Chapter 7
Adora
Ifind the note tucked behind a wiper on my windshield after class.
One of my bodyguards reaches for it, but I snatch it before he can. The name scrawled on the folded piece of paper clearly says Adora. I may not have my freedom, but I’ll be damned if I can’t read my own mail.
When I unfold the letter, I instantly regret my eagerness. Black ink flows confidently across the page, and my heart lurches into my throat.
Doe,
We need to talk. Shall we try meeting somewhere there hasn’t been a murder?
I’ll pick you up at eight.
Your future husband,
Vincenzo
P.S. Lose the bodyguards.
My eyes widen at his sign-off. I stare at those three words until they become a blur. Your future husband. Is that a taunt? A threat? A promise? The man who destroyed my most precious possession is signing notes like we’re in a formal courtship.
I don’t think I can bear to look at Vincenzo after what he did last night, but I doubt I’ll be given any choice in the matter.
I stare at the note so long that the bodyguard at my elbow shifts on his feet. “Miss Montoni?”
Resigned to my fate, I hand him the note. “When we get home, please give this to my father.”
He and Vincenzo can fight about whether my bodyguards accompany me or not. I don’t particularly care. Them following me everywhere was never my choice in the first place, and Vincenzo has already proven he can get to me any time he wants.
The bodyguard scans the note quickly, and something flickers in his expression. Concern? Pity? He knows what happened last night. My crying, the shattered glass, Vincenzo’s dramatic exit via the balcony. The whole household knows.
“Yes, Miss Montoni.”
The house is silent when we arrive home. Dad’s not here yet, and I’m relieved. I’m not ready to face him and see the calculation in his eyes as he decides whether Vincenzo’s invitation is an opportunity or a threat.
After grabbing a soda from the fridge, I retreat to the privacy of my bedroom.
While my unopened soda sits on my desk, I pace up and down, nibbling on the corner of my thumbnail while ghastly images flicker across my mind.
I picture Vincenzo unsheathing his knife and slitting my throat as soon as he gets me alone.
Or maybe he truly intends to make me his wife and torment me forever.
My eyes drift to the drawer of my nightstand where I’ve stashed the little bottle of potassium cyanide.
Between classes today, I looked up the poison on my phone, reading clinical descriptions that made my stomach turn.
It acts terrifyingly fast. Within a minute, possibly even seconds, of eating something laced with cyanide, Vincenzo will grow dizzy and gasp for breath.
I’ll have to watch from across the table as he clutches his chest, his face flushing red, blood vessels standing out on his temples.
His startled blue eyes will find mine and fill with accusation as he foams at the mouth and violently convulses.
He’ll die knowing I killed him, and I’ll remember his final condemning look for the rest of my life.
Can I do it? Watch the life drain from those eyes while I sit across from him as our dinners grow cold?
My eyes land on the empty spot where the framed family portrait sat until last night, and its absence causes a pain in my heart. I remember the violence with which he tore the photograph apart, and my heart hardens.
I don’t have a choice. It’s Vincenzo or me, and I’ve been forced to play the victim long enough.
I stand in front of my closet, staring at the rows of dresses like they’re battle armor I’m trying to choose between.
What does a woman wear to murder her fiancé?
My hand hovers over a soft pink dress with delicate lace sleeves. Innocent. Sweet. The kind of thing a willing bride would wear to meet her future husband. I imagine Vincenzo’s reaction. His predatory smile, the way his eyes would drink me in as he assumes I’m obedient. Eager to please.
Dad would approve as well. Make him love you, then kill him.
I shove the pink dress aside.
Next to it hangs a cream-colored sundress covered in tiny flowers. Wholesome. Approachable. I wore it to lunch with Lucy once, and she said I looked like a Renaissance painting. If my aim is to be purely decorative, this is the dress.
That’s not who I need to be tonight.
I push past the pastels, the florals, the soft and feminine things that make me look girlish. My fingers trail over silk and chiffon until I find it.
Black.
I pull the dress from the hanger and hold it up to the light.
It’s elegant but dramatic, fitted through the bodice with a neckline that’s just low enough to be provocative, with spaghetti straps and a tight skirt that shows several inches of my thighs.
Sophisticated. Controlled. The kind of dress a woman wears when she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I slip it on and turn to face the mirror.
