Page 74 of Marriage of Revenge

She leans forward, reading truth in my face like she used to read music. "You loved her." Not a question - she knows. Has always known. "She made you who you are." Her voice drops soft as piano keys. "Maybe part of her still lives in you."

And fuck if those words don't slip right past the Beast's defenses.

Right to whatever's left of the boy who used to play Chopin.

The boy who has to die for my revenge to work.

At the same time, my jaw locks against the urge to snarl that she can't talk about my mother. "This isn't about her. Not yet." The words scrape out like glass. "I fucking begged your father for another chance. After he carved his signature into my face, I still begged." Wine burns down my throat, familiar as regret. "Stood under your window first, like some pathetic Romeo hoping for a glimpse. Thinking maybe..." The memory tastes like ash and want. "Maybe there was still something worth saving."

She looks at me without pity - with something that cuts deeper, something that sees too much. Something in my chest twists, and I have to look away. Have to remember this is strategy, not confession. Have to remember I haven't even drawn blood yet.

"You think you know me, Bell'cenda?" My voice drops low as threat. "You see these scars, this monster I've become. But do you see the man underneath? Or just what you need him to be?"

Because breaking her means showing her exactly who I am.

Then making her wish she never looked deeper than the Beast.

Franco's knock breaks the moment. When he enters with dinner, his eyes linger on Isabella a heartbeat too long. Something primitive stirs in my chest - Franco's loyal as a brother, but some lines don't get crossed. My face stays neutral, but the Beast makes notes. She's mine now. My prize, my revenge, my fucking obsession to break. No one else gets to look at her like that.

Everyone in this fortress needs to understand - Isabella belongs to me. In every way that matters. In ways that'll shatter her when she finally sees how deep this goes.

Her gasp pulls me back. "Crostini di Polenta con Funghi e Taleggio?" The way her eyes light up shouldn't remind me of other times she looked that alive.

"My mother's recipe." The words come softer than I mean them to, carrying ghosts I can't quite kill. "She made it for moments that mattered. Brought Italy to whatever kitchen we called home."

And isn't that just fucking perfect?

Using my mother's memory to win her trust.

Right before I use it to break her heart.

Every movement draws my eye - the way her fingers brush golden polenta, how she brings it to lips I was just claiming. Ocean air carries the scent of memory, of my mother's kitchen, of times before fire reshaped everything.

"Delicious." That single word transports us back - to my mother and Mrs. Romano trading stories over steaming pots, to laughter that didn't hide daggers. Before betrayal rewrote our story in scars and silence.

"This dish is more than food." Truth slips out before I can cage it. "It's the one piece of her I didn't lose to flames."

Her eyes find mine, carrying shadows that match my own. For one dangerous heartbeat, the Beast's armor cracks - letting something older, softer breathe.

"Chef Gio made it." I watch her savor another bite, the sound she makes hitting low in my gut. That pleasure in her voice should be mine alone - like everything else she is now.

"Amazing," she whispers, but something dark flickers across her face. Her voice wavers, and every predator's instinct I own comes alive. There's a story hiding under her skin, trying to claw free.

"No more games, Bell'cenda." My voice drops to smoke and promise. "Truth for truth. Show me yours, I'll show you mine."

Even if my truth is designed to destroy.

Even if hers might change everything.

"I had cancer." Her words hit like a bullet I didn't see coming, shattering everything I thought I knew. For a heartbeat, the Beast goes silent, replaced by something that feels too much like the boy who used to protect her. Her eyes hold mine, carrying battles I never knew she fought.

Something twists in my chest - something I can't let breathe. Because this isn't just my pretty revenge anymore. This is a someone else who crawled through fire and refused to die.

My shock must show because her laugh comes bitter as medicine. "Hard to believe? Hodgkin's Lymphoma - the 'good cancer.'" Her mouth twists around the words. "Like any cancer's good. Chemo. Radiation. Immunotherapy. Stem cell transplant."

She lifts her chin like she's daring me to look away, and christ - something dangerous unfurls in my chest. My ballerina was always steel wrapped in grace. "Can you still dance?" The words scrape out rough.

"Not like before. But I can. I will." No hesitation, just pure defiance. Her fingers find the scar at her throat - the one I've been wanting to trace with tongue and teeth. "Failed biopsy. They missed." Her hand drifts lower, to marks I want to map. "First try. Mass was crushing my lungs. Couldn't even lie flat."

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