Devil’s Tulip (Nightshades #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

GIANNA

“No.”

The word hangs between us, a fragile lifeline I’ve just thrown myself. In the ten years I’ve lived under Uncle Aldo’s roof, I’ve never dared to say it. Not to his face. Not aloud. I didn’t have the guts. Hell, I still don’t. But sometimes, the scariest monster isn’t the one who raised you—it’s the one he’s chosen for your happily never after.

Uncle Aldo narrows his cold, dead eyes at me, and I feel that fleeting spark of courage shrivel up and die somewhere between my racing heart and churning stomach. Stupid, stupid girl. What were you thinking? When he leans forward in his chair, I clamp my lips shut and force myself to breathe through my nose. The last thing I need is to puke on his expensive rug.

That will only piss him off more.

“The wedding is on Friday,” he continues, as if my refusal didn’t register at all. “Carlo wants to take you out tomorrow to officially propose. We’ll say you two met a month ago, fell madly in love?—”

I can’t hear the rest.

His grand plans fade into an annoying buzz as my mind does what it does best lately—it retreats. Still, I can’t escape the cruel glint in his eyes, the eager way his meaty hands gesticulate as he monologues.

Whether he’s thrilled to finally be rid of me or savoring whatever sick deal he’s struck with Carlo in exchange for my unwilling hand in marriage, I’m not sure. All I know is that, for once in my pathetic life, the cost of defying him feels cheaper than the price of obedience.

The man he wants me to marry, Carlo Santiago, is famous—or infamous— for his untimely marriages. It’s hardly a secret that his poor wives’ accidental deaths were anything but. And now I’m supposed to be next in line.

I always knew that when I eventually married, it would be to a man of my uncle's choosing, not my desire. But why Carlo of all people? That’s not a marriage; it’s an execution with extra steps.

And I sure as hell won’t smile my way to the gallows just to please my family.

“You hear me, girl?” Uncle Aldo’s voice snaps like a whip, jerking me out of my thoughts.

“I said no,” I repeat, the word stronger this time despite the way my legs threaten to buckle.

He doesn’t ignore this one.

Uncle Aldo’s face darkens like a storm rolling in, his chair tilting dangerously as he pushes up with sudden force.

I stumble back instinctively, away from him, nearly tripping over my own feet. Another step, then one more—just in case he decides to backhand me like he’s been doing more and more lately whenever his patience with me runs out.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he growls, nodding to one of his ever-present guards, stationed there for reasons known only to Uncle Aldo and his constant paranoia that his enemies will get to him, even inside his own home.

Then I feel it: the oppressive heat of another body searing into my back, bringing with it the acrid stench of sweat and gunpowder that clings to all his men. My stomach gurgles audibly as rough fingers dig into my upper arm. Fuck, not now. I swallow back the nausea, but it’s no use. Uncle Aldo’s smirk spreads. He’s reading it all—every ounce of my fear—and he fucking thrives on it.

“ Yes , Gia. It is done. You’ll go to dinner with Carlo tomorrow and smile prettily at him. Come Friday, you’ll be his blushing bride, just as I’ve arranged. Do you understand me? Now go get yourself dolled up.”

Another curt nod, and I’m being dragged towards the study door and shoved over the threshold with enough power to send me lurching forward.

The unforgiving tiles rush up to meet me as I throw my hands out to break my fall. My palms slap the icy marble, and I hiss a breath at the sharp, stinging pain that vibrates up my arms. For a few heartbeats, I just stay there, chest heaving with my panicked breaths.

Shit. Shit. What do I do?

I can’t marry Carlo.

I refuse to end up another convenient accident.

Gritting my teeth, I push myself off the floor. Every movement aches, but not nearly as much as the bitter longing gnawing at my chest. I’m not asking for love, damn it. Just a shred of decency. A flicker of care. Something to remind me I’m a person, not a bargaining chip.

When I finally push myself off the floor, I hear footsteps, and Aunt Marie appears around the hallway corner.

We both go still, studying each other warily, before her perfectly painted lips curve into that familiar arctic smile that never reaches her eyes. “I see Aldo told you the happy news.”

