The Devil's CrownPart Two - Monica James Page 0,41
an elegant red dress—the color reflects the fire burning inside me.
As I look at myself in the mirror, I shake my head, disgusted I didn’t fight harder. I should have done something, anything. Instead, I allowed that monster to take me against my will. I rub more makeup over my upper arm where Santo’s punishing grip left bruises.
The back of my neck throbs. Even though I can’t see, I know I’ll have bruises there too, so I wear my hair down to cover them.
Quickly dressing, I find the beautiful silk dress is the perfect camouflage to conceal how I’m feeling inside. On the outside, I look composed and put together, but on the inside, I want to fucking kill Santo. I want to take from him how he did from me.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m fucking angry I didn’t kill him when I had the chance. I choked, and it’s something I’ll never do again.
The door opens and in strolls Frank. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks. He looks casual, but nothing is relaxed about tonight’s proceedings. When he sees me slip into my red heels, he hums in approval.
“I’m glad my father persuaded me to change my mind. You look ravishing. Good enough to eat.”
My heels put me almost at eye level with Frank, so I stand tall when he walks over to me and kisses my cheek—the one slathered in makeup to conceal the handprint he left behind.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food?” I quip, not checking my sarcasm at the door. I have nothing left to lose.
Frank chuckles, nudging my cheek with his nose. “This smart mouth of yours will only get you in trouble.”
“Oh, I hope that it does,” I purr, wanting him to think he’s in with a shot. My victory will taste all the sweeter when I neuter him after I’m done with his father.
Frank smirks, appreciating my flirty sass. “C’mon, bella, we can finish this later. Now, we have guests to entertain.”
Fixing my hair to cover the bruises on my neck, I accept Frank’s arm as he escorts me from the room and down the spiral staircase. Joyful voices speaking Italian sound from downstairs. Santo’s family must be here already.
We enter the parlor room, and what I see angers me all the more.
Three men in expensive silk suits are huddle around Santo and Mila, laughing and liaising as though they’re not breathing the same air as a monster. The younger man of the three strangers stops talking when he sees us enter. The halt in conversation has Santo turning toward the doorway.
We lock eyes and flashes of him on top of me, in me, rob me of air. I keep my cool, however, as Mila is watching. Even though she’s aware of her husband’s infidelities with others, she doesn’t know of ours because this is a family affair which would never be allowed.
Santo remains poker-faced, but I can smell his smugness. He got to me before his son did. How that must make the old man beat his chest in pride.
Thankfully, a server comes over with a tray filled with champagne glasses. I resist temptation and only take one glass.
“Zio Vincenzo, I want you to meet my fiancée, Antonella.” The older man with dark brown eyes walks over and kisses both my cheeks.
This must be Santo’s brother.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says in Sicilian dialect.
“And you,” I reply in the same dialect, impressing him.
“Sei Italiano?”
“My father is,” I reply. “He’s from Napoli.”
I can see Santo from the corner of my eye, beaming proudly. It makes me sick.
“Come, Christian,” he orders the younger man who resembles him. I guess this is Vincenzo’s son.
Christian looks out of place compared to these stuffy old men. He also doesn’t seem to appreciate his father hovering as he glares at him when he passes him. But he does as he is instructed and gives both my cheeks a kiss. He looks the same age as Frank. He doesn’t seem a threat, but the fact he’s here proves otherwise.
“It’s wonderful to meet the woman who was able to capture my cousin’s heart.”
Frank draws his cousin in for a tight hug, but it’s all for show. They’re not close.
“Stop with this romantic nonsense,” says Vincenzo, embarrassing his son.
Christian tongues his cheek, not appreciating his father’s tone. I can’t shake the feeling he’s only here because he bears the Macrillo name.