Emilia's POV
This wasn't my first rebellion.
Six years ago, at sixteen, grief had turned me feral. After Paolo died—after I identified his carved-up body in the morgue because my father was "too busy" and Liliana was too broken—I almost burned down Vittorio's empire.
His response taught me exactly what kind of man raised me.
A month in a supernatural detention center. With violent criminals. For mourning my brother wrong.
That's where I met Linda.
And here we go again.
---
The Conti mansion looked like a kicked hornet's nest. Black SUVs choked the driveway, engines growling as armed men barked into radios. Floodlights swept the grounds like searchlights over a prison yard.
I slid from Linda's van, keeping low. Gravel bit into my knees.
"What can I do?" Linda's face was all worry—pinched mouth, wide eyes. The same face she'd made six years ago when we first met, both of us scared girls in an impossible place.
"Go." I gripped her hand once, hard. "I mean it, Lyn. I don't want him to hurt you too."
"Emilia—"
"I'll be fine." I tried for a smile. Failed. "How angry can he be, right?"
Linda's silence said everything.
"Bye, Lyn."
---
The fence bit into my palms. I climbed anyway.
The courtyard was a disaster. Porcelain crunched under my heels—what remained of Vittorio's favorite vase, hurled at some trembling maid. Shards winked up at me like broken teeth.
He stood in the center of it all. A god of wrath in an expensive suit.
I tried, for one absurd moment, to remember if he'd ever been kind. My mind returned empty.
Liliana and Paolo used to tell stories—a father who took them to parks, who bought them candy canes. Before Mama died. Before me.
They swore the birth that killed our mother changed him.
I never believed it. Vittorio was exactly who he'd always been. I'd just been too young to see.
The morning sun glinted off the gold crucifix at his throat—the same one he'd pressed to Paolo's cold lips at the funeral. Holy metal against dead flesh.
Hypocrite.
"Dove eri?" His voice sliced through the chaos. Where were you?
"Out." I lifted my chin. The lie tasted like ash. I could still smell Luca's cologne on my skin. Still feel his palm against my scar.
Vittorio moved faster than a man his size should. His hand locked around my arm, fingers bruising deep enough to leave tomorrow's marks.
"You vanish on your engagement night?" Spittle flew from his lips. "Humiliate me in front of the Marchettis?"
"Humiliate you?" I wrenched free, tears burning. "You sold me to the men who murdered Paolo! To animals who carved up my brother—"
The slap cracked like a gunshot.
I staggered. My ear rang. The courtyard went silent—guards freezing mid-stride, maids pressing against walls.
"You think you're special?" Vittorio's breath reeked of grappa and rot. "Your sister begged too. Now she spreads her legs for that Kamikaze dog and thanks me for the privilege."
My hand flew to my stinging cheek.
And Vittorio froze.
His gaze snagged on my neck, where the collar of my dress had slipped. A bruise bloomed there—violet, unmistakable. Luca's teeth had painted it hours ago, a reckless claim in the dark.
"Troia." Whore.
The word hung in the air, thicker than the gardenia-scented breeze.
"You let some gutter rat defile my bloodline?" His voice dropped to something worse than a roar. Quiet. Lethal. "Tonight, you marry Enzo. And when I find your little bastard—" He drew a thumb across his throat.
My courage fractured.
I fled through the mansion, past oil portraits of dead Contis judging me with Paolo's eyes. Their faces blurred through tears I refused to shed. My bedroom door slammed. The lock clicked.
A vase exploded against the wood.
"You'll kneel at that altar!" Vittorio roared from the hall. "Or I'll bury you next to your brother!"
---
Alone, I clawed at the floorboards beneath my mattress.
The knife glinted in the shadows—a blade thin as a serpent's tongue, its ivory handle engraved with Paolo's initials.
For my fierce little warrior, he'd whispered, pressing it into my sixteen-year-old palm. Never let them see you bleed.
I pressed the blade to my thigh, its edge kissing skin.
"I'll carve Enzo's heart out before he takes mine, Paolo." The whisper was a prayer. A vow.
Movement outside my door.
A knock—soft, deliberate. Not Vittorio's fist.
"Madam?" Gio slipped inside. Sweat glistened on his brow, catching the weak light. "Your friend… the fae. She's in the lemon grove. Says it's life or death."
I tucked the knife into my boot. Studied him—really looked. Gio was young, barely older than me. Scared. But his hand brushed the scar on his jaw as he waited.
Vittorio's signet ring had left that mark. I recognized the shape.