The girl crying on her knees as scraps of torn photograph slip through her fingers is gone. In her place stands someone harder. Someone who’s survived her father’s cruelty. Who killed a man with a knife. Who carries poison in her purse.
Someone who can watch a man die and not flinch.
Liar, a voice whispers in my head. I’ll cry over Vincenzo’s body the same way I cried over the photograph.
I silence the voice by applying makeup with deliberate precision. Dark liner that makes my amber eyes look sharp instead of soft. Mascara that darkens my lashes. Lipstick the color of wine. Or blood, depending on the light.
I paint my nails the same shade, careful strokes that turn my fingers elegant and dangerous. These are the hands that will slip poison into Vincenzo’s drink. They should look the part.
My hair is next. I consider leaving it down, but that’s not right either. Instead, I twist it up and secure it with pins, leaving a few tendrils loose to frame my face. Elegant and untouchable.
I fasten delicate gold earrings to my ears, my last birthday gift from Mom before she died, and watch them catch the light. For luck, maybe. Or as a reminder of what I’ve already lost.
The poison goes into a small black clutch along with my lipstick, my phone, and my keys. I hold the vial for a long moment before tucking it into the interior pocket, my fingers trembling despite my resolve.
Him or me. That’s what this comes down to.
And I choose me.
I take one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me is beautiful in a cold, calculated way. She looks like she belongs on Vincenzo’s arm. Dangerous enough to match him, and polished enough to fool him.
She looks like someone who could destroy a man and walk away without looking back.
If only that were true. But I push the doubt away and check the time.
It’s nearly eight o’clock, and Vincenzo must be waiting.
I descend the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. My heels click against marble with each step, announcing my approach.
Vincenzo is waiting in the entrance hall, standing beneath my father’s portrait like he owns the place. I was expecting an assassin, just like my previous encounters with him. Combat ready. Dozens of pockets. A thick jacket that protects against the cold.
Instead, he’s dressed in a sharp suit, midnight black, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean frame.
A crisp black shirt, the top button undone just enough to show the hollow of his throat where his tattoos disappear beneath the fabric.
His blond hair is swept back, still slightly damp like he just stepped out of the shower.
He’s clean-shaven, polished, and impossibly handsome in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Our eyes meet across the entrance hall, and something flickers in his expression. Surprise? Appreciation? Then his face hardens into that familiar cold mask. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer his arm. Just turns and walks toward the door, expecting me to follow. I do, because what choice do I have?
As we walk to his car, he says in a sly voice, “Black suits you, doe.”
I turn to him in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“The dress. The look.” His words are admiring, but his tone is hard and cruel. “Sexy. Dangerous.” His eyes rake over me with deliberate slowness. “You’re dressed like a Vici.”
Shit. He means I look like a killer. I’m supposed to slip him poison, but have I already blown it and made him suspicious?
“You seem to like this look best,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the flutter in my stomach.
He leans down to open the car door, and his face is suddenly very close to mine. Too close. I can smell his cold, clean cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I don’t know. You looked pretty sexy covered in blood and pinned beneath me.” He smiles, showing me his teeth, and for a moment I can’t breathe.
It takes me far too long to realize that he’s opened the car door, and he’s waiting for me to get in. I do, red in the face and feeling completely off-balance.
The restaurant is called Obscuro, and I’ve never been here before. Sleek and expensive, with circular booths and candles that cast flickering shadows across the tables where people are having conversations in hushed tones.
Vincenzo leads me through the entrance with his hand on the small of my back, his touch possessive and proprietary, and I’m acutely aware of every eye that turns our way. A Vici and a Montoni, walking in together like we’re not sworn enemies.
The host greets Vincenzo by name and leads us to a corner booth that’s made somewhat private by a decorative metal lattice. I’m sliding into my seat when I see him.
Damiano Barone.
My best friend’s older brother, tall, dark-eyed, and curly-haired, is sitting three tables away with Jessica Calabrese, Senator Calabrese’s daughter.
She’s brunette and polished and laughing at something Damiano just said.
They look relaxed and intimate. It’s nothing like the formal dinners I’ve attended with Lucy’s family where everyone seems to be buttoned up tight and performing a role.