Page 28 of Venomous Throne

“In Vincent’s house—my house—I do.” I stepped forward, claiming my space. “You’ve made your intentions clear. I've heard them. Now leave.”

He studied me, searching for the crack in my armor. “You’re upset. Emotional. Women often are after losing their husbands.”

“Don’t patronize me!” My body shook. Damn right I was emotional, but it fueled a killing rage. He was lucky the gun was in the drawer, out of my reach.

His eyes narrowed, that smug smile faltering slightly. “Watch yourself, Isabella.”

“No, you watch yourself.” My voice was soft but sharp as a blade. “Until the famiglia makes an official decision, you’re just a guest here. An unwelcome one at that.”

Marco’s jaw tightened as he set his glass down with a clink. “You think you have any say in this? Vincent’s dead. You’re a woman. The famiglia will never—”

“The famiglia respects tradition,” I cut in. “And tradition demands a proper mourning period. So unless you want to create more chaos than we already have, I suggest you—and your mother—keep this development quiet.”

The old witch was a sore in my side that I wouldn’t mind banishing to another city in the grand takeover.

Marco rose. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Isabella.”

“I’m not playing anything.” I kept my ground, refusing to be intimidated despite the hammering of my heart.

He sniggered. “Vincent may have tolerated your mouth, but I won’t be so forgiving.”

“Noted.” I matched his stare. “Now, please leave.”

For a moment, I thought he might strike me. His hand twitched at his side, and I braced myself for the blow. But then he straightened, adjusted his suit jacket, and nodded to his men.

“We’re done here.” He drained the last of his scotch and set the glass down with unnecessary force. “For now.”

The goons filed out after him, their heavy footsteps echoing through my home. The last one, a younger man with a scar across his jaw, hesitated at the threshold. His eyes met mine for just a moment. The corner of his mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly—a tiny crack in the mask of ruthless obedience. That fleeting expression held something genuine, a silent acknowledgment of my courage, perhaps even a hint of respect.

I blinked, surprised by this momentary alliance from within Marco’s ranks. It gave me something I desperately needed: hope. Before I could react, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

That small gesture fortified me somehow. I wasn't completely alone in this war.

I waited until the cars disappeared down the drive before I allowed myself to collapse against the counter, legs suddenly weak. My hands trembled as I reached for my phone, scrolling to find Franky’s number. If one of Marco’s men showed a glimmer of sympathy, perhaps others could be turned as well.

Chapter 12 – Jaxon

Three times each week, sometimes more if the skies were clear, Isabella would leave her house on foot. I’d learned the rhythm of her departures, the careful way she would lock her door and then stand for a moment on the porch, a hand shielding her brow as she scanned the pale light for neighbors or, perhaps, for danger. Nothing ever appeared, but the suspicion never left her. Then she would descend the stoop, shoes uneven on the pavers, and pull the small, battered wagon. I watched from behind the wooden fence at the perimeter of the property, every detail of her routine imprinted in me like an old, repeated prayer. This afternoon, she was all in black, the shirt hugging her perfect tits like a second skin.

That detail sent a groan straight through me.

She walked slowly, not from fatigue but from the need to verify, with each step, the fact of her own continued existence. When she reached the end of the block, she paused again, as always, to allow a bicycle to pass. I was already moving, the shadow to her substance, tracking her at a distance.

The first stop was always the church. It was hardly a grand cathedral. More like a pillar against the chaos, its bones stripped and graffitied. But people still came there, and so did the curious, the desperate, anyone with a secret to barter. Isabella belonged to none of these categories, but she approached the door with reverence, acknowledging the sacred energy all the same. She slipped inside with her wagon, closing the door behind her.

I knew better than to enter after her. Instead, I circled the building, pretending to be aimless, pretending I did not care, pretending I hadn’t spent the last few nights dreaming only of the taste at the corner of her mouth when she licked her pink wine from her lips. Stupid, obsessed, ridiculous—I was all of these things. On the second pass, I hunched low, keeping the door in sight.

Oh, fuck it.

I changed my course and pushed inside. The dim light momentarily blinded me. From here, close up, I could see the wagon clearly. A plastic child’s model, sunburnt orange, a little cracked around the edges, and adorned with stickers that had half peeled off. The wagon was piled with brown bags—store bags, crumpled and folded over at the top, but not sealed. I hovered, unable to help myself, the heat rising inside me like an infection.

I convinced myself it was only to check, only to see. I reached over and peeled back the edge of one bag, careful with the crinkling, careful not to draw attention from the devout worshipers inside the sanctuary. Inside, at the top, were biscuits, pale and soft, dusted in flour by the baker’s capable hands. In the next bag, cookies, thickly iced; in the third, something darker—a container, gleaming black plastic, the lid barely holding in a dense, sticky brown substance I could smell even through the closed top. It was intoxicating, almost spiced, and my brainregistered it with the same desperate clarity it used to reserve for fear or pain or lust.

I realized my hands had begun to shake. Not from tension, not this time. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to remember who I was. What I was. I could not, in good conscience, reach inside and take. Not yet. Not now. There were rules, even for a creature like me.

The want was so acute it was physical. I saw myself, for a moment, as others must see me: hollow-eyed, hungry in a way that scared society. Like a wolf pacing the inside of its own skin, furious at the throb of emptiness. I wanted to scoop the filling from that container with my hands, use my own tongue, not care how it looked or who saw. I was uncivilized, basically barbaric compared to normal folk. The church’s bricks seemed to pulse, the stained-glass eye above the door glowering in judgment.

I was an animal, not fit for human companionship.