I, of all people, had to be her savior.
Again.
My brother had sinned, and so had I. But why was I to be punished for the both of us?
When I pulled the trigger, it wasn’t Cosimo who was paying for his sins. Death wasn’t punishment. It was mercy. At least, he got to live happily before he was sent to his hell. But I… Living the life I was about to lead… Now that was the true meaning of hell on earth.
I didn’t choose any of this. I shouldn’t give up the only part of my life where I got tochoose. No one would make that kind of sacrifice for anyone. But other people didn’t live under Cosimo Lanza’s shadow. They didn’t have to prove their worth by taking his life. Literally.
My life was no longer mine. It was his. His expectations. His seat. His wife. His son. I even had his face and cock.
Like a chimera, you absorbed me whole, Cosimo. Or is it the other way around?
I’d grant him his death wish and honor his will. A debt I’d have to pay for the rest of my life. The price of the throne.
“Is she worth it, Fratello?” I asked the tombstone.
One of my bodyguards came closer, clearing his throat. “Scusi, but we’re going to be late.”
Chapter 3
Bianca
I stared back at the woman in the mirror. At the brunette turned blonde to fit the groom’s preference. At the purple circles under her puffy eyes and the bruises around her temples and wrists that disappeared with the magic of makeup. At the widow that didn’t get to mourn her husband before she was in another wedding dress. At the mother that was allowed to hold her baby only when she had to feed him.
Tears threatened to spill from my eyes every time I thought about how the Lanzas—and by that, I meant Marta, my mother-in-law, the plotter of this disaster, the evil bitch behind every monstrous scene happening in this family—kept my baby hostage until I married her other son. But I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Not yet.
The makeup artist fussed around me as the hair stylist sprayed my updo for the millionth time, careful with every deliberate messy lock and curl he’d spent hours arranging and rearranging.
Enzio wanted them to cut my hair, too, but I swore I’d cut their hands if they even tried. Two years ago, Cosimo asked me to grow my hair because he loved my long ponytail when I was a little girl. I’d never had it cut since.
My fucking groom would have to deal with it. I didn’t have to look pretty for him, tailored to make him like me. This wasn’t a real marriage, and his dick would be the next thing I cut if he thought about touching me.
“Done pestering me yet?” I didn’t wait for an answer and stalked to the other side of the enormous suite.
I poured myself some champagne, even though I didn’t really drink. I only turned twenty-one a few months ago, and Cosimo never let me drink before I was legal, not even on our wedding night. I snorted to myself. It was funny how he didn’t want to breakthatlaw. When I did turn twenty-one, I was pregnant with Mario, and I barely touched alcohol after his birth because I was breastfeeding.
Today, I cut myself some slack. I earned it.
I downed the champagne in one gulp and slammed the glass against the granite console, sending the glass in pieces. The hair and makeup team hired to make a corpse—that was how I felt—look like the most beautiful bride ever glanced wearily at me.
“Don’t worry about it,” the makeup artist, a woman in her thirties, said with an Italian accent as she waved a hand.
“Why would I worry about a fucking glass?” I had far more fucked up shit to worry about. Like how I was supposed to walk down the aisle toward the man who murdered my husband and say, I do. How I was supposed to sleep in the same room with him, the same bed. How I’d protect my son and myself when the only man who did protect us was now dead.
How I’d have my revenge.
The anger and pain inside me were so deep I contemplated squeezing the broken glass just to let some of that ache out, just so I can fucking breathe.
The woman pried the broken pieces from between my fingers. “Sorry, but I can’t let you bleed all over the dress.”
What if I did just that? Cut my hand and wipe it over the fabric? Say my vows covered in blood? Wasn’t that what was really happening here?
“It’s a very expensive Versace,” she explained in case someone like me—the college dropout who lived in a shoebox, waitressing to put food on the table and pay debts, until she married the Lanza Boss two years ago—couldn’t understand the gravity of having blood over a designer dress. Of course, that was more of a disaster than marrying my husband’s killer and having to raise my son with him.
I rushed into the bathroom so I wouldn’t scream. The counter was littered with products enough to fill a beauty center. I turned on the faucet to wash my hands. My fingers brushed Cosimo’s ring and band under the running water, and sadness pierced my heart as I realized I’d have to take them off.
My chin tilted up in defiance. No. Never. Cosimo was my first and only husband. Walking into this charade didn’t mean anything. The Lanzas could take everything from me, but they could never rip him out of my heart. I’d always wear his ring as a reminder of their crime, as a thorn in their flesh, as a symbol of their sins.
