The Conti mansion looked like a kicked hornet's nest.
Black SUVs choked the driveway with engines growling as armed men barked into radios.
Emilia got down from Lyn's Van, low on the ground, afraid to give her position away.
"What can I do?" Lyn asked her, worry covering her face just like that.
"Go." She gestured to her best friend. "I mean it Lynda, go...I don't want him to hurt you too"
"Emilia"
"I will be fine. I swear. I mean, how angry can he be?" There was a pause. "Bye, Lyn."
She climbed over the fence.
It was a disaster. Just like she expected. The first thing she noticed was the porcelain vase or what was left of it anyway.
Her heels crunched over shattered porcelain—the remnants of Vittorio's favorite vase, hurled at a trembling maid.
He stood in the courtyard, filled with fury.
The morning sun glinted off the gold crucifix at his throat, the same one he'd pressed to Paolo's cold lips at his funeral.
"Dove eri ?" Vittorio's voice sliced through the chaos. Where were you?
"Out," Emilia said, chin high. The lie tasted like ash. She could still smell Luca's cologne on her skin.
Vittorio moved faster than a man his size should. His hand locked around her arm, fingers bruising deep enough to leave tomorrow's wounds. "You vanish on your engagement night? Humiliate me in front of the Marchettis?"
"Humiliate you?" She wrenched free. "You sold me to the men who murdered Paolo! To animals—"
The slap cracked like a gunshot. Emilia staggered, her ear ringing. The courtyard fell silent.
"You think you're special?" Vittorio hissed, breath reeking of grappa and rot. "Your sister begged too. Now she spreads her legs for that Kamikaze dog and thanks me for the privilege."
"Daddy?" Emilia's hand flew to her stinging cheek—and Vittorio froze.
His gaze snagged on her neck, where the collar of her dress had slipped. A bruise bloomed there, violet and unmistakable. Luca's teeth had painted it hours ago, a reckless claim in the dark.
"Troia," Vittorio spat. Whore.
The word hung in the air, thicker than the gardenia-scented breeze.
"You let some gutter rat defile my bloodline? Tonight, you marry Enzo. And when I find your little bastard…" He drew a thumb across his throat.
Emilia's courage fractured. She fled through the mansion, past oil portraits of dead Contis judging her with Paolo's eyes. Her bedroom door slammed, the lock clicking just as 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, Emilia clawed at the floorboards beneath her mattress. She opened her hiding place.
The knife glinted in the shadows—a blade as 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 her 16-year-old palm.
"Never let them see you bleed."
She pressed the blade to her thigh, its edge kissing skin. "I'll carve Enzo's heart out before he takes mine, Paolo."
Her solitude was interrupted instantly.
A knock shattered the silence.
"Madam?" Gio, the youngest guard, slipped inside. Sweat glistened on his brow. "Your friend… the American. She's in the lemon grove. Says it's life or death."
Emilia tucked the knife into her boot. And looked at Gio, trying really hard not to cry
"Why help me?"
Gio hesitated, fingers brushing the scar on his jaw—a gift from Vittorio's signet ring, no doubt.
If it was any consolation Vittorio was ruthless to everyone but it wasn't any consolation to Emilia.
"Paolo saved my mother once. I don't forget debts."
"Thank you" she told him and slipped out the door...if there was ever any one with an outrageous plan on how to get out of marrying her brother's killer, it would the charismatic Lynda.
But she had to be careful, Emilia didn't need a soothsayer to know that Vittorio was mobilizing hell, out there.
When got to the garden, Lynda was there. And for the first time that day, Emilia breathed.
Linda crushed Emilia in a hug beneath the rose arches "Did he hurt you?" she demanded, eyeing the handprint bruise on Emilia's wrist.
"Worse. The wedding's tonight. I need to disappear. Now."
Linda shoved a key into her palm.
"What's this?" She asked Lyn.
"I spoke to Liliana. She had strong opinions about what your father's trying to do. And she did something about it. She's not the weepy big sister you know, Em. She's changed. Stronger"
Lyn looked around before whispering.
"Safehouse in Montreal. 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. "And Tear him apart limb from limb. Now!"
Emilia simply reacted when she came running towards her father. "Leave him alone, you fucking cunt!"
Her father's reaction was only tempered by screeching tires.
A black Rolls-Royce with tinted windows slid into the driveway, its doors opening in unison.
Four men emerged, their suits sharp enough to draw blood. The leader's tie bore the Marchetti crest—a serpent devouring its tail.
Emilia's breath hitched as she saw their leader
Him.
The man from Paolo's crime scene photos. Salvatore Marchetti. Enzo's right-hand butcher.
Salvatore's shark-like smile glinted in the dusk. "Don Vittorio. We've come to… prepare your daughter." His gaze crawled to the bruise on her neck. "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 has had a taste unless you are calling my little girl a whore to my face then I have to take out your tongue, Sal"
"Ah, my bad but we must insist. Hand her over" Salvatore flicked ash from his cigarette. "Custom demands the bride be… cleansed before the altar."
Cleansed.
The word slithered down Emilia's spine. She'd heard stories—Marchetti grooms "purifying" brides in locked rooms, leaving them broken.
Lynda's nails dug into her arm. "Run. I'll distract them."
But it was too late. Salvatore snapped his fingers. Two men lunged, their grips iron.
Emilia reached for her boot knife—
"Try it," Salvatore purred, "and your little American friend loses her pretty tongue."
One thug pressed a stiletto to Lynda's throat.
Vittorio watched, silent. And Emilia watched him.
Traitor.
"Come" Salvatore said, nodding to the car. "Don't fret. Enzo's eager to… christen his new wife."
As they shoved Emilia into the Rolls-Royce, Linda mouthed: Midnight. Be ready.
The last thing Emilia saw was Salvatore pocketing her locker key, his grin feral.