Page 13 of Marriage of Revenge

And then he’s gone.

Bodyguards hustle me through a private entrance, the opulence of the hotel suite doing little to quell my growing unease.

“Have you ever been in this place?” I ask Georgio who takes one look at me before glancing away without answering like I’m a mouse that’s bothering him, but he can’t get rid of me.

On the last floor, the elevator opens up to what looks like a Michaelangelo dream. Stepping onto the plush carpet, I take a moment, letting the reality of my surroundings sink in. The golden chandeliers, intricate mosaics on the wall, the scent of fresh roses strategically placed in vases—it's a world of luxury.

But an icy chill runs down my spine, because this isn’t a vacation.

Georgio holds me back. “Wait here.” He glances at a new guy on the team. Young. Nicer. He hasn’t barked at me, yet. “Check the area one more time. We can’t be too cautious.”

The man—Luka, I think, strides inside and within five minutes he’s back giving us the all-clear.

Georgio indicates the door leading to what looks like a living room followed by a bedroom and an en-suite bathroom. “We’llstay right by the living room door. Do you want something to eat?” He asks. Very matter-of-fact.

“I just want to take a shower and then a cappuccino and a cornetti with butter and jam, please.”

“Sure.”

And he leaves me alone with my thoughts and with the dread pooling in my stomach. I inhale deeply. It’s one moment in time. That’s what I used to tell myself during treatments. One moment in time. Five minutes. An hour. A day. I can do this for five minutes, an hour and a day. My next deep breath isn’t as shaky.

Once I’m out of the shower, I put on sweatpants and a large shirt. The dress my father wants me to wear tonight is lying on the bed and the tightness in my shoulder returns a thousand-fold.

Crap.

“Your breakfast is here,” Georgio tells me as he sets them on the table in the living area of the suite. He didn’t knock, but knew I was done. I wouldn’t put in past my dad to have cameras in there. Or maybe he’s listening at the door.

I retrieve my phone from my bag, brushing the letter I took with me, hiding it in the fabric, and text Naomi.

I’m in Naples.

Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. She responds.You're stronger than you think. Don't forget that.

Eager for some fresh air and a momentary escape from the heavy atmosphere of the suite, I cautiously approach the balcony doors. Sliding them open, I step onto the ornate balcony overlooking the gardens and courtyard of the hotel, my cappuccino in hand. It’s about eleven in the morning and the sun is shining.

From here, I have a clear view of the main entrance of the hotel. Limos and luxury cars pull up, and men in sharp suits step out like they're auditioning for The Godfather: Italian Edition.Each step, each motion, underlines the grim reality of what's happening tonight—my very own fairy tale nightmare auction.

And then, I spot him.

Antonio.

He emerges from a matte black Lamborghini, and my lungs forget how oxygen works. Gone is the boy who used to play piano while I danced. Gone is my-stepbrother who made Mrs. Romano laugh so hard she'd snort her espresso.

This Antonio moves like someone who knows exactly how much damage he can do. The scar makes sure I never forget that lesson.

And then, as if my guilt is screaming his name, he looks up.

Our eyes meet, and time does that annoying thing where it forgets how to move forward. Like that moment in the hospital when they gave me my cells back, reminding me it was going to get even tougher before it gets better.

I remember the last time he watched me dance. Before the scar. Before the screams. Before I learned that silence could be the sharpest weapon of all. The piano in the ballroom still sits exactly where he left it, collecting dust like the rest of my could-have-beens.

My throat tightens. Would he still play if he could? Or did that burn away too, along with everything else I—

I absently smooth my curls, grown back rebel-wild after chemo. They're different now. I'm different now. Both of us transformed by things we never saw coming.

He hasn't moved an inch, but his fingers raise to his forehead in what might be a salute or might be a promise. Either way, it makes my SVT threaten to kick in.

Panicking, I duck back inside, pressing my back against the wall next to the balcony door. My heart's doing its own twisted choreography, because even my pulse can't keep its shit together.

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