Donna Margarita exhales—the kind of breath someone takes before admitting something theynever meant to say. "Fine," she mutters. "I shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t supposed to be me."
She turns her back on us again, staring out the window like it might offer a way out. "Igor was supposed to do this," she says quietly.
Raffael straightens beside me. "Igor?"
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. "Youowe 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. "Hehither," 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."