Happy news. Like hell.

I don’t respond, just watch her for a moment longer. Aunt Marie has always made her feelings clear: she hates my guts. Even during the early days after my parents’ deaths, when Uncle Aldo and everyone else coddled me in an attempt to snap me out of my destructive grief. I still don’t know what I did to earn such loathing. Every attempt to please her only seemed to deepen it.

“I’ve had Bea lay out a dress on your bed. Your fiancé sent it himself. That’s what he wants to see you in for your date tomorrow.”

My fiancé.

The ache in my chest swells into a suffocating throb, each beat making it harder to breathe as the room spins around me. And in a moment of desperate insanity, I make the stupidest move imaginable—I seek out an ally in her. Crossing the space between us, I grab her hand. “Aunt Marie, please. I can’t marry Carlo. Talk to Uncle. I’ll marry anyone else without a fuss, I swear, but not Carlo. He’s been widowed five times! His wives were killed by?—”

“Enough!” She yanks her hand away, her face twisting with revulsion. “You’ve always been such an ungrateful brat. My husband and I housed you when you had nowhere to go. We fed you, raised you, and now, when it’s time for you to repay us, this is how you do it?”

Words tangle on my tongue, caught behind the lump in my throat, as her face blurs through stinging tears. “B–but?—”

“This is the problem with orphans,” she continues her rant, her voice dripping with the same hateful disdain she’s always reserved for me. “If your parents didn’t have the good grace to hang around long enough to take care of you, then you should at least have the decency to be grateful to your benefactors and do as you’re told. We don’t owe you a thing, Gianna. You owe us . And it’s high time you paid your dues.”

“But I’ve always done what I was told! I’ve never?—”

“Silence!” Her hand snaps up, and as I flinch, tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. That brings a sickening glint of glee to her dark eyes, like I’ve just given her what she wanted.

Right. My pain has always seemed to feed her joy in some twisted way. Forgetting myself, even for a moment, was stupid.

I swipe at the tears quickly, refusing to give her more. Then I swallow around the painful lump in my throat, drop my gaze to the floor, and shuffle past her, practically plastering myself to the opposite wall to avoid brushing against her.

What did I do to deserve this? Seriously, what ?

I’ve tried so hard to be the perfect niece. I do as I’m told, keep quiet, earned grades so good I got a full academic ride to college. Bled my very soul onto the?—

“Ugh.” The grunt slips out as I collide with something solid. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m slammed into the wall. The impact sends a jolt through my skull and hip, so hard there’s an audible crack, followed by a burst of pain that knocks the air from my lungs.

Through watering eyes, I make out Dario’s scowling face as he snarls, “Watch where the fuck you’re going, Gigi.”

My cousin invades my space deliberately, ramming his shoulder into mine as he passes. I stagger, gasping as my head connects with the hard surface again. The hallway tilts, and I desperately slap my palms against the wall, hugging it to stay upright.

As I stand there, trying to breathe through my pain for God knows how long, something deep inside me just… snaps.

Maybe it’s the thought of Carlo’s ring on my finger, or the way Dario’s smirk mirrors Uncle Aldo’s. Whatever it is, it seems to swallow my fears whole until all that’s left is a strange, crystalline clarity. And suddenly, I stop giving a fuck about the consequences.

I limp to my room, straight to the tattered backpack slung over my chair. It’s a relic from my teenage years—the last gift my parents gave me. Somehow, it has survived all this time, just like me, so I always carry it with me on errands. I guess it makes me feel like they’re still here. Like I’m not completely alone.

Dumping the bag on my bed, I make my way to the walk-in closet, where I peel off my clothes in front of the mirror. The sight stops me cold. The ugly, purple swelling on my hip stands out like a trophy of Dario’s latest victory, a fresh addition to the fading bruises already decorating my stomach. My lips press together as I twist for a better look. At least this time he stopped at shoving me against the wall. Lucky me…

I grab a pain relief patch from the back of my underwear drawer—my makeshift first aid kit, stocked up over years of “accidents”—and carefully smooth it over the worst of the swelling. Then I turn to the racks of clothes.

