Page 49 of Marriage of Revenge

"If I find out you had anything to do with this..."

Time to channel every performance I've ever given. "What do you mean?" I keep my voice steady, confused. Innocent. "What are you talking about?"

"If you had anything to do with this, I'm sure Radomir would be happy to take Naomi as a wife. Find another way to ally himself with us."

The threat wraps around my throat like barbed wire. I want to scream at him, tell him I see through his desperate grab for power, his fear of losing control. But Naomi's safety weighs heavier than truth.

I shake my head. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

And part of me wants to scream to the entire group next to us that I can’t dance the way I used to. That things down there have been weirder since chemo. That I won’t be their pretty little thing.

But one look at Naomi terrorized face and I hold my tongue. Because I won’t put her in danger.

I inhale deeply, letting Italy fill my lungs. The breeze carries something both familiar and foreign - salt from the distant sea, wild lavender from the hills, memories I can't quite grasp.

My father's glare pins me in place. "Tonight, you wear what I want you to." His pause carries weight, threat. "You and Naomi will attend the fight."

Of course we are. We're props in his power play, pretty dolls to arrange however he sees fit.

I've seen Antonio fight before, back when everything was simpler. Back when watching him train made my pulse race for different reasons. I know his strength, his determination - the way he moves like violence made beautiful.

Unless my father plays another one of his dark games, Antonio will emerge victorious.

And we will be married.

The distant rumble grows louder, familiar as heartbeat - Antonio's motorcycle cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. It roars up the hill, coming to a sudden stop in front of us. When he takes off his helmet, my heart decides to perform its own dangerous choreography, leaping into my throat without permission.

His dark gaze sweeps the crowd with predator's precision until it finds me, and something warm unfurls in my chest - more confusing than any diagnosis I've ever received.

When he turns to my father, his voice carries steel and promise: "No more games. It ends tonight."

And part of me hopes he means it.

CHAPTER 24—ANTONIO

Ipunch the air,sweat trickling down my back as I finish my warmup. Every strike carries years of stored violence, waiting to explode.

"Higher," Franco dodges, eyes tracking my fists. "Faster," he commands, respect threading through his voice - the kind you earn with blood, not the bloodthirsty anticipation rolling off this crowd like expensive cologne. They stare at my scars like they're reading fortunes. Not like Isabella, who looked at them with a curiosity that should've been revulsion. Does she see herself as the muse of these battle marks? Her father's handiwork carved into my skin?

"That's it," Franco's words cut through the hum of my focus, that endless well of rage that powers each swing. I recoil, preparing for an uppercut that almost lands on Franco's nose before restraint kicks in at the last second.

"Thanks, boss." Franco's grin is wry, acknowledging the near miss.

Henrik won't be granted such clemency.

The ballroom's transformed from wealth's playground to war zone, opulent chandeliers watching over makeshift violence. Anticipation thickens the air along with beer and high-end perfume, rich wine mixing with steak and gorgonzola, pasta and pizza - a feast fit for Isabella's father's particular tastes. The same man who once summoned a chef from Naples just for the perfect gorgonzola. When the chef failed, his throat was opened with the same emotion you'd use to sign a contract. As the man bled out on imported marble, her father's eyes never left my mother. Isabella was absent then, still wrapped in her bubble of ballet and innocence.

My mother didn't flinch.

Because she knew... oh, she knew that monsters wear Armani and sleep beside you, that love is just another weapon they use to destroy. Some lessons you learn too late.

"Three minutes." The announcement booms and the crowd surges with anticipation. They're here for blood - specifically Henrik's blood. Nothing entertains these vultures more than watching one of their own fall.

Connor and Radomir claim front row seats - today's losers getting prime view of tomorrow's winner. Connor's uncharacteristically quiet, that Irish charm gone cold as a corpse. Interesting. No smart remarks, no calculated jabs. Just silence and those eyes that see too much. Radomir, though? He's coiled rage in a designer suit, probably imagining both Henrik and me dead in a ditch.

Mrs. Lefevre commands the back of the room like a queen presiding over an execution. Sure, she's got an army of security around her, guarding her like she's the Hope Diamond, but she stands alone. Two heirs dead within days of each other. Some whisper about bad luck. I don't believe in luck - just carefully orchestrated "accidents" and perfectly timed coincidences.

And isn't it interesting how she doesn't look like a grieving mother?

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