Vincenzo and I exchange a glance.
“Tell her,” I say quietly. “Tell her what I’m asking you to do.”
“No.” His jaw sets stubbornly. “Because it’s insane and I’m not doing it.”
Sofia crosses her arms, her expression shifting from amused to concerned. “Someone tell me what’s going on. Now.”
I take a breath. “I need to go back to my father’s house. I need to convince him I’m still planning to kill Vincenzo, and the only way he’ll believe that is if he thinks Vincenzo is hurting me.”
Understanding dawns in Sofia’s eyes. “You want Vincenzo to hit you.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s refusing.”
“Of course I’m refusing.” Vincenzo’s voice rises. “Sofia, tell her this is insane.”
But Sofia doesn’t immediately agree. She studies me carefully, her expression thoughtful.
“Why does it have to be real?” she asks. “Why can’t we fake it? Makeup can do wonders. I used to do theater makeup for my children when they were in school plays. I can make it look like you’ve been hit.”
Hope flares in Vincenzo’s eyes. “Yes. That. Do that.”
But I’m already shaking my head. “My father has been hitting women for decades. He knows what real injuries look like.”
The room falls silent.
Sofia walks to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. For a long moment, no one speaks.
“There might be a compromise,” she says finally, turning back to face us. “We use makeup to create the bruising. But we make one thing real. A cut on your lip.” Sofia’s voice is clinical now, practical. “Small but visible, and it will bleed. Your father will see the cut, see the swelling around it and the makeup, and he’ll believe the whole thing is real.”
Vincenzo’s face goes pale. “No. Absolutely not. No one is cutting her.”
“It would be small,” Sofia continues, ignoring his protest. “A very sharp knife, properly sterilized. Quick and clean. It would heal within days.”
“No.” Vincenzo’s voice is edged with panic. “Absolutely not. Both of you, no.”
I turn to him. “Vincenzo, listen to me. You were tortured for almost twenty hours. That beast ripped out your fingernails. You bled and suffered and nearly died for me. I can do this for us.”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?” My voice is gentle but insistent. “You’ve born so much pain. I can bear a small cut to protect you. Please, Vincenzo. Let me do this. Let me be brave for both of us.”
His eyes close. I can see the war raging behind them. Everything he believes, everything he is, fighting against what needs to be done.
Finally, he lets out a long, defeated breath.
“My hands are too injured,” he says roughly. “If this is happening, and I hate that it’s happening, Sofia will have to do it. I can’t.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” He opens his eyes, and they’re full of anguish. “There’s nothing about this that deserves thanks.”
Sofia nods once, decisive. “I’ll get my makeup kit and the first aid supplies. Adora, sit in that chair. Vincenzo, you stay in bed. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
Vincenzo pulls me close, pressing his lips to my forehead. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I fucking hate this. Not just the cut, but you going home to him.”
