Chapter 11
Adora
Ibarely make it inside before I’m running for the bathroom.
The toilet bowl swims in my vision as I collapse in front of it, retching. Sofia’s pasta comes up, the beautiful meal she made with such care, and the waste of it makes me feel even worse. My body convulses, trying to purge the horror of what I nearly did to Vincenzo.
The poison.
For hours tonight I was just Adora. Not Agnello’s daughter. Not a pawn or a prisoner or a girl with bottled murder in her nightstand. Just a woman in a smoky-eyed disguise, stealing phones, cheering at fights, and coming apart in the arms of a man who made me feel alive.
And then he said it.
My life is in your hands.
He was looking at me with such raw honesty it made me ache. All I could think was, There’s a bottle of cyanide in my nightstand meant for this man, and he thinks he can trust me.
I retch again, harder this time. More of Sofia’s meal. My hands shake as I grip the porcelain.
Vincenzo isn’t the enemy. He’s not the arranged marriage I feared. He’s the man I’m falling in love with, and the man I want a future with.
If I’d gone through with it, if I’d actually done what my father ordered, I would have killed my own happiness. I almost destroyed him with my own hands.
I’m falling for you, doe.
He said it so softly. So vulnerable, like he was handing me something precious. I moan as I remember the way his expression shuttered when I couldn’t respond. The silence in the car as he drove me home, cold, brittle, and so unlike the warmth we’d shared just moments before.
I finally stop heaving and curl into a ball on the cold tiles.
I have to tell him.
I have to confess that my father gave me poison, and I actually put it in my purse and planned to kill him.
And when I tell him, what then?
I push myself up on shaking legs and move to the sink. My reflection in the mirror is a mess. Smeared makeup, wild hair, eyes red from crying and vomiting. I look exactly like what I am, a girl who’s been playing dress-up in a world too violent for her.
I grip the edge of the sink and make myself breathe. Make myself think. The poison has to go. Tonight. And then I have to tell Vincenzo the truth.
Even if he hates me for it.
I take one more shaky breath, wipe my mouth, and walk back to my bedroom with purpose I don’t quite feel.
The poison sits in my nightstand drawer where I left it. A small glass bottle holding white powder and death. I pick it up and carry it to the bathroom.
I twist the cap off and hold it over the toilet bowl.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine telling Vincenzo about the poison and what I planned on doing with it.
We’re in his kitchen, or maybe mine. Somewhere private. I’m trying to explain, stumbling over words, and I see the moment understanding hits him. The way his expression changes. The way his blue eyes go cold and flat, just like my father’s do before he strikes.
“You were going to kill me?”
His voice isn’t soft and gentle anymore. It’s lethal, like ice.
I try to explain, to make him understand, but he’s advancing on me now. His hand comes up, and I flinch, powerless to stop the blow. The crack of his palm against my cheek echoes through the imagined room. My head snaps to the side. Pain blooms across my face, sharp and familiar.
I fall in a heap at his feet, sobbing, but he doesn’t try to comfort me. He’s disgusted with me.
Men in this world, no matter how many times they call you “doe” and hold you when you cry, all have violence in them.
They all have a breaking point. Maybe he’ll make me drink the poison myself.
Or lock me in a room until I understand what I almost cost him.
Or beat me until I’m as broken as my mother was before she died.
The vision is so real I can feel the sting in my cheek. I can hear my own voice, small and pleading. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear.”
Just like I used to plead with my father.
My hand shakes violently over the toilet.
So maybe I shouldn’t tell him. Maybe I should just flush this away and never say a word. Let him think I pulled away from him tonight because I’m scared of commitment, the Vici name, and of getting my heart broken.
But somewhere beneath the fear that he’ll hurt me if he finds out about the poison, there’s a tiny voice that whispers, What if he doesn’t?
What if he forgives me the same way he forgave me for being part of his family’s massacre?
The hope is so fragile I’m afraid to trust it.
I stand there frozen, my hand poised over the toilet.
The bottle shakes in my grip.
I wake up just after nine in the morning with gritty eyes. I feel hollowed out, like I haven’t slept at all. I finally passed out sometime after four in the morning, and even then, my sleep was fitful, full of dreams where Vincenzo’s face shifted between tenderness and rage.
