“The hell it doesn’t,” I said.“You’re selling your daughter to that piece of shit and you expect us all to just smile and applaud?”
Marco rose from his seat, straightening his tie with deliberate calm.“Giuseppe, perhaps I should speak with Caterina privately.Help her understand the benefits of our arrangement.”
“The only thing you’re going to help me understand is what it feels like to get a Louboutin heel through your eye socket.”I grabbed my wine glass, and for a moment I genuinely considered throwing it at him.The weight of it felt good in my hand.Substantial.Dangerous.
“You see?”Marco addressed Papa as if I wasn’t even there.“This is exactly the kind of wild behavior that needs to be tamed.Don’t worry.I know how to handle spirited women.A firm hand, clear boundaries --”
I threw the wine.
Not the glass -- I wasn’t quite ready for that level of violence yet.But the deep red liquid arced across the table beautifully, splattering across Marco’s expensive suit and shocked face.Drops of it landed on the white tablecloth like blood spatter.
The room went dead silent.
“Tame that, you condescending prick,” I said.
Then I turned and walked out.My heels clicked against the marble with each step, the sound echoing in the terrible silence I’d left behind.I kept my spine straight, my head high, even though my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack a rib.
Behind me, I heard Papa’s voice, low and dangerous: “Let her go.We’ll deal with this later.”
Later.The word followed me out of the dining room like a threat.
But for now, I’d made my position clear.They could plan whatever the hell they wanted.I would never marry Marco Vitale.
Never.
I made it to my bedroom before the shaking moved past my hands and nearly took me to the floor.I barely got the door closed before my knees went weak.Not from fear, though maybe there should have been some of that, given Papa’s expression.No, this was pure rage, the kind that made my vision blur and my chest feel too tight for my lungs.
The lock clicked into place, and I stood there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool wood, trying to remember how to breathe properly.
Three months.Papa had given me three months before he expected me to walk down an aisle toward Marco fucking Vitale.
A sound escaped my throat -- half laugh, half sob -- and I pushed away from the door.I started pacing, the same restless energy from earlier now amplified into something that felt dangerous.Like if I stopped moving, I’d explode.
“Vaffanculo,” I muttered, the Italian curse feeling more satisfying than the English equivalent.“Vaffanculo a tutti.”
My hands went to the diamond choker around my throat -- Papa’s collar, his claim of ownership -- and I fumbled with the clasp.My fingers weren’t cooperating.The rage made them clumsy.After the third failed attempt, I just yanked it hard enough that the clasp broke, diamonds scattering across my floor like expensive tears.
Good.Fuck it.Fuck all of it.
I grabbed a handful of jewels from the top of my dressing table and flung them across the room.They bounced off the silk pillows on my bed with disappointing softness.I wanted destruction.Wanted the satisfying crash of something breaking, something matching the way I felt inside.
A bracelet came next.Then rings.I grabbed every piece within sight, all of it gifts from Papa, all of it bought with the expectation of gratitude and obedience.
Well, he could have them back.Or not.I didn’t give a shit.
My breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps now.I moved to my vanity and swept my arm across the surface, sending perfume bottles and makeup containers crashing to the floor.Glass shattered.Expensive products leaked across the marble.The destruction felt good.Not good enough, but something.
I needed a drink.
My private bar occupied one corner of the bedroom -- because of course it did, because Papa believed in giving his daughter every luxury while controlling every aspect of her life.The irony wasn’t lost on me as I grabbed the Macallan 18 and poured three fingers into a crystal tumbler.
No, fuck it.Four fingers.Maybe five.
I didn’t bother with ice.Just lifted the glass to my lips with hands that were still shaking and took a long swallow.The scotch burned going down, heat spreading through my chest in a way that was almost painful.Good.Pain meant I was still here, still fighting, not the broken little doll Papa wanted me to be.
I took another drink and moved back to the windows, looking out over the estate grounds.The same view I’d had earlier today when I’d been planning my dinner rebellion.That felt like years ago now instead of hours.
As I looked around my quarters, I caught sight of something small and red blinking in the corner of one window -- security camera, positioned to monitor the grounds below.For my protection, supposedly.More like for my surveillance.Papa always knew where I was, what I was doing, who I was with.
