will have the people's hearts reeling.

I, the nobody, am producing the exact effect I predicted in a piece of art created by the fashion goddess herself. The same impression it made when Ettore first saw me wearing this ombre dress.

“Shall we?” Ettore husks, standing just outside the limousine, staring at me like there is something other than the fact that I have transformed into Cinderella.

My prince has a warm smile on his face. He is dressed in one of the suits I made for him, which Valerie had to help me finish up so it matches my overflowing ball gown.

He is in his nightly color.

It's a complete suit; only the jacket has a cape extended from one shoulder down. On the cape are the same pearly glittering stones on the bottom of my dress. He wears it so well that people are already whisking heads our way.

I place one foot down on the extended red carpet, and he stretches his hand to me. I take it gladly, trying to steady myself in the firmness of his hold.

My heart is a raging beast at the sight of flashes of cameras, media teams seeking attention from Met Gala attendees, and celebrities that I have only ever seen on TV or in magazines.

I am here.

Sweat breaks out onto my skin and the hair at the nape of my neck spikes.

Ettore aids me as I step down from the limousine, and Valerie's apprentice marches out from another car to help straighten the rim of my gown so it overflows in its full glory.

The dress is surreal.

A mixture ofblack and whitereminiscent of a charcoal painting on canvas. The dress'corseted upper section is a thick, flavorful black that looks to have been hand-dyed rather than produced by an industrial machine. Additionally, the lower part, which extends below my knees, is white, the fabric's originalcolor.

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