Marcella curtsies, just as she always did for us. “My apologies, Signoria.”
The woman huffs. “And the king’s computer?”
Marcella bows slightly. “That’s where he caught me. I was uploading to his computer when he entered. He came after me, and I sliced his throat.”
She hisses something under her breath. “But it’s done?”
Marcella nods. Then smiles gleefully. “It’s done. I was able to get the file on his computer, and the virus will upload tonight at midnight. More importantly, the king is dead.”
“Good. Excellent. Bring them in here and tie them to the chairs. Where is Antonia?”
“She said she’s on her way back, but her phone cut off on me. She had bad service,” she explains.
“Fine. But now you have a prince to kill, and I’d like to get it done.”
43
ROWAN
Marcella comes over to me and grips me by the back of the neck. “Move,” she barks, but her thumb drags along my skin. I’d be more afraid if my hands were actually bound. “This is gross.” She takes the hem of my shirt and pulls it up to wipe the side of my face. “I don’t want to see Cristo’s blood anymore.”
She faces me, her eyes boring into mine.
“Do as I say,” she mouths.
I narrow my eyes at her. “What kind of future do you think you’ll have after killing the king? After you kill me?”
A smile curls up her face. “Whatever I want. Unlike you, I’ll still be alive. And free.”
Free? There are so many things I don’t understand right now.
Once she’s finished cleaning me, she grabs Gabe and hauls the two of us into the room, pushing us against the wall with our arms—and guns—still behind us and invisible to this crazy fucking woman.
Sitting on a chair with her arms bound behind her is a young girl who eyes us as if she doesn’t know what tomake of us. She has a busted lip and a bruise beneath her eye, but her features are so startlingly similar to Marcella’s that I instantly know this is the Jaqueline she was talking about.
Marcella crosses the room and cups the girl’s face before she kisses her forehead, mumbling something against her skin I can’t make out.
The girl gulps but nods.
And because I’m so focused on the girl and Marcella, it takes me a half beat longer to realize everything in here is covered in plastic. Not like the sheets in the rest of the house over furniture. This is completely different. It’s a killing room. I know nothing about any of this, but I’ve watched enough horror movies to know one when I see one.
What kind of sick, twisted people are these?
I love this woman, but I can’t reconcile anything I’m seeing with the woman I thought I knew. But that’s the irony of this, right? I never knew her. Not really.
The woman comes and stands before me, her gaze cast up into my face, and she studies me before twisting her head over her shoulder to eye Marcella.
Then she laughs. Loud and rancorously.
“He’s why you look different,” Signoria says, her voice dripping in bitterness and censure.
“What?” Marcella draws back.
“You love him. He loves you. I see it in both of you. Do you not think I know what love looks like?”
Marcella’s breath hitches, and she shakes her head, but there’s no hiding the light flush on her cheeks.
“Signoria, I can assure you?—”
