He and Vincenzo can fight about whether my bodyguards accompany me or not. I don’t particularly care. Them following me everywhere was never my choice in the first place, and Vincenzo has already proven he can get to me any time he wants.
The bodyguard scans the note quickly, and something flickers in his expression. Concern? Pity? He knows what happened last night. My crying, the shattered glass, Vincenzo’s dramatic exit via the balcony. The whole household knows.
“Yes, Miss Montoni.”
The house is silent when we arrive home. Dad’s not here yet, and I’m relieved. I’m not ready to face him and see the calculation in his eyes as he decides whether Vincenzo’s invitation is an opportunity or a threat.
After grabbing a soda from the fridge, I retreat to the privacy of my bedroom. While my unopened soda sits on my desk, I pace up and down, nibbling on the corner of my thumbnail while ghastly images flicker across my mind. I picture Vincenzo unsheathing his knife and slitting my throat as soon as he gets me alone. Or maybe he truly intends to make me his wife and torment me forever.
My eyes drift to the drawer of my nightstand where I’ve stashed the little bottle of potassium cyanide. Between classes today, I looked up the poison on my phone, reading clinicaldescriptions that made my stomach turn. It acts terrifyingly fast. Within a minute, possibly even seconds, of eating something laced with cyanide, Vincenzo will grow dizzy and gasp for breath. I’ll have to watch from across the table as he clutches his chest, his face flushing red, blood vessels standing out on his temples. His startled blue eyes will find mine and fill with accusation as he foams at the mouth and violently convulses.
He’ll die knowing I killed him, and I’ll remember his final condemning look for the rest of my life.
Can I do it? Watch the life drain from those eyes while I sit across from him as our dinners grow cold?
My eyes land on the empty spot where the framed family portrait sat until last night, and its absence causes a pain in my heart. I remember the violence with which he tore the photograph apart, and my heart hardens.
I don’t have a choice. It’s Vincenzo or me, and I’ve been forced to play the victim long enough.
I stand in front of my closet, staring at the rows of dresses like they’re battle armor I’m trying to choose between.
What does a woman wear to murder her fiancé?
My hand hovers over a soft pink dress with delicate lace sleeves. Innocent. Sweet. The kind of thing a willing bride would wear to meet her future husband. I imagine Vincenzo’s reaction. His predatory smile, the way his eyes would drink me in as he assumes I’m obedient. Eager to please.
Dad would approve as well.Make him love you, then kill him.
I shove the pink dress aside.
Next to it hangs a cream-colored sundress covered in tiny flowers. Wholesome. Approachable. I wore it to lunch with Lucy once, and she said I looked like a Renaissance painting. If my aim is to be purely decorative, this is the dress.
That’s not who I need to be tonight.
I push past the pastels, the florals, the soft and feminine things that make me look girlish. My fingers trail over silk and chiffon until I find it.
Black.
I pull the dress from the hanger and hold it up to the light. It’s elegant but dramatic, fitted through the bodice with a neckline that’s just low enough to be provocative, with spaghetti straps and a tight skirt that shows several inches of my thighs. Sophisticated. Controlled. The kind of dress a woman wears when she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I slip it on and turn to face the mirror.
The girl crying on her knees as scraps of torn photograph slip through her fingers is gone. In her place stands someone harder. Someone who’s survived her father’s cruelty. Who killed a man with a knife. Who carries poison in her purse.
Someone who can watch a man die and not flinch.
Liar, a voice whispers in my head.I’ll cry over Vincenzo’s body the same way I cried over the photograph.
I silence the voice by applying makeup with deliberate precision. Dark liner that makes my amber eyes look sharp instead of soft. Mascara that darkens my lashes. Lipstick the color of wine. Or blood, depending on the light.
I paint my nails the same shade, careful strokes that turn my fingers elegant and dangerous. These are the hands that will slip poison into Vincenzo’s drink. They should look the part.
My hair is next. I consider leaving it down, but that’s not right either. Instead, I twist it up and secure it with pins, leaving a few tendrils loose to frame my face. Elegant and untouchable.
I fasten delicate gold earrings to my ears, my last birthday gift from Mom before she died, and watch them catch the light. For luck, maybe. Or as a reminder of what I’ve already lost.
The poison goes into a small black clutch along with my lipstick, my phone, and my keys. I hold the vial for a longmoment before tucking it into the interior pocket, my fingers trembling despite my resolve.
Him or me. That’s what this comes down to.
