Page 8 of Marriage of Revenge

Well. Antonio's face tells that story better than I ever could.

A few hours later, the quiet murmur of conversation echoes through the empty halls as I sit across from Naomi in the opulent library. Her presence brings a semblance of normalcy.

My father agreed to let me see the folders I had found in his office. For a split second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be furious or proud that I had snuck in there. Actually,his words, were: “You should study each folder anyway. Learn what you can. After all, this is your way of helping the family.”

Thanks, Dad.

The desk in the library is now cluttered with a dozen glossy folders - each one representing a life-altering decision I never asked to make.

"Twelve," Naomi says, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk like she's counting down to doomsday. "Twelve men who've decided they want to bid for your hand in marriage. Welcome to 'The Real Housewives of the Underworld,' where the rose ceremony involves actual thorns." She shakes her head, her blonde curls bobbing with the motion.

"Sounds like a twisted version of 'The Bachelorette', doesn't it?" I attempt to lighten the mood, my heart pounding anxiously in my chest.

"Twisted? Yes. Fucked up? Most definitely. I’m so sorry, Bella." Her smile wobbles like her first attempt at walking in high heels for a date that she had dubbed “Most Likely To Make Me Yawn”. Her light brown eyes meet mine, and for once there's no hint of sass, just raw concern. "But this is reality, and honey, Chris Harrison isn't going to pop up and save us with a dramatic rose ceremony."

Naomi carefully peels back the cover of the first folder like she's disarming a bomb. Her face goes ghostly pale in the soft afternoon light filtering through the drapes, and that's when I know it's bad. Naomi doesn't do pale unless we're entering DefCon territory. I watch as she slowly turns towards me, the folder open in her hands like it might bite.

"Radomir Sizov," she reads aloud, her voice dripping with disdain. "Shit. He looks like he eats puppies for breakfast and washes them down with the tears of his enemies. Is your father running a marriage market or casting for the next Bond villain?"

“Didn’t he have a wife?” I murmur, remembering a woman. A singer.

Naomi winces. “I heard… one of the guards mentions that she’s gone. I think he killed her while she was singing. Fuck.”

The photograph on the first page features a man who looks to be in his early forties. His gaze is cold, distant, as if reflecting the harsh winters of Russia. The document says he's a prominent figure in one of the most feared organized crime syndicates in Moscow. The stark black and white of the photograph doesn't soften his stern features, the brutal lines of his face hinting at a life of violence and power.

A bitter chill runs through me as I imagine a life as Radomir Sizov's wife. Is this what my father sees as my future? A trophy wife to a notorious Russian mobster?

Naomi's voice breaks through my dread-filled thoughts, her fingers tightening around mine as she flips to the next page as if that might erase him."The next one is..." she starts, but the color drains from her face as she sees the photo.

My heart pounds against my ribcage, anticipation and fear gnawing at my insides. Who could be next? Some old billionaire looking for a young bride? A vampire waiting for my blood? At this stage, this might actually be better.

The possibilities make me feel sick, the uncertainty ratcheting up the tension in the room.

"Henrik Müller," she finally breathes out. "Oh look, another contender for 'Most Likely to Make Serial Killers Nervous.' At least this one's pretty, in that Nordic-death-god kind of way." Her attempt at humor falls flat as she notices my face. "Bella? You look like you've seen a ghost... Wait, you know him? Is that?”

I nod and she curses—not under her breath. "That fucking asshole." She takes a pen and pokes his photograph, striking his sharp, angular face and cold blue eyes staring back at usfrom the page, his polished appearance doing nothing to hide the lethal power that radiates off him. "Without his signature stupid baseball cap, I didn’t recognize him at first. The way he kept asking about you at that gala, all polite smiles and perfect manners. But his eyes..." She stabs the photo again. "They reminded me of that shark documentary we watched in your hospital room. Dead. Hungry."

“Ohmygod, ohmygod.” I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Because Henrik being there makes me want to throw up.

At that gala, he'd cornered me in a hallway, his intent clear and terrifying, but someone had come to my rescue.

Antonio.

The thought of Antonio, my ex-stepbrother, stirs a whirlpool of emotions within me. The folder I had seen on my father’s desk earlier today crosses my mind again. It had Antonio's name on it. Could it be? Could he be part of this horrifying auction?

“We can stop, if you want,” she murmurs.

And I shake my head. “No. Let’s continue. I need to know.”

She nods and flips to the next page. My heart catches in my throat. Because there is my answer, staring back at me with dark, hardened eyes, is Antonio.

Naomi's sharp intake of breath matches my own. "Holy shit," she whispers, and I catch her hand trembling slightly as she touches the edge of the photo. This isn't the same guy who used to roll his eyes at our terrible karaoke attempts. The boy who taught her to swear in Italian is gone, replaced by someone who looks like he could make those same curses come true.

It's impossible not to notice the scar.

It cuts across his cheek, stark and brutal against his olive skin. The ridges of the healed burn wounds are visible, a hideous reminder of the fire that nearly claimed his life. A fire that I witnessed.

And the knife slash. My father’s knife.

---