Page 28 of Marriage of Revenge

A blueprint follows, red lines marking my path to freedom. My hands shake as I hold the phone, hope blooming wild and dangerous in my chest.

This is why Naomi went quiet.

She must have risked everything to get these plans. A spark of guilt flares in me—she shouldn’t be doing this for me. But I need to believe there’s a way out. Just this once, I let myself picture it: escaping, finding my own way, writing my own story. A story without auctions or tournaments or monsters.

I check the time: 3:47 AM. My window is closing fast.

Every movement is a negotiation with pain, but I push through, slipping out of bed. My silk nightgown whispers against my skin as I pull on the only practical clothing I have: yoga pants and a hoodie I insisted on packing "for morning stretches." A tiny rebellion, one that now feels almost like fate.

The door isn’t locked. Maybe they think I’m too broken, too tired to try anything. Or maybe they’re cocky. Either way, I slip into the hallway, my bare feet silent on marble floors that cost more than most people's homes. The hallway is endless and dark, shadows whispering secrets I don’t want to hear.

I make it to the service stairs without being seen, counting breaths like I used to count beats. One-two-three, don't think about how your legs shake. Four-five-six, ignore the way your heart skips. Seven-eight-nine, pretend you're strong enough for this.

Three years ago, these stairs would have been nothing—I used to run up and down stadium steps to build stamina for performances. Now, just looking at them makes my pulse flutter in that way that used to send nurses running. I press my fingers to my neck, counting beats like my last cardiology nurse taught me. Too fast, but not SVT territory. Not yet.

The kitchen is a maze of steel and shadows. Every step feels like relevé on burning feet, my body a constant reminder of what chemo took. What it left behind. Moonlight turns knife blades and pot handles into glinting threats, but the exit is right there—just like Naomi's map promised. Twenty feet of hope, if my treacherous legs will carry me that far.

I take one step. Two. Three. Each one a negotiation between what I want to do and what this post-treatment body will allow.

“Going somewhere, piccola?”

My father’s voice slices through the darkness, and my legs finally give out. I catch myself on a counter, knives rattling like wind chimes made of threats.

He steps into the moonlight, and the look on his face—it’s worse than anger. It’s satisfaction, the kind that glints in his eyes like a predator savoring a helpless prey. His fingers drum a slow rhythm against his side, like he’s already planning his next move in this twisted game, and my failure is another piece falling into place.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t check your phones? That no one would be at your door?” He moves closer, each step deliberate, like a hunter savoring the kill. “That we’d let you plan an escape?”

The realization hits harder than chemo ever did, harder thean him not holding my hand when I cried after that first PET/CT had shown the treatment wasn’t working, that “the good cancer” had not disappeared, harder than him only visiting once when I went through the autologous stem cell transplant.

This was a test.

Another performance he choreographed, and I played my part perfectly—the desperate daughter willing to betray her family for a taste of freedom.

“I had to be sure,” he continues, his voice gentle in that way that makes my skin crawl. “Sure that you needed… extra motivation to understand your role tomorrow.”

Two of his men emerge from the shadows. The same men who were there when Luka was shot. Was that a test too? How many deaths have I caused by failing these twisted assessments?

“What you want doesn’t matter anymore.” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face with terrifying tenderness. “What matters is what you’re going to do. For our family. For everyone who depends on us.” His fingers tighten in my hair, just enough to hurt. “For Naomi.”

The threat isn’t subtle. Neither is the lesson.

He nods to his men, and they flank me like dark angels. “Take her back to her room. And this time?” His eyes meet mine, cold as hospital tiles. “Lock the door. After all,” his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “we wouldn’t want any of our guests getting ideas about… early visits.”

As they march me back upstairs, my phone buzzes one last time. A text from my father’s number:

You failed the test, piccola. Tomorrow, you’ll learn the price of failure.

I tried to ask Naomi how she’s doing, tried to make sure they know it’s on me not on her.I shouldn’t have threatened you on the phone.

I’m crossing my fingers they never listened to our phone calls, that they believe me, that she doesn’t have to pay.

Dawn breaks over Naples, painting everything in shades of purple and gold. A beautiful lie. A bruise of a night that has made everything worse.

In three hours, the tournament begins. In three hours, I’ll face them all—Antonio, Henrik, every monster who thinks they can own me.

But right now, curled up on sheets that smell like privilege and prison, all I can think is: how many more tests before someone else dies because of me?

CHAPTER 14—ANTONIO

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