the deadly confession

~Two weeks later~

JUST LIKE ANY other Wednesday morning, I’m up early, playing the part of the perfect housewife. I’ve made myself presentable and assigned the extra chores to the new maid.

Alessia seems to be catching on to how things work around here.

“We’re going to Italy tonight,” Antonio announces at breakfast.

I choke on my food, surprised by the news. Alessia quickly hands me a glass of water. Over the past two weeks, we’ve become close.

She’s shared everything with me, including her crushes—though I’ve warned her not to act on them. We’re like sisters—for now.

I’ve even managed to forget about my secrets, only occasionally remembering them. I haven’t acted on them and Arianna hasn’t tried anything either.

I haven’t had any contact with the police, considering that I tossed the note the day after I took it. Everything’s been going smoothly. Too smoothly. I should’ve seen it coming.

“You okay, ~cognata~?” Costanzo asks.

I nod briefly. Satisfied that I’m fine, the brothers go back to discussing their plans for when Antonio and I are away.

Of course, they’re speaking in Italian and I only understand bits when I choose to. Otherwise, I just tune out their chatter.

Alessia taps my shoulder. I glance at her. “You didn’t know?” she asks, her brows furrowed.

“What?” I ask, confused.

She licks her lips. “That you and Toni are going to Italy.”

“I did,” I lie easily. “I just forgot, that’s all, so it surprised me.” But I know she doesn’t believe me. Alessia’s a smart girl and the brothers aren’t exactly subtle.

They love messing with her, confusing her. But it’s sort of good. At least she’ll see it coming when we tell her. If we tell her.

“Okay,” she says before Antonio interrupts us. He stands up halfway and nods at me to follow him upstairs. He’s been acting strange lately, and it’s starting to bother me.

I have this odd feeling in my stomach. It’s the gut feeling that things are about to go downhill and that whatever he wants to talk about isn’t going to be pleasant.

For the past two weeks, nothing’s happened. I’ve slowly started to forget about Jasmine and Sophia. Sophia hasn’t contacted me again, but that’s probably because I’ve blocked her.

Antonio got me a new sim card, and that was the last time we talked. That was four days ago. Other than that, he just glares at me.

I know something’s wrong, but I don’t have the courage to ask him. His glare is terrifying.

“You wanted to talk to me?” I ask him once I close the door behind me. I’m not sure whether to be relieved that we’re finally going to sort things out or scared that he seems tense.

Antonio stands with his back to me. I can’t see his face, but judging by his sharp intakes of breath, I know this isn’t going to be a normal conversation.

Usually, I’m too stiff, and he’s too closed off.

It’s already strange for him not to be gone after breakfast, since he usually leaves for work at this time every day. Small talk isn’t his thing.

When we left, I saw Costanzo raise his eyebrows in surprise. Dante even put down his newspaper. Hell, even Omero looked perplexed.

Over the last two weeks, Antonio and I haven’t talked much, but that’s not what surprises me. I’ve quickly realized that my husband communicates more with silence than words.

He doesn’t say things that aren’t absolutely necessary, and when he does talk, it’s always to the point—with everyone, not just me.

“Francesca, I hate traitors,” he says suddenly, his head tilting down.

I stiffen. What does he mean by that? Why is he telling me this?

The first thought that comes to mind is Arianna. Did she try to escape again? But that’s not possible. Father surely wouldn’t tell the Don that.

I stay silent, hoping he’ll explain. But he doesn’t, so I force some words out of my mouth. “I know,” I say. My trembling voice gives away exactly what I’m thinking—nothing.

He abruptly turns around and leans against the table behind him. “Sit down,” he orders, calmly—too calmly.

I don’t take my eyes off him as I walk toward the couches by the balcony. The sunlight falls on my face and I turn a bit to keep the glare off.

My eyes widen when I see a knife twirling in his hand. He walks toward me and I have to look up to meet his eyes when he stands right in front of me.

“Antonio, wha—?” I start to say, suddenly scared for my life.

But he cuts me off. “Shhh, Doll.” It’s not a term of endearment. No. It’s a mockery and he doesn’t bother to hide it.

He places the knife on my lips. “You talk when I tell you to talk today. ~Capisci~?” I can’t reply without the knife cutting my lips and he knows that.

He grins sinisterly, leaving me breathless. His smile is full of cruelty and practically screams crazy, yet I can’t help but think about how beautiful he looks.

I’ve never seen him smile, much less grin. And this isn’t a real grin either. It’s sinister, one that screams danger. He’s a total red flag and I still can’t look away.

It scares me to no end. I feel my fingers trembling and I clasp them together to feel a bit braver, so I don’t shake under his gaze.

“So small and so innocent.” He tskes before his gaze hardens. The shift is so quick I could’ve missed it. “But with a heart of deceit.”

He finally removes the knife from my lips, but I still don’t speak. My mind isn’t working. I’m panicking. What does he know? I haven’t done anything!

I watch him as he moves away. I think he's heading for the balcony, but he doesn’t. He takes in the view through the glass doors before abruptly shutting the blinds.

Darkness descends, intimidating me. I’ve never been a fan of the dark. It brings back memories of that night.

When I finally muster the courage to speak, he cuts me off, “Don’t. Francesca, don’t you fucking dare speak.”

My eyes widen. This is the first time he’s cursed. At least around me.

I let out a scream when he suddenly slams his hand against a lamp on a small side table.

My heart leaps and I spring up from the sofa, rushing towards him when I see the small trails of cuts on his right hand. He’s hurting!

“What are you doing?!” I yell, panic rising. When I reach out to touch his arm, he shoves me back.

I stumble, losing my balance. I don’t even have time to scream as my eyes instinctively shut when I see the glass table behind me. I’m falling, my neck headed straight for the edge.

But I don’t hit the ground. When I open my eyes, he’s standing in front of me. My hand is clutching his bloody one. Tears well up in my eyes as I meet his dark gaze. But his expression doesn’t soften.

He pulls me up, his grip tight, and the glass shards embedded in his hand pierce mine. I whimper, but he only tightens his hold.

Silence. A deadly silence. A silence I don’t like. A silence that tells me I’ve screwed up. A silence that reminds me too much of Father.

I don’t see my Antonio anymore, the one who never raised his voice at me, the one whose finger I would touch for comfort. I see a mirror image of a tormentor barely holding back.

“Antonio, please stop,” I plead when the pain becomes unbearable. The glass shards push deeper. “It’s hurting me. It’s hurting you!”

He disregards my plea and pulls me closer, so close that if I were to look up, our lips would meet. But I don’t have the courage to do so, so I just stare at his chest, covered in his navy Armani suit.

“For weeks,” he growls. “Fucking weeks, Francesca.”

“Wha—?”

He cuts me off, and this time he doesn’t tell me to shut up.

He makes me.