Chapter 7

The Castellano family estate was transformed into a grotesque parody of a fairy tale for Isabella’s birthday. White orchids from Colombia, worth more than most men’s annual earnings, dripped from every arch. The champagne was vintage Krug, flowing from fountains.

The gifts presented to Isabella were extravagant. A diamond necklace once worn by a deposed European princess. A vintage Aston Martin on the gravel drive. But the most talked-about gift was a velvet-lined case containing a matched pair of pearl-handled, custom-engraved .38 revolvers. The card bore a simple signature: N. Rossi.

A murmur of impressed awe rippled through the crowd. Nicholas, playing his role as the mysterious benefactor, stood at a distance near the terrace doors. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his expression unreadable, but his eyes followed Isabella as she flitted from guest to guest, basking in the attention.

I took a slow sip of water, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the heat building behind my ribs.

The formal toast was my father’s idea—a display of family unity. He raised his glass, his voice booming with false warmth. “To my darling Isabella, the light of our family. May your future be as bright as your spirit.”

Isabella clung to his arm. She wore a silver gown that caught the light. “Thank you, Papa,” she said sweetly. Then she turned to the crowd. “I’m blessed to be surrounded by such authentic love. It reminds me what truly matters.” Her eyes slid to me. “Unlike some people who cling to dusty portraits and the questionable legacies of those no longer here to defend their choices.”

The air left my lungs. She wasn’t just insulting me. She was dragging my mother’s memory through the mud of her insinuations, in front of everyone who had ever whispered about the reclusive first Mrs. Castellano.

My feet moved before my mind could catch up. The hum of conversation died as I crossed the parquet floor, the click of my heels the only sound. I saw Nicholas stiffen, his hand shifting instinctively toward the inside of his jacket.

I stopped inches from Isabella. Her eyes widened with feigned surprise. “Victoria? Is something—”

The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed like a gunshot in the silent ballroom. Her head snapped to the side.

For a second, no one moved.

She let out a choked cry and crumpled to the floor, a hand pressed to her face. “Why?” she sobbed, her voice breaking beautifully. “Why would you do that?”

My father’s face purpled with rage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicholas take a step forward, his body coiled for intervention.

I looked down at Isabella, at her perfect, tragic performance.

I knelt, slowly, beside her. The crowd held its breath. I leaned close, as if to help her up. Then I reared back and slapped her again, a full-armed, resounding blow that jerked her head back.

The second gasp was louder, shocked into silence.

I stood up, smoothing the skirt of my dress. My voice, when it came, was calm and carried in the dead quiet. “If I’m going to be accused of it,” I said, looking directly at my father, then letting my gaze sweep the frozen guests, “I might as well do it properly.”

I turned my back on the ruined party, on my father’s apoplectic glare, and on Nicholas, whose stare I could feel burning into my spine like a brand.

I walked out, the heavy doors of the ballroom swinging shut behind me, muffling the explosion of noise that followed.

Everyone saw Isabella’s tears. No one saw mine.