“Maybe they should poison it. Might improve the taste,” I suggested.
A bitter grin tugged weakly at Lorenzo’s mouth before another wave of pain visibly hit him. His fingers clenched against the sheets hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Interesting. The poison was accelerating tonight. I reached into my coat pocket slowly. Lorenzo’s eyes followed the movement. Fear. Real fear this time. When I pulled the glass vial free, his breathing visibly changed.
“What’s that?” he asked carefully.
“The antidote.”
Silence swallowed the room whole. Rain battered the windows harder. The old man stared at the vial like it was God himself standing beside his bed. Then his expression twisted.
“So it’s true,” he whispered hoarsely. “You really poisoned me.”
I rolled the vial between my fingers, watching the clear liquid catch the dim hospital lights. “You should’ve believed me the first time.”
“You arrogant fucking animal…” he said, interrupted by a violent coughing fit.
“Still talking like you’re in control.” I looked at him flatly. “Interesting.”
Lorenzo shifted painfully against the pillows. Every movement clearly hurt now. Good.
“You came to save me?” he asked after a long pause.
“I came because Chiara cried for you,” I told him.
Something ugly crossed his face. Annoyance. Not guilt. Not concern. Fucking annoyance. “That girl cries too much.”
The answer hit harder than I expected. I stared at him quietly. Chiara had defended this man. Protected him. Still loved him. Even after the bruises. Even after the belt. Even after being sold off like property. And this piece of shit dismissed her tears like they inconvenienced him.
“She was terrified you’d die,” I said.
“She embarrasses herself constantly.”
My jaw tightened. “She still thinks you love her.”
That made Lorenzo laugh weakly. A horrible sound. Wet. Bitter. Empty.
“Love?” he rasped. “You think men like us survive by loving our children?”
I walked toward the massive window overlooking the city. My reflection stretched across the glass beside the skyline, tall and dark and monstrous. Maybe he was right. Maybe men like usdidn’t know how to love properly. Still… There were lines. And Lorenzo Ventura crossed them easily.
“She’s your daughter,” I reminded him.
“She’s an investment.” He coughed at him. “A tool. Not even the best one I have.”
I slowly looked back at him. He continued before I could speak. “Aurora is much prettier.”
Something dangerous moved beneath my skin.
“Aurora,” I repeated carefully.
“She’s beautiful enough to be useful.” Lorenzo smirked faintly despite the pain chewing through him. “Edoardo’s been asking questions about her already.”
Ice slid down my spine. My uncle. Fat. Cruel. Sadistic. A man who liked making girls cry because it excited him. Aurora was much too young. I pictured her sharp mouth and angry eyes. The way she stepped between Chiara and danger every chance she got. Then I pictured Edoardo touching her.
“She will hate him,” I said flatly.
“She’ll survive him,” he said, shrugging. No. Maybe she wouldn’t. Lorenzo kept talking anyway, too arrogant to notice the violence building inside me.
