Page 48 of Marriage of Revenge

Connor appears at my side, that Irish smirk playing on his face. "Choosing two wheels over four on this road? Theyshouldn't call you The Beast, they should call you ready-for-the-asylum."

"I know what I'm doing." My voice carries the weight of every race I've survived. "Don't forget to watch the road."

Engines roar to life around us, the vibrations running through my bones. As the flag drops, we're a blur of speed and fury. I don't give a damn where the others are. On this beast of a bike, they're just specks in my rearview.

The wind batters like fists, my motorcycle's roar vibrating through every bone. The first turn hits me with pure adrenaline - tires screaming against asphalt, death waiting one wrong move away. But this is what I live for. Man and machine becoming one deadly force.

Connor's headlights flash in my mirrors before Henrik, that sadistic bastard, shoots ahead. Connor stays on him like a shadow while the Frenchman... gone. If he met the cliff's edge, Mrs. Lefevre might just step up and show these men how it's really done. That woman's got more steel than most of them combined.

Villa Maria looms ahead, closer than I expected. I ease off the throttle just as Connor charges forward. Then - that sharp bang I've been waiting for. Tire shredding, rubber meeting destiny. They played their hand perfectly. Connor fights the wheel like he's wrestling the devil himself, his car doing a death dance with the edge.

His race ends there.

I gun it, but Henrik's trying his amateur hour bullshit, attempting to force me off the road. Like I haven't survived worse. The finish line beckons through the morning haze, and one thought burns clearer than the rest: I'm going to make Henrik feel every single punch. Slowly.

In one swift move, I right the motorcycle, leaning into a gap so narrow my knee nearly scrapes rock. The cliff edge rushespast like a hungry mouth, one wobble away from swallowing me whole. But this is what I do - turn death into victory. I shoot past Henrik, the engine screaming as I push it harder, eating up asphalt until I blast through the finish line first.

My heart pounds victory against my ribs, blood singing with adrenaline and purpose. One step closer to winning. One step closer to putting that ring on Isabella's finger. One step closer to watching her father's empire crumble.

Tonight, I'm not just beating Henrik in the ring. I'm going to make him pay for every mark he left on her. Every threat. Every twisted promise. And I'll enjoy every second of it.

CHAPTER 23—ISABELLA

The sun burns overItalian hills, painting the Strada della Morte in shades of gold and shadow. They call it the road of death, and today it's living up to its name - transformed into a racetrack for my father's twisted game. Lavender scents the cooling air, but it can't mask the taste of fear in my throat.

Naomi's hand finds mine, her fingers cold despite the lingering heat. "What if he didn't make it?" she whispers, and my chest tightens like those days in chemo when breathing itself felt like a battle.

My heart performs its own torturous choreography - each beat an arabesque of anxiety, each pause between like those endless moments before stepping onto stage. Only this time, I'm not the one dancing. I'm just watching, waiting, praying I gave Antonio enough warning.

What if it wasn't enough? What if my father planted more traps, more ways to ensure the Beast meets a fiery end? The thought makes my pulse skip-flutter.

I tell myself I only care because he's Naomi's best chance. Because he might be the only one who remembers her as more than a consolation prize. His mother's words echo in my head, clear as the day she spoke them while we watched him training in the courtyard: "You can be ruthless and still have some morals. Don't use people. Not because you're calculating their values to you but because you value them." She'd paused then, something dark flickering in her eyes. "Unless they wronged you."

I know he hates me. And I wronged him.

But Naomi has nothing to do with any of this. And he liked her, truly liked her. His mother trusted Naomi's father, too. I remember Antonio's voice softening when he talked about them. How they'd laugh over shared memories that seemed to give his mother peace.

He even confided in me once that Naomi's father had tried to find another role for his mother. Was she like me - another woman they didn't leave a choice to? My father always claimed Antonio's mother pursued him, that she was going to give him the son he always wanted.

But... where did they meet? How? The questions stick in my throat like pills too big to swallow.

My chest constricts, and I force myself to breathe slowly, like my cardio nurse taught me. I can't think about all that. Not now.

And Naomi's father tried to reason with my father before... My ribs feel like they're collapsing around my lungs. I can't let myself remember that day. Not when everything's so precarious.

But all of that? That has to mean something. It has to be enough to make Antonio help her, even if he wants to destroy me

"How did this happen?" My father's roar makes me jump, my heartbeat doing that dangerous stutter-skip I've come to fear. But his rage tells me everything I need to know - Antonio must be one of the top two. "I don't care. You messed up. You had onerole." He pauses, and ice slides down my spine at his next words. "His mechanic? Kill him. Burn him. Put his churned body on the road where his men can find him."

His gaze locks onto mine, and something passes between us. Understanding? Suspicion? I can't read him anymore –and clearly, I never could. I once believed my mother, he and I were a happy family.

Maybe we were. Maybe my mother’s death turned him into a monster.

Or maybe I’m just hoping that’s what happened because then the father I believed loved him is still underneath all of the pain.

What did he expect would happen? And if everyone learns he sabotaged the road... He'll lose everything. Maybe that's what terrifies him most.

He steps forward, fingers gripping my chin with familiar brutality. I force myself to meet his stare, hating how memories of a gentler father still haunt me - the one who held my hand through first positions, who promised ballet would make me strong. His betrayal cuts deeper because of those memories.

---