“You are more right than you know.” He chuckles darkly, and I can see the desire in his eyes to brag. “I couldn’t let her insult stand. A woman like that, rejecting a man like me? It would make me look weak. So I took care of it.”
“Took care of it how?”
“Strangled the defiant bitch.” He says it casually, like he’s discussing the weather. “Lana? Lira. That was her name. She thought she could reject me and walk away. But no one rejects Agnello Montoni. No one.”
Nausea rolls through me, but I keep my face neutral. Interested. “You did what you had to do.”
“Exactly.” He points at me with his glass, whisky sloshing. “That’s what I’m trying to teach you. You can’t let defiance slide. You have to handle it swiftly. Permanently.”
I force myself to nod. To smile like I agree. Like I’m learning valuable lessons from a mentor instead of recording the confession of a murderer.
“Is that what happened with your wife?” The question is dangerous, but he’s drunk enough now that I don’t think he’ll notice. “You said you had to remind her of her place.”
Agnello’s expression darkens. He knocks back the rest of his whisky and pours another. His third? I’ve lost count.
“My wife.” He practically spits the words. “She was questioning me. Defending Adora when I disciplined her. Acting like she had a say in how I ran my household.”
I glance toward the doorway. Adora is still there, and now her hand is pressed against her mouth. Her eyes are wide and glassy.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Had Pietro take care of it.” Agnello says it matter-of-factly. “Made it look like an accident. Car went off the road. Everyone believed it. Why wouldn’t they? These things happen.”
The room feels colder suddenly.
I look at Adora again, and her whole body has gone rigid. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the doorframe. For a moment, I think she might storm in here and attack him with her bare hands.
She takes one shaking breath, then another. Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her go, my heart in my throat.
“The point is,” Agnello continues, oblivious, “you can’t let a woman think she has power. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to maintain control.”
“I understand,” I say, my voice flat.
He raises his glass to me. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Vici.”
The irony of that statement coming from the man who’s trying to have me killed would be funny if I wasn’t fighting the urge to vomit.
My phone is still recording in my pocket. I have his confession. Everything Dashamir needs.
“Well,” I say, setting down my barely-touched whisky. “Thank you for the advice. I appreciate the wisdom.”
I leave him there with his whisky and his delusions, and step out of the room. My heart is pounding. Adora is nowhere in sight.
I scan the reception hall. Guests are milling about, laughing, drinking. Sofia catches my eye from across the room, her expression concerned. I shake my head slightly. Not now.
Where is she?
Then I see her, a flash of white silk as she takes a champagne glass off the bridal table and disappears into the ladies’ room.
I check my phone. The recording is still going. I stop it, save it, email it to Matteo, and slide the phone back into my pocket.
A few minutes pass, and Adora emerges. Something about her has changed. Her face is composed without a tear in sight, but her eyes are colder and harder.
She’s still carrying a champagne flute that she sets back down on the bridal table at her father’s place.
Understanding races down my spine.
