Page 60 of Marriage of Revenge

"Check the hotel intel," I tell Franco, each word fighting past the rawness in my throat. Moretti thinks his web of power is unbreakable, but every fortress has weak points. Every king has blind spots.

Once Franco's gone, Paola's fingers trail down my chest like she's marking territory. "What are you doing, Pao?" Exhaustion and authority mix in my voice like whiskey and blood - familiar tastes that remind me who I am. What I am.

The Beast doesn't share his prey.

Not even with the ones who help him hunt.

“I thought... I could make you feel better,” she murmurs. Her hands find the hem of her shirt, confidence born from nights we've played this game before. Too many nights, maybe.

When she moves to straddle me, pain explodes where Henrik's blade kissed flesh. I shove her back, every muscle screaming protest, the room tilting like that night everything burned. Fuck. The cocktail of poison and whatever Doc pumped into me makes the walls dance. "This isn't happening. You know the rules."

"I saved your life." Hurt and hunger war in her eyes.

"And saved yourself." The words come out rough as gravel. "I'm grateful. But don't forget what this is." What we are - pieces in a game bigger than desire. "Leave me."

She goes, but tension lingers like smoke after fire. I try to focus on wedding plans, on revenge served cold and calculated, but my mind betrays me - sliding back to fever dreams of Isabella. Her nails scoring my back, her body yielding where Paola's felt wrong. That damn honeysuckle scent haunts me even here, like she's marked her territory in my head.

Franco's return cuts through the haze, victory carved into his face. "Got it. Seems Moretti's trust issues with his daughter work in our favor - cameras in the living room caught everything. Sound too. Amazing what a little motivation does to loyalty." His grin turns sharp. "You called it - he wants his precious ballerina to put you down herself."

A laugh tears from my throat, cold as death. "Fucking amateur."

Because Moretti forgot the first rule of hunting Beasts:

Make sure they're really dead before you stop watching your back.

Focus. I need fucking focus. But Isabella crawls under my skin like poison in my veins, like smoke in my lungs. She's a hurricane wearing honeysuckle perfume - destructive, beautiful, completely out of control. The taste of her kiss still burns on my tongue, mixing desire with revenge until I can't tell which is deadlier.

But soon she'll be mine. My bride. My revenge. My perfect weapon against her father's empire.

"Set up a meeting here. Pre-wedding." My voice carries steel despite the fire in my side. "Tell them it's non-negotiable - or every detail about the poison, the sabotaged road, all their amateur-hour manipulation goes public." The smile that curves my lips feels like violence. "If Moretti's not afraid, he'll send her. His pride won't let him look weak."

Franco's nod carries years of understanding - he knows how these games work. How pride makes men stupid.

Alone again, I sink into pillows that feel like clouds stuffed with razor blades. My mind races faster than the fever that nearly killed me. It's a dangerous play, inviting her here. Like striking matches in a room full of gasoline.

But then, I've always been comfortable playing with fire.

Even after it marked me as its own.

Maybe especially then.

CHAPTER 30—ISABELLA

Ikeep waiting formy father to produce some elegant little vial, some perfectly measured dose of death to slip into Antonio's drink. The silence on the matter feels wrong - like waiting for test results you know will be bad. As if my father would suddenly grow a conscience, as if ordering his daughter to murder her ex-stepbrother would be the line he finally won't cross. But morality and my father parted ways long before he watched Antonio burn.

Naomi hugs me goodbye, and god, her smile is barely there - a ghost of the girl who used to make me laugh through treatments. The thought of that light getting snuffed out under Radomir's hands makes my chest tighten.

My throat closes around emotion thick as hospital air. Each step forward feels like walking into surgery - that same mix of dread and resignation, knowing what's coming but powerless to stop it.

"Salvatore stays with you." My father's voice carries no room for argument. "Or close enough. Part of the deal." His pause carries threat. "If they kill him..." The words trail off, but their meaning rings clear as monitor alarms - Antonio's fortress may be surrounded, but we're all trapped in my father's web.

I used to think he was some kind of dark guardian angel, protecting our family with whatever means necessary. Now I see the truth - he'll sacrifice anyone, anything, to keep his crown. People used to whisper his name like a prayer, like he was some benevolent king. Now they whisper it like a warning.

The man who couldn't be there for me, who’s been using me, most likely lying to me, trying to use my best friend thinks he can protect his empire by making me a murderer.

My father's choice of guard speaks volumes - not Georgio who'd take a bullet for him, but Salvatore who still needs to prove his worth. A laugh catches in my throat, bitter as hospital coffee. Is this a test for me, or for him? Knowing my father, probably both.

"What's funny?" Salvatore's question hangs in air thick with threat. I don't bother answering - some jokes only work if you've been the punchline.

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