Page 83 of Marriage of Revenge

His mother's last confession stares up at me in faded ink.

The truth I've protected like a cancer growing in my heart.

Everything we built last night - every gentle touch, every desperate kiss, every moment I thought love might be stronger than revenge - shatters like my dreams of dancing at Juilliard.

This time, there's no treatment that can save us..

CHAPTER 43—ANTONIO

Istood at thewindow while she slept, rereading the letter that's haunted me for years, her scent clinging to my skin, honeysuckle and sex mixing with memories I can't afford to keep. Last night... fuck. Last night I almost believed we could be something else. Something more.

The way she trusted me, let me take care of her, looked at me like I was still the man who played piano instead of the Beast I've become. For a moment, watching her sleep in my bed, I let myself imagine a different future. One where revenge doesn't burn like acid in my mouth. One where her scars and mine could forge something stronger than hatred.

But this letter... My mother's last words burn like fresh flames. Make me remember exactly who Isabella is - her father's daughter. A Moretti to her core. Everything soft and yielding about her is just another performance, just like every kiss we shared.

And that makes me fucking furious. Because for one stupid moment, I wished too. Wished we could be those kids again - her dancing while I played, both of us untouched by fire and betrayal. That wish makes me want to burn everything down harder. Makes me want to show her exactly how thoroughly the Beast can break what Tonio worshipped.

When I turn back to the bed, the sheet has slipped down, revealing marks I left on her skin. My hands itch to add more - not gentle like last night, but brutal. Claiming. The kind that'll make her remember who owns her now.

I drop the letter between us like a bomb.

Her eyes widen, and the silence that follows tastes like victory and defeat mixed together. Her fingers hover over the paper without touching it, and something that looks too much like genuine sadness crosses her face. Is this another fucking performance? Another way to crawl under my skin?

I pace to the window, letting the ocean's roar match the fury in my chest. When I whirl back around, she hasn't moved. Her hand still hovers over those words that rewrote everything, but she won't pick it up. Won't face what she helped destroy.

"You looked surprised there for a second." I keep my distance because her scent is everywhere, because if I get too close I might forget why I hate her. The rage building in my chest feels like that night everything burned - unstoppable, uncontrollable.

Her lip trembles, but she inhales like she's trying to hold herself together. Like she knows the game is over. Like she knows last night's tenderness was just another weapon in this war between us.

"It's not... How?" The words barely make it past her lips, and is that real fear in her voice? Real pain?

Too bad I stopped believing in her performances the night my mother died

I don't move. Just let my rage build like flames finding fresh fuel. "You think I didn't have eyes everywhere? Think I didn't know she told you her plans right before someone put her in the ground?" I close the distance between us, grip her chin, and fuck - even now her skin under my fingers sets something burning in my chest. Something that should've died in fire years ago. Something that writhes in the cavity where my heart used to beat before her father tried teaching me about power, about pain. Before he carved his lesson into my flesh without realizing he was forging steel instead of breaking it.

Because that's what I am now. Fucking steel. You can melt it, reshape it, but it doesn't burn like paper. And that's all she is - delicate pages waiting to catch fire. Beautiful. Breakable. While I'm nothing but hardened metal and sharp edges. Everything soft got burned away. Everything tender turned to ash. This whole night was just another step toward making her pay for the life she helped destroy.

Time to remind us both of that truth. "You killed her, Bellarina." The nickname her father gave her makes her flinch - or maybe it's the ice in my voice. The promise of what comes next.

Because the Beast remembers why he's here now.

Remembers what paper does when it meets flame.

Remembers how sweetly it burns.

"I didn't." Her tears look real, crystal drops marking perfect paths down cheeks I was just kissing. The break in her voice sounds like genuine pain. Like she actually bleeds for what she destroyed. “She’s not dead,” she whispers.

And I laugh. “Not dead?”

“My dad… he said… he beat her. He forced her to leave, to never come back, but she’s not dead.” She pauses, her eyes wild. “Is she here? Did you…. Find her? He said her blood may be crimson on his shirt, but her blood was on my hands.”

“He killed her. Or had Georgio killed her,” I tell her. “And your lies aren’t helping.”

She’s shaking, muttering, “No, no, no. That’s not true. He said she’d never come back. But he said… he promised he didn’t kill her.”

“Do you want to see the pictures? Her face? The bullet in her chest?”

She shakes so much I’m wondering if I shouldn’t get her some of her medicine. But then she looks up at me, tears in her eyes.

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