Sunlight streams through my curtains, too bright and cheerful for how I feel, but the morning light has a way of making things less complicated and overwhelming than they seemed in the dark.
Hiding in bed and running away never solved anything. I have to talk to Vincenzo.
I reach for my phone, my heart pounding. I call him, and it rings out and goes to voicemail.
I send a text instead, my fingers shaking as I type.
I’m sorry about last night. I want to explain. Please call me.
I stare at the check marks. Delivered and received. But not read.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, willing those two little checkmarks to turn blue. They don’t.
Vincenzo could still be asleep or busy, but maybe he’s ignoring me.
I pulled away when he was vulnerable and let him think I couldn’t stand the thought of loving him.
Being loved by someone who actually sees me, who protects me without controlling me, and who makes me laugh and feel brave and want to be better than I am sounds pretty amazing.
I just hope I haven’t ruined things between us forever.
I force myself out of bed and pull on an oversized cream sweater, the thickest and softest one I own. I need comfort today.
With my dirty clothes hamper in my arms, I head downstairs. My father seems to be out, thank God. I don’t think I could face him reminding me to murder Vincenzo without screaming or breaking down. Or both.
Everything reminds me of Vincenzo now. Even laundry. By the washer, I sort my whites from my colors, the memory of being on that laundromat floor with him playing over and over in my mind. His body covering mine. A stranger kissing me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
I’m so lost in thoughts of him that I jump when someone says my name.
“Good morning, Miss Montoni.”
It’s our housekeeper, Mrs. Santoro. She’s known me since I was a baby, and she’s one of the few constants in this house that doesn’t feel like a threat.
Cristiano and I used to play with her daughter Mina when we were children, though Dad didn’t like us associating with “the help.” I hated that he would say those things right in front of Mina, treating her like she was deaf or stupid or didn’t have feelings that could be hurt.
Mrs. Santoro looks at me with kind eyes that take in my rumpled hair and exhausted face. “Let me finish this for you. You should eat something.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Santoro. I’ve got it, thank you.” I need something to do with my hands. Something normal and mundane that doesn’t require thinking.
“Are you sure?” She doesn’t say so, but I can tell from the wrinkle on her brow that she’s worried about me.
“I’m sure. Thank you.”
“All right, dear.” She nods and leaves me to it. I’m grateful she doesn’t push.
I sort through the laundry mechanically. The rhythm is soothing until I pick up the skirt I was wearing last night and see stains on it. White stains that I can’t place for a moment.
I turn bright red when I realize it’s Vincenzo’s cum, and I put it into the washing machine. My first real sexual experience with a man, and I’m tied up in knots about how the night ended between us.
But it was wonderful. Steamy and intense and satisfying.
Vincenzo must be more experienced than me, but I never felt like he was hurrying me or that he thought a fumble in his car was immature and stupid.
He seemed… Well, he seemed honored to be touching me.
He made me want to be daring. I’ll never forget the anticipation in his blue eyes as I reached for the button on his jeans and popped it open.
I don’t expect you to save yourself for some arbitrary date, and I won’t demand anything from you on our wedding night. I want things to happen between us when we want them.
It’s an arranged marriage, but it doesn’t have to feel that way. That’s what he was telling me. The memory brings tears to my eyes, and I swipe them away, fearing I’ve ruined things between us forever.
I add detergent to the machine and press start. A steady and mechanical rumble fills the silence. I lean against the machine, feeling the vibrations through my body, and close my eyes.
Please call me back. Please.
I take a deep breath and check my phone again.
Nothing. My message is still delivered. Still unread.
I try calling one more time. It rings and rings and goes to voicemail. In a shaky voice, I manage, “Vincenzo, it’s me. Please… I know I messed up last night. I just need to talk to you. Please call me back.”
I hang up and stare at my phone, willing it to ring.
Silence.
He really is ignoring me. And I deserve it.
I retreat to my room and try to focus on homework. My business management textbook sits open on my desk, something about supply chain optimization, but the words blur together. I force myself to read a full page before looking at my phone again.
Five minutes later, I check again.
An hour passes. Then two. I’ve read the same paragraph seven times and can’t remember what it says. My phone sits on the desk beside my textbook, silent and accusing. I pick it up and refresh the messages. Maybe there’s a glitch. Maybe Vincenzo replied but it’s not getting through.