Chapter 36 CHAPTER 36

Chapter 36 CHAPTER 36
EMILIA

The library doors didn't just open; they were detonated by the sheer force of Michelle's entrance. I tumbled backward, my heels skidding on the marble floor as I scrambled away from the shattered porcelain, my heart leaping into my throat.

The banquet hall, once a scene of stiff, high-society elegance, was now a portrait of absolute carnage.

Michelle stood in the center of the foyer, her ginger hair wild, her chest heaving with a rhythmic, frantic energy. She had scattered the nearest dining table with a single swipe of her arm, sending crystal flutes and silver platters crashing into the walls.

"He is my fucking fiancé!" she screamed, her voice cracking like a whip. "Do you hear me? Mine! And no one else gets to touch him!"

The response was instantaneous and terrifying. In the blink of an eye, the dignified men and women who had been discussing offshore assets and vintage wines moved with the synchronized precision of a pack of wolves. Steel glinted under the chandeliers as a dozen guns were drawn and leveled at Michelle.

"Lower your weapons!" Andrea’s voice boomed as he and Vindiego stepped out of the library, their faces masks of thunderous rage.

Michelle didn't flinch at the guns. She didn't even seem to see them. Her eyes were locked on Andrea, burning with a feverish, desperate light.

"Andrea, look at me!" she wailed, gesturing wildly to her designer gown. "I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one who sat through those boring galas, who smoothed over your messes with the council, who waited for you while you played at being a god! I did everything for you!"

She pivoted, her finger stabbing the air toward me as I huddled by the wall. "And you replace me with that? A common stripper? A whore from a smoky club who sells her skin for a handful of dollars?"

Andrea stepped forward, and for a second, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He didn't look angry. He looked lethal. It was a cold, crystalline stillness that was far more frightening than Michelle's screaming.

"Michelle," Andrea said, his voice a low, vibrating hum of warning. "If you ever and I mean ever use that word to describe her again, I will wipe your name from the history of Sicily. I will make it as if you never existed."

Michelle let out a shrill, jagged laugh. "Protecting her already? How sweet. How pathetic."

"She is Emilia Luigi," Andrea declared, his voice ringing through the hall like a hammer on an anvil. "She is my wife. And nobody, not even you, can change that fact. She is a Luigi now, and that name carries a price you aren't prepared to pay."

"Emilia Luigi?" Michelle mocked, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, Andrea, she’s really turned you pussy-whipped, hasn't she? You’re so blinded by a pretty face and a tight waist that you can't see the truth right in front of you. She doesn't love you. She’s a parasite burrowing into your life until she can drain you dry!"

"We were happy, Michelle," Andrea said, though his eyes were empty. "Until you decided that your ambition was more important than my trust. You were my fiancee until you started to hate and pick on Emilia at every chance. Emilia is the wife I chose."

"You chose a whore!" Michelle screamed.

"I chose a woman who doesn't hide behind a mask of socialite perfection," Andrea retorted. "Now, leave. While I am still inclined to let you walk out of here on your own feet."

I watched from the sidelines, my mind racing. The exits were blocked by guards. The tension in the room was a physical weight, a wire pulled so tight it was humming. I looked at the balcony doors, then at the service entrance.

I need to move. I need to get out of the crossfire.

Michelle’s face twisted, her eyes welling with tears that she refused to let fall. "You really think she’s your crown, don't you? You think she’s the one who’s going to stand by you when the families come for your head?"

"She is my wife," Andrea repeated, his jaw set like granite.

Michelle laughed again, but this time it was a hollow, broken sound. She looked at me, her gaze sharpening into something predatory. "Emilia Luigi, right? Let’s see how your husband saves you this time."

In a blur of movement that no one expected from a woman in five-inch heels, Michelle lunged. She didn't go for Andrea. She went for me.

Before I could even scream, her hand was a vice around my throat, her manicured nails digging into my windpipe. I gasped, my hands flying up to claw at her arm, but she was fueled by a manic strength.

With her other hand, she whipped a small, snub-nosed revolver from the folds of her discarded coat and pressed the cold muzzle against my temple.

"One more step," Michelle shrieked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "and your precious Emilia will be lying in a pool of her own blood with a bullet lodged into her brain to reset it!"

The room froze. Vindiego’s men and Andrea’s guards faltered, their fingers hovering over their triggers. They all turned as one, looking to their bosses for guidance.

Vindiego stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture, though his eyes remained as cold as a shark’s. "Michelle, let’s be reasonable. You’re a woman of status. Don't throw your life away for a girl who isn't worth the bullet. I give you two options. Leave alive, or leave six feet under."

Michelle pulled me tighter against her, the barrel of the gun bruising my skin. I choked, my vision swimming as she squeezed my throat. "Oh, please, Don," she sneered, her breath hot against my ear. "I don't have business with you. The man I have business with is right behind you."

Andrea looked as if he were about to explode. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on mine. I looked at him, my lungs burning for air, and saw a flicker of something, a silent command. Trust me.

I blinked once, a tiny nod that only he could see.

"How beautiful," Michelle remarked, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "They even share a beautiful communication without words. You really robbed me cold, stripper. But I think I’ll just end you and get it over with. I’ll die anyway, but at least I’ll die knowing I took your heart with me."

She began to squeeze the trigger.

"Wait!" Andrea screamed, his voice raw with a desperation I had never heard before. "Whatever problem you have, it's with me! If you want to shoot someone, it should be me, not her! Let her go, and you can do whatever you want to me."

"Hmmm. Love is in the air, Andrea," Michelle sneered, looking like a villain from a tragic opera. She reached up and yanked my hair back until I cried out in pain, forcing my head to a sharp angle so the gun was positioned perfectly against my jaw.

"The real question is," Michelle said, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying madness. "Are you willing to do anything... I mean anything... for your stripper to live? Or would you rather I paint the walls with her blood? As they say in China...
Tick tock, tick tock says the clock. So... what’s it gonna be, Andrea baby? A wall painted by her crimson blood... or something far more... better?”