Andrea leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “Your death will serve more purpose than your life ever did.” His grip tightens again. “When Raffaele finds your body, when he realizes he couldn’t protect you, it will break him. But don’t worry, I’ll find him a better wife.”
Understanding crashes through me with horrifying clarity. This isn’t just about me—it’s about controlling Raffaele.
Fury rises inside me, hot and unexpected. This man wants to use my death as a tool to hurt Raffaele, to manipulate him. My vision sharpens with sudden clarity, fear temporarily replaced by rage.
I bring my knee up hard between his legs. His grip loosens just enough for me to twist away, gasping and stumbling toward the counter. I need something—anything—to defend myself.
Andrea recovers quickly, tossing the gun aside with a clatter. It skids across the floor, far out of my reach.
Adrenaline surges through my veins as I lunge forward, driven by pure survival instinct. My fingers close around the handle of a knife just as he reaches for the same block. Our bodies collide, his larger frame nearly knocking me off balance.
“Brave little baker,” he taunts, trying to pry my fingers from the knife. “But stupid.”
His hand wraps around mine, squeezing until pain shoots up my arm. I twist violently, throwing my weight backward in a desperate attempt to break free. We grapple for control, his strength against my desperation.
The kitchen fills with our harsh breathing and the squeak of shoes against tile. My free hand finds purchase on his wrist, my nails digging into his flesh as I try to force him away. He grunts in pain but doesn’t release his grip.
Where the hell is Raffaele? He should be here by now, shouldn’t he? I’m honestly not sure. It feels like an eternity has passed while I’ve been fighting Andrea, but it could just be seconds. Time’s both moving incredibly slowly and too fast simultaneously.
The knife between us wavers, pointing first at my chest, then his, as we struggle for control. My arms burn with the effort of resisting him. He’s stronger, heavier, his weight crushing the breath from my lungs as he forces me backward.
My grip slips on the handle, slick with sweat and something warm I realize belatedly is blood—maybe his, maybe mine. Panic surges through me, raw and blinding.
My foot skids against the tile as I try to brace myself, throwing my balance off. For a split second, the pressure between us changes. Andrea lurches forward, trying to regain control of the knife, his larger body crashing into mine.
The blade drives upward between us. There’s a sickening resistance—then it gives. His eyes widen, his mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.
For one frozen moment, neither of us moves.
Then warm wetness spills over my hands, and I realize with horror what’s happened. The knife is buried in his abdomen, my fingers still gripping the handle.
Andrea staggers backward, staring down at the weapon protruding from his stomach. Blood spreads across his expensive shirt, turning the pale fabric dark crimson. His hand reaches for the knife handle, then drops away as if he can’t summon the strength.
“You…” he begins, but whatever he means to say dissolves into a wet cough.
I stand paralyzed, watching as he takes another unsteady step back, then collapses against the refrigerator, sliding slowly to the floor.
In the distance, I hear Raffaele shout my name, his footsteps pounding toward the house. The sound breaks through my horrified trance, and reality crashes back with brutal force. I killed Raffaele’s dad. I’ve driven a knife into Andrea Russo’s body.
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, blood—hisblood—dripping from my fingers onto the pristine white tile. The metallic scent fills my nostrils, making my stomach heave.
Raffaele will be here any second, and I just… no. No. No.
Unbidden, the memory of Raffaele threatening Maxwell comes to mind. All Maxwell did was call me a bitch, and Raffaele threatened him with a gun. What will he do to me for killing his dad?
The footsteps grow louder. I can hear Raffaele calling my name, his voice frantic with fear. But all I can think is that Andrea is right. How could Raffaele ever look at me the same way again? How could he forgive me for this?
I’ve killed before. When I helped my mom end her suffering, I knew exactly what I was doing. But this—this violent, bloody act—feels like it’s transformed me into someone I don’t recognize.
“Alina!” Raffaele’s voice is closer now, just outside.
Fear grips me anew. Not fear of Andrea anymore, but fear of what comes next. Fear of seeing hatred in my husband’s eyes when he discovers what I’ve done.
I turn and run.
I burst through the back doors of the villa, blindly running away from the kitchen, away from Andrea’s body, away from what I’ve done.
Blood—his blood—is still wet on my hands, staining my skin like an accusation I can’t wipe clean. Behind me, I hear Raffaele’s voice calling my name, growing closer with each second.
