“You’re lying.” He leans back in his seat, completely at ease. “You’ve been tense since I picked you up.”
Vincenzo’s gaze is speculative as he watches me pick up my menu and pretend to study it. I can’t make a single word penetrate my brain.
“I make you nervous?” he asks, his eyes glinting.
“Of course you do.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “You’re a killer who hates me. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?”
Angry denial flickers in his expression, like the accusation stings, but it’s gone so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it.
The waiter appears, breaking the tension. Vincenzo orders wine for us, his Italian pronunciation smooth and confident. When the waiter leaves, the silence stretches between us like a blade.
My clutch is in my lap, and it feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds.
I need to use this chance to save myself from marriage with Vincenzo, but killing him on Barone territory will cause chaos that could ripple through all of Malus.
But I could use that chaos to disappear. Slip away while they’re all at each other’s throats. By the time they realized I was gone, I’d be on a plane to somewhere they’d never find me. I’ll run so far that no one will ever find me and drag me home.
My fingers brush against the clutch’s clasp.
Vincenzo is watching me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. Like he can see straight through the black dress and the dark lipstick to the terrified girl underneath.
“Relax, doe,” he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you tonight.”
Tonight,I notice. Notever. Justtonight.
The wine arrives, blood-red in crystal glasses, and I stare at them like they might bite me. If I put poison in his wine whilehe’s in the bathroom, will he notice the glass has moved? If I add it to his water, will he grimace at the taste and realize it’s poisoned?
I reach out to take a sip of my wine to steady my nerves, but I move too quickly, and I knock the glass over.
Time slows as the glass tips, crimson liquid arcing through the air. It splashes across the white tablecloth, spreading like a wound. Some of it hits Vincenzo’s shirt, staining the black fabric an even darker shade.
For a split second, I’m not in the restaurant anymore. I’m thirteen, and I’ve just knocked over my juice at breakfast. Red cranberry juice spreads across Mom’s pristine white tablecloth. Dad’s face transforms from neutral to furious in the space of a heartbeat. His hand lifts to strike me while Mom screams.
I’m twenty, standing in a golden ballroom. Red is pooling on white marble. Mrs. Vici reaches for her daughter with bloodied hands.
“I’m so sorry.” The words burst out of me, high and panicked. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
I’m already moving, grabbing my napkin, scrambling around to Vincenzo’s side of the booth. My hands shake as I try to blot the wine from his shirt, from the table, from everywhere the red has spread.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
I’m waiting for it. The explosion. The hand across my face. The cold promise that we’ll “discuss this later,” which means violence behind closed doors. Dad would be on his feet by now making a scene. Every eye in the restaurant would be on us while he told the staff how clumsy I am, how humiliating his daughter is.
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, I promise. I’m so sorry.”
My hands won’t stop shaking. The napkin is soaked through, but I keep dabbing at the wine, trying to make it disappear before the punishment comes.
“Adora.”
I barely hear him. I’m frantically looking around for more napkins, for water, for anything to fix this. I’m on his side of the booth, pressed close as I try to erase the mess.
“Adora.” The voice is firmer now. A hand closes around my wrist, stopping my frantic movements.
I freeze, my whole body going rigid. This is it.
“Stop.” His voice is low, calm. Not angry. “It’s okay.”
I look up at him, and his blue eyes are watching me with an expression I can’t read. Not fury. Not disgust. Confusion, maybe. And something else that looks almost like concern.
