Chapter 47 #2
She doesn’t look at him. Just nods once. "Yeah. Igor. My half-brother. Il mio fratellastro." Her voice cracks on the last word, but she strangles it back with her usual bitterness.
Then her head lifts slowly, and her eyes meet mine with venom. "That puttana di madre killed him."
My stomach flips. I blink, trying to piece together what she just said.
She takes a sharp step forward. "Just like the other one did my Fabio."
Raffael stiffens beside me, his brow pulling tight. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Donna Margarita doesn't answer. She simply holds out the glass toward Raffael like a queen expecting to be served. And even though I want to scream at him not to go near her, he takes it. His hand brushes mine as he lets go of me. His warmth disappears, and I suddenly feel cold.
She watches him refill the scotch, then sinks onto the nearest chair, far enough from me that it’s intentional. That’s when I see it. She’s mourning. Not pretending, not playing a part. She’s unraveling under the weight of something too heavy for even her to carry.
"They’re all dead," she whispers. And then louder, shaking with fury, "They’re all dead!"
Her hand trembles as she takes the glass back from Raffael and downs half of it in one gulp. "Marcello killed Fabio," she hisses, eyes wild and glassy. "Enrico killed Igor." She looks at Raffael, "And you killed Roberto."
The silence that falls is suffocating.
Raffael freezes as the blood drains from his face. "What?" he asks, voice flat. "Why would Enrico kill Igor?"
She waves him off like it’s nothing. "That’s not important."
"The hell it isn’t."
"I said, it’s not important!" she snaps, and the glass clinks violently against the table as she sets it down. "You owe me!"
Raffael laughs, one harsh bark of disbelief. "Why the fuck would I owe you anything?"
But I’m not laughing. I can’t. My heart starts hammering.
Something in the air shifts. It's getting heavier, colder, like a ghost reaching out and touching me. My skin prickles, and the hairs on my neck stand up like an alarm has gone off somewhere deep in my bones. Raffael doesn’t see it yet.
He’s too focused on her madness. But I know.
This is about to get ugly. Really, really ugly. And I’m not ready for it.
Donna Margarita stands again, this time unsteady. Her mask has cracked wide open, and her grief is oozing out of her. "I freed you in Caracas. And how did you repay me? You killed my grandson. You. Owe. Me!"
"Your grandson was a monster, one who abused his wife," Raffael states coolly.
Donna Margarita turns to me, slowly, making it clear that it’s an effort on her part to even look at me; her glare is like one would stare at something stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
Her lip curls, and she exhales sharply through her nose.
"He hit her," she mutters, then lets out a dry, contemptuous sniff. "Big boo-hoo."
My breath catches.
"She couldn’t make her husband stop?" she sneers. "Then she’s not strong enough to play in this world."
My nails dig into my palms.
Raffael moves, fast and sharp. His jaw is clenched so tightly that I hear his teeth grind. "Get out," he says, his voice barely controlled. "Get the fuck out of my house."
But I stop him. I touch his wrist, gently. "No," I say, keeping my voice steady even though I want to curl into myself, even though that sentence guts me. "I think… we need to hear this."
Donna Margarita doesn’t even glance at me. It’s like I don’t exist. She straightens to her full height, rolling her shoulders back and reclaiming her usual air of cruel authority. The grief vanishes. The mask slides right back into place.
"Here’s what’s going to happen," she says coolly, eyes locked on Raffael. "You’re going to kill Antonio and Marcello."
The room seems to lurch. Raffael doesn’t move, but I feel the change in his energy.
A drop in temperature. A rise in danger.
Donna Margarita begins pacing, her heels ticking softly across the tile as she taps a manicured finger against her lips.
"This might actually work in our favor," she murmurs to herself.
"Roberto was weak. And you—" she gestures vaguely at Raffael, "—you’re stronger. "
Then her gaze cuts to me again, sharp as a dagger. "And her?" Her voice is filled with ice. "We’ll deal with that later."
I don’t flinch. I won’t give her the satisfaction. But my throat is dry. My heart is pounding like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"No," Raffael says finally. One word. But it stops her mid-step.
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t threaten. He just stares her down. "I’ll do no such thing," he says. "I might owe you for freeing me. But this? No."
Donna Margarita arches a brow, her lips twitch into a cruel smile. "You think you have a choice? You think you can say no?" she asks. "Or is it exactly what you were made for?"
He doesn’t answer. I can tell he’s trying not to explode, while I’m trying not to fall apart. I don't want to hear the rest. I don't. But I don't think we have a choice.
Raffael stays stone-still. Silent. But I know him well enough not to mistake his stillness for calmness.
It’s too controlled, a tight, suffocating control.
Donna Margarita’s eyes glitter as she watches him, then she slowly circles around, glass still in hand.
"What did Igor tell you?" she asks. Her voice is soft now, intimate. "Do you even know who you are?"
My stomach drops. Please, no. Please, not this. Not her.
Raffael doesn’t answer. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t breathe too loudly.
Donna Margarita smiles, something between triumph and menace.
"Good boy," she says, like she’s praising a trained dog. "You know when to keep your mouth shut. That’s good. Very good."
She stops pacing and sets her glass down with a sharp clink, staring at the fireplace. "Let me tell you a story," she begins, her voice smooth and low, like she’s drawing us in by the collar. "A story about a poor girl… who, many years ago, fell in love with a man.
"The problem was, she was already married to a monster.
" Here she looks at me, gaze filled with contempt, telling me without words that her monster was worse than mine, and she survived.
"The only time she could be with the man she loved was in secret, behind locked doors, away from prying eyes.
" Her tone softens, just a little like velvet over a blade. "She thought he could save her. He was powerful, more powerful than anyone she’d ever known. She imagined a life where she could breathe again. Where her nights wouldn’t be filled with fear. "
Her words stir something all too familiar in me, and I have to remind myself of who this woman is to keep from empathizing with her. She glances toward her drink, lifts it to her lips, and sips, watching me the entire time.
"Then one day… she found out she was pregnant. With his child."
My chest tightens. I can't breathe. I know where this is going. Through lowered lashes, I throw a glance at Raffael. I don't dare look at him fully. What I see pulls the vise around my chest tighter. He, too, is seeing where this is going. Apprehension is written all over his features.
"The girl thought—finally—she had a reason for him to take her away. But when she told him…" She tilts her head, with no trace of a smile. "He told her to get rid of it. Just like that. As if it were an inconvenience. As if she were an inconvenience."
She leans back slightly, the ice in her glass clinks as she shifts. "That’s when the girl realized she was nothing more than a pawn. Like all the other girls in any man’s life."
My heart thuds louder with every word. There’s something too polished in her tone, too theatrical. This isn’t a story she’s reliving; it’s one she’s performed before. Crafted. Weaponized. Then her eyes narrow slightly. "That’s right," she says softly. "The man was Leonardo Zanello."
I already know what’s coming next, even though my brain tries to deny it.
To stop it. To protect Raffael. I want to cry out for her to stop.
I eye the large, crystal ashtray on the table and wonder if I could bang it over her head to shut her up, but I'm paralyzed, terrified of my own thoughts and what she's going to say next.
"The girl," she continues without a clue of the murderous thoughts going through my head, "was me."
A chill runs through me, cold and creeping. It wraps around my ribs, squeezes.
Leonardo Zanello and Donna Margarita.