Chapter 13
Adora
The words hang in the air between us. Vincenzo stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“Vincenzo—”
“No.” He tries to sit up straighter in bed, his face contorting with pain. “I’m not hitting you. Ever. What the fuck, Adora?”
I expected this reaction, but the horror in his eyes still makes me feel like a terrible person.
“Listen to me.” I grab his shoulders gently, careful of his injuries. “My father needs to believe you’re exactly what he thinks you are. An animal. A violent Vici assassin who cares about no one but himself. Otherwise, the plan won’t work.”
“So lie to him. Tell him I held a gun to your head or something.”
“He won’t believe it unless he sees proof.
” I keep my voice steady, urgent. “He needs to see bruises. Needs to think you’re abusing me the way he abuses me, and that I’ll take it from him because it’s my duty, but I won’t take it from you.
Dad warned me not to trust you, and seeing my face all bruised up will be the vindication he’s been waiting for.
This is the only way he’ll believe that I’ve made up my mind to kill you. ”
“You want me to give you bruises so you can go crying to your father and convince him you’re still planning my murder?” His voice is flat with disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. Find another way.”
Desperation claws at my throat. “There is no other way. Vincenzo, please. This is the only thing that will work. If I cry in his arms and tell him he was right all along, he’ll let his guard down around me. He’ll brag. He’ll confess.”
“I don’t care.” His voice comes out rough, almost broken. “I’m not putting my hands on you like that.”
“My father hits me because he enjoys it.” I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “You would be doing this because I asked you to. Because it’s the only way to keep us both alive.”
“Doe—”
“Please.” My voice breaks despite my best efforts. “I know what I’m asking. I know it’s horrible. But we need this, Vincenzo. Dashamir will kill us both if I don’t get that confession, and my father won’t confess unless he trusts me.”
He stares at me, anguish written across his bruised face. “I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”
“You can.” I take his bandaged hand and press it to my cheek, holding his gaze. “You have to.”
The door opens.
Sofia stands in the doorway, a tray with soup and bread balanced in her hands. Her eyes take in the scene. Vincenzo in bed, me leaning over him, the tension crackling between us.
Then her gaze drops lower and her eyebrows shoot up.
Vincenzo swears under his breath and yanks the blanket up over his lap.
“You must be feeling better, Vincenzo,” Sofia says dryly, setting the tray on the dresser. A smile plays at her lips, but it fades quickly as she looks between us. “Something’s not right. Are you two arguing?”
Vincenzo and I exchange a glance.
“Tell her,” I say quietly. “Tell her what I’m asking you to do.”
“No.” His jaw sets stubbornly. “Because it’s insane and I’m not doing it.”
Sofia crosses her arms, her expression shifting from amused to concerned. “Someone tell me what’s going on. Now.”
I take a breath. “I need to go back to my father’s house. I need to convince him I’m still planning to kill Vincenzo, and the only way he’ll believe that is if he thinks Vincenzo is hurting me.”
Understanding dawns in Sofia’s eyes. “You want Vincenzo to hit you.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s refusing.”
“Of course I’m refusing.” Vincenzo’s voice rises. “Sofia, tell her this is insane.”
But Sofia doesn’t immediately agree. She studies me carefully, her expression thoughtful.
“Why does it have to be real?” she asks. “Why can’t we fake it? Makeup can do wonders. I used to do theater makeup for my children when they were in school plays. I can make it look like you’ve been hit.”
Hope flares in Vincenzo’s eyes. “Yes. That. Do that.”
But I’m already shaking my head. “My father has been hitting women for decades. He knows what real injuries look like.”
The room falls silent.
Sofia walks to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. For a long moment, no one speaks.
“There might be a compromise,” she says finally, turning back to face us.
“We use makeup to create the bruising. But we make one thing real. A cut on your lip.” Sofia’s voice is clinical now, practical.
“Small but visible, and it will bleed. Your father will see the cut, see the swelling around it and the makeup, and he’ll believe the whole thing is real. ”
Vincenzo’s face goes pale. “No. Absolutely not. No one is cutting her.”
“It would be small,” Sofia continues, ignoring his protest. “A very sharp knife, properly sterilized. Quick and clean. It would heal within days.”
“No.” Vincenzo’s voice is edged with panic. “Absolutely not. Both of you, no.”
