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 withthatlater."
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 sayno?" 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 sharpclink, 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 ifshewere 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.
I stareat her without breathing. The words hang in the air like the smoke of a gunshot, and I can’t seem to move past them. I feel Sophia's presence, and that's the only reason I don't explode. But I can’t look at her. Not yet.
I can’t look at anything. Because the world just tilted off its fucking axis.
Donna Margarita.
Leonardo Zanello.
My mother.
My father.