I’ve fantasized about running away from home for years but never had the lady balls to actually do it. Amazing how being offered up as the sacrificial lamb to Uncle Aldo’s ambitions makes a girl grow a pair.

First challenge: walking through the house with an obviously stuffed backpack would raise red flags. Solution? Wear as many clothes as physically possible.

Layer by layer, I transform myself into a walking closet. I yank down two pairs of leggings, then jeans, then slacks, stacking them slowly over my legs. Each tug sends a flare of pain through my hip, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Next, I raid the tops: a tank top first, then a silk top, a crop top, and finally, a turtleneck.

When I check my reflection again in the mirror, I look like I’ve suddenly gained five kilos overnight. But I don’t care how I look. Function over fashion.

My coat goes on last—the final layer of armor. Not exactly bulletproof, but it’ll have to do.

After twisting my hair into its usual messy bun, I walk back into the bedroom. The picture frame from my bedside table goes into my bag first. Then it’s off to the bathroom to add essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few toiletries. I don’t take too much. The goal is to look normal, not like I’m running for my life.

Underwear goes in next, followed by my credit card—a measly three hundred bucks daily limit, but it’s enough for today. I’ll drain it and ditch it before they can use it to track me down.

Okay. That’s it.

Swinging my backpack over my shoulder, I take one final look around and feel… nothing. No regrets. No sadness. Just a cold, determined resolve. The dress Carlo sent lies sprawled across my bed like a funeral shroud. A grim reminder of the fate waiting for me if I stay.

Not a chance. That won’t be me.

Without a second glance back, I step out of my room. For the last time.

Uncle Aldo’s men barely flick their eyes my way as I limp past them out of the house. Another day, another bruise—nothing worth their attention. And since they’ve never bothered looking too closely, none of them notice the extra layers I’m smuggling under my coat.

I reach the garage without any trouble, naturally drifting towards my old Buick. But then something shiny catches my eye, and I stop. Slowly, my gaze drifts to the luxury sports car in the corner. Dario’s baby .

A wicked smile creeps across my lips as a delicious, reckless, utterly insane plan takes shape.

Before I can second-guess this surge of vindictive brilliance, I make my way to the safe where the keys for all the cars in the garage are stored, take out the Jaguar’s key, and press the fob.

The car chirps cheerfully, its lights blinking as if eager to join my rebellion.

What’s the worst they can do when they find out I ran away and took Dario’s baby? Kill me? I throw my head back, laughing maniacally as a thrill of adrenaline rushes through my veins.

My steps are lighter as I approach his car. The door yields to me easily, and I slide into the driver's seat like I’ve always belonged there. I place my backpack between my thighs as I turn the ignition, and oh— the engine wakes with a deep, satisfying purr that vibrates through my bones and straight into places that make me shiver.

“Sweet baby,” I murmur appreciatively, gliding my hand over the steering wheel’s smooth curves. “You don’t deserve what I’m about to do with you.”

And God, I mean it. Every word. The thought of it almost pains me—I’m not exactly the destructive type. Not like them . But then I picture just how enraged and frustrated Dario will be when he finds out what I’ve done… and that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s in that moment that I realize: there’s nothing more dangerous than an angry woman with nothing to lose.

And I’ve officially reached my breaking point.

A week ago, the very idea of running away would have been unthinkable, a fantasy so far beyond my reach it might as well have been on another planet. And doing it in Dario’s expensive car? I’d have been scared shitless of his retaliation.

But that was before Uncle Aldo signed my death warrant with a wedding invitation. If I’m going to die anyway, I might as well go out on my own terms, middle fingers raised.

Fuck them. Fuck this place.

I throw the car into reverse and back out of the garage. For a moment, I brace myself for shouts, pounding footsteps, even gunfire. But the compound stays silent. Nobody stops me, the huge front gates opening up automatically as I approach them.

The tint on the windows and the upper windshield keeps me hidden from the guards. And because Dario is a piece of shit everyone here fears even more than Uncle Aldo, they’d never imagine anyone brave enough to steal his car—least of all little ole me—so they don’t bother to stop and search it like they would if I were leaving in my Buick.

My grin grows wider as I drive out of the compound.