I turn to him. “Vincenzo, listen to me. You were tortured for almost twenty hours. That beast ripped out your fingernails. You bled and suffered and nearly died for me. I can do this for us.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?” My voice is gentle but insistent. “You’ve born so much pain. I can bear a small cut to protect you. Please, Vincenzo. Let me do this. Let me be brave for both of us.”
His eyes close. I can see the war raging behind them. Everything he believes, everything he is, fighting against what needs to be done.
Finally, he lets out a long, defeated breath.
“My hands are too injured,” he says roughly. “If this is happening, and I hate that it’s happening, Sofia will have to do it. I can’t.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” He opens his eyes, and they’re full of anguish. “There’s nothing about this that deserves thanks.”
Sofia nods once, decisive. “I’ll get my makeup kit and the first aid supplies. Adora, sit in that chair. Vincenzo, you stay in bed. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
Vincenzo pulls me close, pressing his lips to my forehead. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I fucking hate this. Not just the cut, but you going home to him.”
“I know.” I close my eyes, breathing him in. “After I talk to my father tonight, we’ll be one step closer to ending this.”
“And if something goes wrong? If he suspects you’re on my side anyway?”
“Then we’ll deal with it.” I pull back to look at him. “Together. No more fighting alone.”
He cups my face with his damaged hands, studying me like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,” he says softly. “And I’m so fucking scared for you.”
“I’m scared too.” I manage a small smile. “But I’m more scared of losing you and Dashamir making good on his threat.”
Sofia returns with a tackle box full of makeup and a small first aid kit. She sets everything on the bedside table with practiced efficiency.
“Adora, in the chair. Face the light.”
I do as she says, settling into the chair and angling myself toward the lamp. My heart is pounding, but my hands are steady.
Sofia opens the makeup kit and pulls out many shades of purple, blue, and red. “The key is layering. Making it look like the bruise has had time to develop.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask.
“Matteo wanted to be a zombie for Halloween when he was twelve. I spent hours researching how to make realistic injuries.” A sad smile crosses her face. “Never thought I’d be using those skills like this.”
She starts working, her touch gentle but sure. Dabbing color onto the left side of my lower lip and chin. Blending. Adding shadow and depth. “Watch carefully in the mirror what I’m doing. You’ll have to touch this up tomorrow and the day after.”
I watch Sofia apply the makeup, studying her technique. “I won’t have to touch it up too much. I’ll apply my makeup extra thick to make it seem like I’ve covered the bruise, like I always used to do when he hit me.”
Beside me, Vincenzo’s face shifts in rage. A muscle in his jaw flexes as he hears me speak of hiding bruises that my father gave me.
“You’re doing well,” Sofia murmurs. “Stay still. Just a bit more.”
She works in silence for several minutes, occasionally stepping back to assess her work. Finally, she nods.
“What do you think? Tell me if it’s believable.”
I stand and cross to the mirror above the dresser.
The woman staring back at me has a purple-black bruise spreading across the left side of her chin. The center is dark with broken blood vessels. The edges are an angry red. It looks absolutely real.
“It’s perfect.”
“Now for the cut.” Sofia picks up a small, thin blade from the first aid kit. She holds it over a lighter flame, sterilizing it. “This will hurt. But only for a moment. Are you ready?”
I look at Vincenzo. He’s rigid with tension.
“I’m ready,” I tell Sofia.
“Sit down. Tilt your head back slightly.”
I do. Sofia positions herself in front of me, the blade catching the light.
“Deep breath,” she instructs. “On the exhale.”
I breathe in. Hold it.
Then exhale slowly.
The blade touches my lower lip, and there’s a sharp, bright sting. Warm blood drips down my chin.
“Done,” Sofia says. “It’s shallow and will stop bleeding quickly. Let it drip onto your shirt as though Vincenzo stood over you and shouted after he hit you.”
Vincenzo swears under his breath.
My eyes are watering from the stinging.
After a few minutes, Sofia inspects the cut with a critical eye. “Perfect. It’s going to swell a bit, which will make the whole thing look more authentic. The cut is small enough that it should heal in two or three days without scarring.”
I stand and look in the mirror again.
The woman staring back looks pitiable. The bruise. The split lip. The blood staining her white shirt.
She looks like me after one of my father’s rages.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
“It’s perfect,” I say again, my voice thick. “I think he’ll believe it.”
“Good.” Sofia packs up her supplies with quick, efficient movements. After giving me some makeup and sponges, she says, “I’ll leave you two alone.”