Page 3 of Sinister Intentions

Exhausted, I sank into one of the plush leather futons and scratched my forehead—carefully, so as not to accidentally move my ball cap and wig and show my shorn, bright green head—another impulsive action he could never know about.

Because he would not understand.

Right? Right.

I exhaled, and my gaze landed on the framed photo of Mom on the wall behind his desk. Her warm smile was a stark contrast to the coldness that now permeated the room and me. She’d loved us so much…until the end.

My throat constricted, making it hard to breathe—a sensation that had become more frequent since Italy. I couldn’t remember a lot about Mom, apart from the memories of her combing my hair and giving the best hugs in the world…and the guilt and shame surrounding her death. Shouldn’t I be able to remember more about her? I was already ten when she died. I should know how she would’ve acted in this kind of situation.

The only thing I knew was that she wouldn’t want me unhappy, so she never would’ve let my dad go through with something like this. And neither would I. I ground my teeth and forced myselfto empty my mind and let go of my thoughts until the choking sensation slowly subsided.

Now was not the time to break down, especially not with Salvini in the house. But I would not marry Matteo Salvini.

Period.

I stared at my father, who was looking at his computer screen. How could he claim to love me and yet disregard my own wishes so completely? “Mom wouldn’t be happy about this,” I stated.

My father’s gaze snapped to me, his blue eyes dark and unreadable.

I met his gaze head-on. The ticking of the antique clock only amplified the tension stretching between us. I bit back the torrent of feelings threatening to swamp me again and refocused on the anger inside of me. Anger was better than fear; anger was better than guilt, or shame, or sadness.

And under these circumstances, anger was the one emotion that was valid when your father practically sold you into marriage.

We kept staring at each other, like opponents from their corners. My father was the first to look away. He picked up the smaller frame—a family photo—from his desk, and suddenly, the tension in his face disappeared. “Did I ever tell you about how your mother and I got married, Button?”

I narrowed my eyes. My father hadn’t used my old nickname in forever. I tried to recall any details of my parents’ marriage but came up short. “No, was she forced into an arranged marriage, as well?” I mocked.

He focused back on me, cocked his head, and grinned. “It was the best thing that ever happened to both of us.”

My mouth fell open, and I stared at him in disbelief, his words ringing in my ears like an annoying echo.

My parents had an arranged marriage?

An arranged marriage that actually worked out? I scoffed. The notion seemed as preposterous as telling me Vincenzo Salvini was a prince in shining armor with a heart of gold—which he clearly was not.

“It might’ve worked out for you.” I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “But it will not work for me.”

The lines around his eyes deepened with concern—or was it determination? His jaw tightened, and he gave a solemn nod. “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll find a solution,” he promised, but his words felt hollow—as hollow as the sound when that rose I dropped into Mom’s open grave hit her casket deep down.

My fingers dug into the worn denim of my jeans as I fought to keep my voice level. He didn’t understand, not really…and he never would. “I’m not okay with this, no matter how you phrase it. No matter if it’s only for a short time. And nothing you say will change that.”

Because I didn’t believe in happy endings anymore, didn’t believe in promises that everything would work out anymore. Nobody knew if they even woke up the next day. Nobody knew what the future would hold.

A metallic taste flooded my mouth as I clenched my teeth and bit the inside of my cheek. This wasn’t about finding some agreeable solution or compromise.

This was about seizing control of my own life.

I wasn’t willing to lay my fate into someone else’s hands—anyone else’s—or to rely on hope. I’d lost that in that basement.

The memories appeared like an unwanted flickering reel of nightmares—the dark room in the basement, the sounds of fear that flooded the room whenever we heard footsteps approaching. I really thought we wouldn’t get out of there alive. And when we did, that’s when everything changed.

That’s when I changed.

I thought if I were a good girl, if I fit in and did as I was told, nothing bad would happen again. Well. I should’ve known that was just BS. I should’ve learned my lesson with Mom’s death that life didn’t work that way. Should’ve known it would happen again. I’d lived with that sense of doom my whole life, and the kidnapping was just a reminder from the universe. A reminder for which Sophie and Fee paid dearly.

I focused on my breathing again until I’d pushed the shame and guilt back down where they belonged and focused on the problem at hand.

It was time to accept that whatever happened, happened. But it didn’t mean I would blindly follow a script for a life someone else decided on.

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