Page 37 of Of Lies and Shadows

We don’t even ridein the same car on the way to the judge. He said he had enough of seeing me, that just looking at me made him sick.

He goes ahead, alone, as I stay here. Ordering me to drop the “Alice costume” before I join him for the second part of the masquerade.

I’m marched out by three guards, stripped of even the dignity of walking freely, surrounded like a prisoner of war as they escort me to the bathroom.

My hands shake as I stand before the mirror. One of the guards lingers inside the room, arms crossed, indifferent. Ihave no right to privacy anymore. Not even here.

“I need to get in the shower,” I say in a hoarse voice.

The guard doesn’t speak. Just turns his back, a small mercy that costs him nothing and me everything.

I peel away the disguise with trembling fingers. First the contacts, revealing the true green of my eyes. Then the makeup, scrubbing at my face until the delicate skin burns.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the girl staring back at me isn’t Alice Winters. She’s Francesca Mori, and she’s lost everything.

I look at the guard’s back as I pull my clothes off and step into the shower.

I think, briefly, of fighting. Of knocking him down, running, anything. But there are two more waiting outside the door.

Hope would be useless.

I lather the harsh shampoo into my hair, scrubbing until the water runs pink, the remnants of the dye bleeding away with it.

My natural color won’t return fully today—but in a few weeks, the real me will be impossible to hide.

I scrub my skin raw, too, but no matter how hard I try, I still feel it—the weight of Dante’s spit drying on my cheek. A stain no water will ever wash away.

“Hurry,” The guard barks, keeping his back to me. “If you’re not out of this shower and dressed in ten minutes, I’ll get you out myself.”

I don’t bother replying. I just get out, dry quickly, and put on the clothes I was wearing before going into his office.

“Done.”

Without waiting, he jerks his head toward the door, and two more men fall into step behind me.

I’m marched down the hall, dripping humiliation with every step, shoved into the waiting car.

The drive to the judge’s home is short but feels endless. No one speaks, at least not to me.

When we arrive, they don’t even bother pretending this is civilized.

I’m pulled from the car and ushered through a side entrance, down hallways empty of witnesses. This is my trial, after all, and I’m a shameful secret.

No chance for escape. No hope.

They take me straight into the judge’s private office. A room I’ve never been inside before but know the consequences of entering it.

And they’re all already there. My father, Don Salvatore, and, of course, Dante.

The atmosphere is heavy and suffocating. Every eye in the room pins me down like a butterfly under glass.

My father glares at me with cold disgust. Don Salvatore sneers, amusement and venom warring in his dark eyes.

Dante doesn’t even look at me at first. He stands stiffly by the window, hands folded behind his back, a statue of fury and betrayal.

The only one who isn’t looking at me with contempt is the judge himself. Judge Rizzo.

There’s sadness in his gaze. Pity. It guts me worse than their hatred.

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