Page 15 of Crowned in Sin
My breath halts in my throat.
"Who is she?" I ask Giorgia. "The woman in the photo."
The smile drops from Giorgia’s face, and I know immediately that I’ve just asked something that I shouldn’t have.
Well if Nico didn’t want me asking uncomfortable questions, then maybe he shouldn’t have put me in this room.
"Giorgia." I pick up the frame and hold it out towards her. "Who is she?"
"It's late, Lydia. You should rest."
"Rest? You expect me to rest after everything that happened tonight?" The words come out before I can soften them. "Do you know what Nico just told me?"
Her eyes flick away at the wall, and then back to me. But she doesn’t answer.
"He said he's going tomarryme." Venom drips off every syllable. "And didn’t even bother to hear what my answer is."
Giorgia’s eyes soften a fraction, and for a moment, she looks at me like I’m a mad woman standing on the tracks while the train is barreling towards me.
"So if he’s going to force me to become the lady of this lovely house,” I continue. “Then you can do the bare fucking minimum and tell me who this woman is."
"That’s Martina," she finally answers. "Nico's mother."
“Thank you, Giorgia,” I tell her. “You can go now.”
She nods, gives me one last look, and then walks out, closing the door behind her.
Alone now, I look at the photo again. Martina D'Ambrosio is beautiful, there’s no doubting that. But Mom was beautiful as well until a marriage she never wanted broke her, and she wasn’t married to Don Leo.
I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of suffering Martina endured at his hands. I still remember the final confession from that monster right before Nico put a bullet in his head–about how he raped and strangled Nico’s sister Gia for family honor.
My eyes drift towards Nico in the photo, and they stay for a moment on the scar before turning to his face. He holds himself with the solemnity of a child who knows that he’s supposed to stand that way without understanding why.
One hand hangs by his side, balled into a fist. The other grips the lapel of his little suit jacket. But it’s the way that he stands that makes me pause.
He’s standing like he’s trying to guard this stone-faced woman from the photographer. His lips are pursed in a line without any hint of the grin that I’ve come to recognize.
I’ve seen the same expression on him tonight. He had it on his face after he shot that cop in front of me.
No, I tell myself.I’m just imagining things.
I look again. The expression is unmistakable, and for a moment, I want to knowwhyhe wore this face as a child in this photo.
But just as my heart starts softening, I remember his words from moments ago.
I'm going to marry you.
Yeah, fuck that.
I amnotgoing to end up in a frame–gold or silver–on a nightstand.
I cross over to the window and look out into the darkness again. My fingers start working at the latch, and to my surprise, I find that they give. When the window swings open, the warm humid air caresses my face like an old friend. I can detect hints of the sea in the breeze as I poke my head out and look down.
It’s a long drop down, probably fifteen feet. I look back and stare at the four-poster bed with its layered sheets. I run my hand over them and feel the strong linen underneath. A reckless idea takes shape in my head.
The bed is certainly heavy enough to anchor myself.
I yank the sheet off the bed and heft it in my hand to feel the weight, feeling my heart pound in my throat at what I’m about to do. This might be my only chance. Then, I start to move, stripping the bed in under a minute.
