It was a reckless move in hindsight, using your own wife and a child to draw out an enemy. Looking back, I can admit that I never felt truly afraid, hidden in a back office with Olivia while only God knew what took place. Why?
Thus was the confidence of Donatello Vanici. He said it himself—we were family. For two years, I cherished the safety that came with being his.
But I was naïve.
The truth is, Donatello Vanici never loved me.
I was only a tool—and now? I’m his weapon.
“I’m going to bend you to my will, little bird,” he swore just days ago. “I’ll erase any identity you’ve had before me. As long as you’re here. You’re mine…”
Though, when all is said and done, I’m the one who agreed to marry him—and if he believes he holds the upper hand, he’s wrong.
He may have taught me my first lesson in betrayal, but Mischa instilled his own teachings in me—how to turn vengeance into an art form. The only way to defeat someone like Donatello Vanici is to play by his rules. To view the world as a game with a checkmate being the only goal.
Last night the rules changed. He may have set this war into motion, but I won that battle, using the one virtue that he sees as my weakness against him.
My body. My innocence. His lust…
Lying beneath him, I held the power for once—he admitted it himself, his voice raspy against my ear. “You like to exert control over me?”
Control is a strange way to describe it. What it felt like to have him watch me explore myself in a way I never have—and never before someone else. It should have felt wrong, the exact opposite of control.
Instead…
Flesh transformed beneath his scrutiny, becoming electrified against my touch. Raw. Alive. My throat constricts at the memory, and I have to fight to steady my breathing.
But you enjoyed it, some sinister voice in my head whispers. You enjoyed every minute of it...
I shrug aside any shame that threatens to descend. Maybe I had every right to enjoy it. After all, I utilized the same war tactic he himself praised all those years ago—What your enemy perceives as a weakness becomes your weapon.
Or, in this case, a double-edged sword. Because, for a second, I glimpsed something more elusive than his hate, and it haunts me. It’s easy to despise the caricature of him I’ve created in my skull. But the real man?
He’s a walking contradiction. Laughing menacingly one moment, moaning in agony amid the throes of a nightmare the next. I’m never prepared for the vulnerability he shields behind that mask.
He claims Safiya Mangenello meant nothing to him, but her name is carved into his chest—and yet he won’t even tell me why he sold her.
Sold me.
The answer shouldn’t matter. Damn him.
Crack! I stumble over something, forced to brace a hand against the wall to stay upright. The motion snaps me from my thoughts, and I’m back among the grim reality of this old pink room. This is who Donatello Vanici is—a monster who turned my childhood home into a prison.
It shouldn’t be possible to hate him any more than I already do—but my body hums with the force of it, as though I could explode.
When I look down and spy the cause of my near fall, though, all thoughts of him vanish.
Objectively, the box lying in the middle of the floor is nothing special. It’s stained in places, coated in a layer of dust that betrays how long it must have languished in the corners of this house. The only clue as to what it contains is a mass of colorful fabric peeking beyond the partially closed flaps, and the faint scent of feminine perfume tinging the air.
Olivia’s, to be exact, Donatello’s wife. Apart from one blue dress—the same one I’m wearing now—I haven’t scrounged any more clothing from that small collection.
I can barely bring myself to look at it.
Though, if I truly wanted to twist the knife and beat Donatello at his own game, I’d use anything to get a reaction from him. I’d prance around in Liv’s old dresses and dare him to say a damn thing in protest.
But the memories starring her feel different from the others tainted by his betrayal. Sacred. They belong to innocent days when this house was alive with laughter and warmth—a time that seems so distant from the present, it might as well have been a dream.
The current reality is a nightmare. The warmth is gone, replaced by a persistent, bone-numbing chill. My teeth chatter, every cell in my body tense with discomfort.
Without thinking, I stoop and gingerly pry apart the lid of the box. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks, but remnants of heat ghost my skin, emanating from the clothing within. Even the remnants of Olivia feel like an antidote to Donatello’s frigid presence. The first item I find is coincidentally a cream sweater, neatly folded. I reach for it, pressing the soft fabric against my cheek.
Liv… I remember her calming voice. Her gentle smile. Her grace, paired with Donatello’s brashness, was the epitome of beauty and beast, and I used to admire that contrast.
Years later, having witnessed the aftermath of that affection firsthand, I now know differently. Love is brutal. Mischa’s devotion to his family spurred him to kill, and Olivia’s death destroyed what remained of Donatello’s soul long before he betrayed me. Though could such a man truly love anyone? I picture the way he looked at her that day in his office, and I’m inclined to think so.
Though it could have been an act from the start.
Of course, that cruel inner voice whispers. Why else would he lie with you in that bed if he loved her so much?
My cheeks flame, and I hunt for any distraction from the memory. I can’t think about last night anymore. Getting dressed is as good a stall tactic as any, but as
