There’s a baby in my stomach and a murderer lurking in the hallways.
And among all this, I haven’t seen Francesco since the night of his engagement ceremony. He was the one who cut Cassian’s body down from where it was hanging. I assume there’s an ongoing investigation into what exactly happened.
A part of me wants to collapse into his strong, big arms while he comforts me and tells me everything will be okay. Speaking of comfort, I haven’t seen Marco either after the night at the stables, where he let me cry on his shoulder and fall asleep without a word. When I woke up the next morning, I was in my bed, and it was the last time I saw him.
The more reasonable and terrified part of me doesn’t want to see any of them. I can’t face Francesco, especially not with the child in my womb. Every single scenario I have imagined telling him the truth ends terribly. And Marco… my chest twists in guilt whenever I remember him. He’s been nothing but loving and kind to me. He won’t take this well.
I distract myself for the rest of the day. If I keep thinking about my situation, I might have a panic attack.
Later in the evening, I overhear some voices from the dining hall where the Romanos are having dinner. I wonder if Francesco is present at the dining table, but I don’t want to find out. When Marta asks me to bring water to the table, I shake my head and pretend to be busy with something else. She frowns but doesn’t push.
As soon as my work in the kitchen is done, I grab a small plate, take it to my room, and lock the door. The food barely touches my tongue before it comes back up. I don’t make it to the bathroom in time. I throw up in the corner of the door, hand over my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
I clean up the mess, take a cold shower, and try to sleep. I can’t.
I lie in the dark, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and all I can think about is how alone I am. I can’t tell anyone what I’m going through. I have to deal with it all by myself.
I think about Cassian’s body, the way it was described hanging off the chandelier in the corridor leading to the east wing. I am glad I never saw the body myself, but it doesn’t stop my brain from conjuring up the image.
I think about what he said to me that night.
I know it’s not a mere coincidence that he was found dead the morning after he revealed those things to me. He was murdered, that I am sure of, for what he knew. What he revealed.
They didn’t even bother to give him a proper burial. He wasn’t mourned, at least not around here. He was removed like trash, like he never mattered.
I press a hand against my stomach, eyes fluttering shut. A chill seeps into my skin. My thoughts are louder than they should be.
They’ll never let me keep this child.
Not here. Not in this family. Not after what I know, what I’ve caused. Whatever this is, they won’t let me walk away from it alive.
But I’m not going to give them the chance.
I curl tighter around myself. My hand rests on my flat stomach. I can’t believe there’s a life inside of me.
The knowledge burns something deep within me. Anger and determination curl their way up my spine.
“I’ll protect you no matter what,” I whisper vehemently.
I will leave this prison, even if it kills me.
Even if I have to burn this entire house down to do it.
18
FRANCESCO
The letter arrives just after sunrise in a heavy parchment and crimson wax, the seal of the Elders pressed deep into its skin. No matter how many times I have received a letter from the Elders, I can never get used to the doom that comes with it.
I take the letter from the butler and head toward my father’s study without opening it. This letter isn’t addressed to me. It is addressed to the Romano family.
I inhale deeply to calm myself down, but I don’t feel better. The air in this house has been sour since Cassian’s body was cut down. A sickening dread looms above our heads, and I feel like this letter is the match that will set it all off.
I walk into the war room with the letter still intact in my hands after minutes of struggling not to crumple it in my fists.
My father is already pacing, his eyes burning with that old fire I’ve seen only when he wants to spill blood. Marco is leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark glint appearing in his eyes the moment he sees me walk in. My anger is still boiling over from our last argument. Elio sits on the sofa, eerily calm as usual. Our consigliere, Olga, looks as if she’s aged ten years overnight.
I toss the letter onto the table. It lands with a quiet thud, and my father snatches it off in the next second. He snaps the seal without any hesitation, and I watch his eyes narrow into angry slits as he reads. I watch his jaw tighten.