"Why are you helping me?" My voice cracked. "Aren't you under strict orders to keep me caged like an animal?"
Gio hesitated. "Your brother saved my mother once." The words came rough, like they cost him. "I don't forget debts. And Paolo… he would have helped you."
My lip trembled. I bit down hard.
"He would have, wouldn't he?"
Gio just nodded.
"Thank you."
I slipped past him into the hall.
---
The lemon grove smelled of sharp citrus and damp earth. Moonlight filtered through leaves, dappling the ground in silver.
Linda stood beneath the oldest tree, practically vibrating with urgency.
I didn't speak. Just crossed the distance and let myself be crushed in a hug beneath the rose arches.
"Did he hurt you?" she demanded, pulling back to examine the handprint bruise on my wrist. Her fae heritage made her eyes gleam in the dark—not quite human, never quite human.
"Worse. The wedding's tonight." My voice steadied on the edge of panic. "I need to disappear. Now."
Linda shoved a key into my palm. Cold metal. Warm from her grip.
"What's this?"
"I spoke to Liliana." Her voice dropped. "She had strong opinions about what your father's trying to do. And she did something about it." A pause. "She's not the weepy big sister you remember, Em. She's changed. Stronger."
My throat tightened. Liliana—pregnant again, always pregnant, always smiling with dead eyes. Changed?
"Safehouse in Montreal." Linda glanced over her shoulder. "Passport's buried in a blue locker at the bus station. But we have to wait until—"
"Find the bastard that defiled my daughter!" Vittorio's roar tore through the garden. "Tear him apart limb from limb! Now!"
I ran.
I burst from the grove, through the hedge, into the courtyard where my father stood surrounded by his dogs.
"Leave him alone!" The words ripped from my throat. "Leave him alone, you fucking cunt!"
Vittorio turned. His smile was slow and terrible.
Before he could speak—tires screeched.
A black Rolls-Royce with tinted windows slid into the driveway. Doors opened in unison. Four men emerged, suits sharp enough to draw blood. The leader's tie bore the Marchetti crest—a wolf devouring its own tail.
The same symbol carved into Paolo's chest six years ago.
I knew. I'd identified the body. Sixteen years old, standing in a morgue, trying not to throw up while a coroner pulled back the sheet.
Vittorio had been "too busy."
Liliana had been "too fragile."
So I'd done it alone.
My breath hitched as I recognized him. Salvatore Marchetti. Alpha Enzo's right-hand butcher. The man from Paolo's crime scene photos—caught on camera leaving the warehouse, smiling.
He was smiling now.
"Don Vittorio." Salvatore's gaze crawled over me like something wet and filthy. Lingered on the bruise at my throat. "We've come to… collect your daughter." His smile widened. "Though it seems someone's already had a taste. Enzo won't be pleased."
Vittorio stepped forward, a bull ready to charge. "You'll get her at the church. And nobody's had a taste—unless you're calling my little girl a whore to my face. Then I take your tongue, Sal."
"Ah." Salvatore flicked ash from his cigarette. Unbothered. Amused. "My apologies. But we must insist. Custom demands the bride be… cleansed before the moon goddess."
Cleansed.
The word slithered down my spine like ice water.
I'd heard stories. Marchetti grooms "purifying" their human brides in locked rooms. Breaking them. Leaving them hollowed out and obedient.
"Go to hell." I stepped back until Linda's warmth pressed against my spine. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Salvatore sighed. Snapped his fingers.
Two men lunged.
I reached for my boot knife—
"Try it." Salvatore's voice went soft. Pleasant. "And your little winged friend loses her pretty tongue."
A stiletto kissed Linda's throat. Linda went rigid, wings snapping tight against her back.
I froze.
"Dad?" The word escaped before I could stop it. Small. Terrified. The voice of a child calling for protection that had never come. "Daddy?"
Vittorio watched.
Silent.
Still.
His eyes met mine—flat, empty, the same look he'd given Paolo's coffin.
Traitor.
"Come." Salvatore gestured to the car. "Don't fret, little bird. Enzo's eager to… christen his new wife."
Hands shoved me forward. The Rolls-Royce swallowed me whole.
As the door closed, I caught one last glimpse through the tinted glass—Linda, held back by two men, her face a mask of fury and fear. Gio, frozen at the garden's edge, one hand raised like he might still do something.
Vittorio. Already turning away.
The car pulled into the night.
I pressed my palm to my thigh, feeling the knife's shape through denim. Paolo's voice echoed in my memory:
Never let them see you bleed.
I wouldn't.
But Enzo would.