Chapter 6 · Torn at the Edge

The stiletto hit the marble and spun.

A thin, high scrape, like steel dragging across glass. Six hours of playing the blushing bride in that cathedral, and my only leverage was skittering toward the baseboards.

Dante Ferrara didn't let go of my hair.

"Poison on the tip," he said. His voice was low, flat, like he was checking the weather. "Salvatore taught you well."

"Let go of me."

"No."

I swung. My free hand went straight for his eyes, nails out. He snatched my wrist out of the air like a reflex, then caught the other one before I could twist. His knee hit the mattress. The world went sideways.

Black marble headboard. Sheets cold as butcher paper. Outside the iron terrace bars, Lake Como sat black and still, a hundred-foot drop to the rocks.

He banded both my wrists in one fist and locked them over my head.

I kicked. My heel slammed his thigh. Solid muscle, like kicking brick. He didn't even flinch.

"Your mother's hands," he said, staring down at my fingers. "She went for the eyes, too."

White heat hit the back of my skull.

"Don't say her name." My voice cracked. I hated it.