The garden noise faded to a dull roar, replaced by the thundering of my own pulse.
"What did you just say?"
She leaned in close, her perfume cloying and thick, her voice low enough that only I could hear—a whisper meant for the damned.
"I told her if she wanted the money back, she'd have to film herself doing something… special. You know, the kind men pay for." She grinned, her teeth white and sharp in the lamplight. "But she got all high and mighty. She refused and even had the nerve to insult me and my mom."
A twisted laugh escaped her painted lips.
"So I gave her what she deserved."
She sighed dramatically, as if recounting a minor inconvenience rather than a murder.
"Did you know? She barely made it through fifty men before she collapsed. Still had the nerve to clutch my leg and beg—beg—me to return the money to her 'sweet daughter.'"
She made a clicking sound with her tongue, savoring the memory like fine wine.
"Pathetic, really."
Her words struck like a blade between the ribs.
For a moment, rage consumed me—a wildfire that burned through every nerve, every thought, every shred of restraint I'd ever possessed. No sound escaped my throat. Only fury, raw and blinding, coiling in my chest like a serpent preparing to strike.
Then I snapped.
I lunged at Piper.
Fists clenched. Nails sinking into flesh like talons.
I seized her hair, wrenched her down, clawed at her face, her throat—anywhere I could reach. The silk of her gown tore beneath my fingers like the lies she'd woven around my life.
"You monster! Give me my mother back, you stronza!"
But before I could draw blood—before I could carve the truth into her treacherous skin—agony exploded through my spine. Then my ribs. The soldiers were on me in an instant, their polished shoes connecting with bone, their fists driving me to the cold marble until I curled into myself like a broken marionette.
Gasps rippled through the gathering like wind through dead leaves.
Colino shoved past the crowd, his face carved from granite.
He didn't spare me a glance.
He went straight to Piper—sobbing, trembling, performing the role of wounded dove with practiced perfection—and gathered her into his arms as though she were spun from Venetian glass.
When his eyes finally cut toward me, they held the warmth of a midwinter grave.
"You've gone too far." His voice was quiet. Lethal. "Kneel. Apologize to her. Now."