Page 42 of Marriage of Revenge

He raises his head, and our gazes collide like yesterday's kiss—all heat and hunger and things we shouldn't want. Time stretches like an IV drip counting seconds, and memories flood back: his hands on my waist, his lips claiming mine, the way he made me forget about everything but him. Was it just another power play? Another scene in this twisted performance?

Or did I imagine the way his touch became more frenzied when I touched him? The way his breath caught when I kissed him back? The way he stepped in front of me when the gunshot rang out?

His fingers pause on his keyboard for just a fraction of a second. I know I should look away, should remember how he told Georgio on me. But some habits are hard to kick—and watching Antonio has always been my favorite addiction.

My father stands by me, and with one word,Naomi,he has me standing back up and settling at his table.

"Is anyone actually at risk if I don't play along with this auction, or is that just another one of your games?" The words slip out before I can swallow them back, barely a whisper but sharp as surgical steel.

My father's fingers clamp around my wrist. Every ounce of warmth drains from that spot, his touch both familiar and foreign.

There was a time when I saw him as my knight in shining armor. Now all I see are the shadows he casts, the way his empire is built on broken promises and bloody hands. This whole mafia auction feels like something straight out of the Hunger Games—and god, why am I thinking about Katniss now? Maybe because she knew what it felt like to be a piece in someone else's game.

I shift in my seat, arms folded over my tank top. At least today I'm wearing my armor of choice. When the bodyguard arrived this morning with another princess dress, I shut the door in his face. One scalding shower later, I pulled on my favorite jeans, the ones Naomi and I bought thinking of a future that didn’t involve all of this, a tank top that doesn't hide my scars, and one of Mom’s cardigans.

I caught my father's eyes narrowing at the marks peeking out—the roadmap of survival carved into my skin. But for once, I don't care. Let him see. Let them all see what it looks like when death tries to claim you and fails.

It's a small defiance, choosing my own clothes. Like refusing to dance for the Russian or spitting in Henrik's face. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean much, but... I feel more myself than I have since they wheeled me into that first treatment. More alive since that kiss. Even though I know that kiss didn’t mean anything, I’m using it, too. Using it to be stronger.

And isn't that the real rebellion?

"Remember what you've been told," my father snaps, his voice dripping with threat.

I arch an eyebrow, masking the turmoil inside. How could I forget? His plans to corner Antonio, to bring him low, maybe even end him, are etched in my mind like the scars on my skin. Both marking moments I couldn't prevent.

I want to stand up and say something. Want to jump up and bring this charade to a stop. Want to scream and cry and fight like I fought the cancer eating me alive.

"You remind me so much of your mother," he murmurs, and a sharp pang of grief stabs me. For once, his words aren't cloaked in wistfulness or manipulation. The raw emotion behind them catches me off guard, like finding an old piece of sheet music in Mom's handwriting.

He's not talking about her grace and elegance. Or her courage—though that's what I try to channel now, sitting here in my defiant jeans and visible scars. I don't remember much about her. A soft smile. Laughter that made rooms feel warmer. And the way she stood between me and disappointment, between me and his expectations, more than once.

She died crossing a road to the music school where she volunteered. Just... gone. One moment teaching kids to play piano, the next, a headline in the morning papers. Back then, I thought Dad was just a grieving husband when he disappeared for months, searching for answers. I was too young to question why a businessman had the resources to search the entire planet for the truth.

Now I know better. Now I understand why his men whispered in corners, why strange men in expensive suits came to offer condolences. He wasn't just searching—he was hunting, using connections I never knew existed, power I couldn't have imagined.

But in the end? It was just an accident. A drunk driver. A rainy day. A moment of bad luck that changed everything.

Sometimes I wonder if that's when he really became the monster I know now. When he realized that all his power, all his control, couldn't save what mattered most.

"I don't think she'd love this for me," I whisper back to him, the words tasting like chemo on my tongue. If he wants to make a scene right now, I'll give him one. I'll stand up and tell them all this is rigged, warn Antonio that there are traps waiting in the shadows. But they'd probably laugh—these men who deal in danger and deceit. They already know.

I used to believe there was honor among thieves. Used to think the mafia was about family, loyalty, protection. Like in those movies Naomi and I watched during my recovery.

I'm not sure there's honor left in my father.

"You don't know what she'd want for you," he tells me, and this time his voice isn't cutting or cunning. It's something worse—almost gentle. "You didn't know her life. You didn't really know her." The whiplash of his tone makes my head spin like bad days in treatment.

He's lying.

The realization hits harder than any diagnosis. He's not trying his best, not protecting me. He's selling me to the highest bidder, orchestrating this tournament to prop himself up, to forge an alliance that will keep him in power. There are layers here I don't understand, secrets wrapped in more secrets.

Time stretches like an IV drip while the men battle their digital war. They don't take breaks, don't look up, don't—

"Done!" The French replacement's voice cracks through the tension. "I found a way."

Antonio's "Finished" comes seconds later, his voice a growl that makes my pulse skip. Connor follows, then Henrik's snarl of completion.

At least Radomir is out. One less monster in this circus.

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