In the posture. In the stillness.
Anger churned beneath my skin.
Matteo could try to kill me with peaches, wrapping death in elegance and calling it a gift.
Vincenzo could humiliate me with trays of food, with commands designed to strip me down, layer by layer.
But I would not break.
I spun away from the mirror and barreled out of the bedroom.
Bare feet struck the cold marble, two steps at a time, as I descended the grand staircase, heart hammering.
The sound echoed.
Sharp.
Like gunfire in the hollow quiet of the house.
My chest rose and fell rapidly—not just from the movement, but from the anger building inside me.
A slow, burning escalation that had nowhere else to go.
The dining room came into view at the bottom of the stairs.
Everything looked untouched.
Candles burned low—wax melted into uneven pools.
Plates still sat on the table, remnants of osso buco cooling under the dim light. The faint aroma lingered in the air, mixed with something sweeter.
Blood-orange petals.
Decorative.
Violet’s chair was pushed slightly back, as if she had leaned into him one last time before leaving.
As if she had belonged there.
As if she still did. I could almost smell her perfume.
Soft. Expensive. Polished.
The opposite of the smoke and steel that clung to Vincenzo.
The contrast made something sharp twist in my chest.
My jaw locked so hard my teeth ached.
I wanted to flip the table. Watch the plates shatter.
See the glass break. Destroy something.
Anything.
To match the chaos building inside me.
I pivoted sharply, heading toward the living room, my bare feet sliding slightly on the polished stone as I pushed through the arched doorway that led to the terrace.
