“Done,” Sofia says. “It’s shallow and will stop bleeding quickly. Let it drip onto your shirt as though Vincenzo stood over you and shouted after he hit you.”
Vincenzo swears under his breath.
My eyes are watering from the stinging.
After a few minutes, Sofia inspects the cut with a critical eye. “Perfect. It’s going to swell a bit, which will make the whole thing look more authentic. The cut is small enough that it should heal in two or three days without scarring.”
I stand and look in the mirror again.
The woman staring back looks pitiable. The bruise. The split lip. The blood staining her white shirt.
She looks like me after one of my father’s rages.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
“It’s perfect,” I say again, my voice thick. “I think he’ll believe it.”
“Good.” Sofia packs up her supplies with quick, efficient movements. After giving me some makeup and sponges, she says, “I’ll leave you two alone.”
She pauses at the door, looking back at us. “Be careful,” she says softly. “Both of you.”
Then she’s gone.
I turn to Vincenzo. He’s staring at me with such anguish.
“Come here,” he says roughly.
I cross to the bed, and he pulls me down carefully, holding me like I might break, but careful not to smudge the makeup.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I pull back to look at him. “This is what needs to happen. And now that it’s done, I can go to my father. I can start working on getting that confession.”
He touches my face, so gently I barely feel it, avoiding the makeup and the cut.
“When do you have to leave?”
“Now. Before it gets too late. Before he starts asking too many questions about where I’ve been.”
Vincenzo closes his eyes briefly, then opens them with visible effort. “Be careful. Please.”
“I’ll handle it. I’ll come back to you. I promise.”
“You better.” His voice is rough. “Because if you don’t, I’m coming to get you. Injuries and all.”
“I believe you.” I smile despite everything, and then wince as my clotting lip splits afresh.
I stand, smoothing down my clothes and checking my reflection one more time. The bruise and cut look absolutely real. My father will believe I’ve been hit. And that belief will be my weapon.
I’m halfway to the door when Vincenzo speaks.
“Adora.”
Not doe. My name. The one he never uses.
“I’ve killed many people.” His voice is edged with darkness. “I remember every single one. Their faces. The exact moment the light left their eyes. I’m the thing people pray doesn’t come for them in the night.”
Slowly, I turn back to him.
