Seraphina Vitiello POV
The family chapel was a masterpiece of hypocritical beauty. Sunlight bled through stained-glass windows, illuminating saints who had died for their beliefs in glorious, technicolor martyrdom. The irony was sharp enough to draw blood as the guards zip-tied my wrists to the heavy oak railing of the altar.
I was on my knees.
It was the posture of a penitent. It was the posture of the condemned.
My father gripped the cane. It was a length of bamboo, flexible and cruel, a tool he typically reserved for breaking stubborn horses. Now, it was for daughters who had forgotten the weight of Omerta.
"This is for the family," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth.
The first strike hit my back like a branding iron.
Pain exploded across my skin, but I bit down on my tongue until the taste of copper flooded my mouth. I would not scream. I would not give them the satisfaction of my sound.
Dante stood in the shadows near the holy water font. He was watching.
His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his expression carved from stone. He didn't flinch as the bamboo whistled through the air.
There was a time he would have stood between me and the belt. He used to take the hits so I wouldn't have to. Now, he was the reason the cane was falling.
*Crack.*
"Apologize," my father grunted, the exertion audible in his breath.
"No," I wheezed, the air trapped in my burning lungs.
*Crack.*
"Admit you lied."
"No."
*Crack.*
The pain turned white and blinding. It tore through the delicate silk of my blouse and flayed the skin beneath. It was a fire that consumed everything—my love, my loyalty, my very name.
Ten lashes. A biblical number. A nice, round tally for a sinner.
When they finally cut the zip-ties, my legs refused to hold me. I couldn't stand. I crawled.
I dragged myself past the pews, past the judging eyes of the saints, and past the husband who watched me bleed without blinking.
"Take her to her room," Dante ordered the guards. His voice was a flat, dead thing. "Clean her up."
They hauled me upstairs and dumped me onto the floor of the guest room. The master bedroom was locked to me now. That was Lucia's territory.
I managed to pull my broken body into the bathroom. I needed water. I needed to wash the blood away before it dried and fused the shredded silk to my wounds.
I turned on the tap, and the tub began to fill.
The door creaked open.
Lucia stood in the doorway. She was far from the bed rest she was supposedly on; she looked vibrant, her cheeks flushed with health, wearing a silk robe that shimmered in the light.
In her hand, she held a pitcher. Before she even moved, the smell hit me—pungent, acrid, and spicy.
"Poor Sera," she cooed, her voice dripping with poison sugar. "Daddy was rough."
"Get out," I whispered, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge of the porcelain sink to stay upright.
"I brought you something for the pain," she said, stepping closer.
She walked to the tub and upended the pitcher. The liquid poured into the bathwater, turning it a murky, violent red. "Chili oil and salt. An old family recipe. It helps... purify."
Before I could react, she lunged.
She grabbed a fistful of my hair. She was stronger than she looked—or perhaps I was simply too hollowed out to fight back. She shoved me toward the steaming, tainted water.
"Let's wash those wounds," she hissed.
I screamed as the spicy steam seared my face. I wasn't going into that water. Instinct took over, overriding the agony in my back.
I twisted, ignoring the tearing sensation of my skin, and locked my hand around her wrist.
I pulled.
She lost her balance. With a shriek, she tumbled into the tub with me. The chili water splashed in a chaotic wave. It burned my eyes, my open cuts, my throat.
Lucia started wailing immediately. "My baby! My eyes! Help!"
Dante was there in seconds.
He didn't see me struggling to keep my head above the burning water. He only saw Lucia screaming.
He reached in, his fingers closing around my throat, and hauled me out with terrifying force. He threw me backward.
I hit the doorframe. My head snapped back, stars exploding in my vision.
"You crazy bitch!" he roared.
He turned back to help Lucia out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel with frantic gentleness, checking her face, her stomach. "Are you okay? Did she hurt him?"
"She tried to drown me!" Lucia sobbed, burying her face in his chest, playing the victim to perfection. "Just like she drowned!"
Dante turned to me. His eyes were murderous.
He marched over, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out of the bathroom. He didn't stop at the bedroom door. He dragged me to the top of the grand staircase.
"I gave you a chance," he said, his voice low and lethal. "I spared you."
"You killed me," I choked out.
He shoved me.
Gravity took over. I tumbled.
Shoulders slamming against marble. Knees cracking against the stone steps. The world dissolved into a blur of ceiling lights and agonizing impact.
I landed at the bottom in a broken heap. I couldn't feel my left arm. My ribs felt like shattered glass grinding together in my chest.
I looked up through the haze of pain.
Dante stood at the top, holding Lucia close. He stepped over the spot where I had been standing, as if I were nothing more than a stain.
He turned his back on me.
"Get her out of my sight," he said to the empty air.
