Knock.
We were interrupted. Whatever had been happening between us, whatever that mess of fear and something dangerously close to excitement was, was shattered the moment someone knocked on the door. I could still feel the barrel press against my stomach. I was terrified he might pull the trigger, yet a part of me felt a sick thrill at the possibility. If he shot me, it would all end here. One bullet and I'd finally be released from this earthly hell and maybe thrown into a real one. But I doubt even hell could be worse to me than this world has been. I would rather burn there than stay here… in this household.
There was a second knock at the door, but neither of us moved. We stayed locked in a stare, neither willing to surrender nor to blink. There was no softness in it, nothing a wife would ever expect from a husband. This wasn't the kind of stare that ended with tangled sheets and shaking breaths. No. This was the kind of stare people shared right before one of them died – a stare carved out of pure hatred.
His jaw tightened when another round of knocking echoed through the room.
"Fuck," he hissed, shoving the gun harder into my stomach. I gasped at the sharp burst of pain, but it vanished as quickly as it came when he jerked the weapon back and muttered another string of curses.
"WHAT?!" he roared at the door. The knocking stopped instantly. Whoever was on the other side must've frozen, terrified by the violence in his voice.
He shot me one last glare before storming toward the door and yanking it open. A maid stood there, trembling so hard she could barely hold herself upright. The gun in Ettore's hand wasn't helping.
For a second, I simply watched, oddly fascinated. Her wide eyes flicked from his face to the weapon, and she took an instinctive step back. Ah, how lovely it must be to still be scared of guns. What privilege it must be not to have lived my life. I exhaled slowly, rolling my jaw, waiting for whatever nonsense was about to unfold.
She swallowed hard and bowed. "I… I'm so sorry, Young Master," she whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor.
Young Master. I nearly gagged. The urge to laugh crept up my throat, but I didn't want her to faint on the spot, so I kept quiet.
"…but Master Moretti sent me to give you this," she added, lifting an envelope with both hands, like an offering.
Ettore kept glaring at her before finally shifting his attention to the envelope. He snatched it out of her hands. She bowed again and turned to leave, only to freeze when he barked, "Wait."
She stopped instantly. Turned back around. The poor thing looked like a goat waiting to be slaughtered. She gulped and looked at him. "Yes, Young Master?" she asked.
"Did Nonno return home?" he inquired.
"Uh, yes. He is resting now," she responded. He didn't reply, only nodded and dismissed her. She understood immediately and hurriedly left.
Once the maid left, it was just the two of us again. Him. Me. And the gun he still held.
He had the perfect chance to end this, to end me, but he didn't. Instead, he looked down at the envelope in his hand. Then he lifted his gaze to me with the nastiest look he had given so far. His jaw locked, his nostrils flared. The rage was still there, burning, but he refused to use it the way I almost wished he would.
I watched his eyes skim the words on the card. His teeth ground together. Then, without hesitation, he crushed the envelope and the card in one brutal fist. Paper cracked and folded beneath his grip like it was nothing. He tossed it aside and turned his glare back on me.
"I am already sick of this marriage," he spat.
I had no idea what the card said or what had angered him this much, but honestly, I understood the feeling. It had been one day. One miserable day. And I was already exhausted, too.
I rolled my jaw. "You're not alone there," I said. "I fucking hate you. I fucking hate your fucked up family. I fucking hate that I was dragged into this mess. I fucking hate it so much I would rather die, so go on. Do it, Young Master."
I spat the title at him. His glare didn't shift, didn't soften, didn't blink. Good. I wanted to rile him up. Just enough. Just enough for him to finally pull the trigger. I was done pretending to be strong. I didn't think I could survive this life, this marriage, this house. I was ready to give up before it even began.
I narrowed my eyes and stepped closer to him, slow and deliberate. He stayed perfectly still, clutching the gun like it was the only steady thing in the room. I kept walking.
"So do it, Moretti. Use your gun and end this," I whispered once I was close enough to feel his breath ghost over my cheek. He towered over me so easily that my neck ached just from looking up at him, while he stared down like I was nothing but an inconvenience.
His jaw ticked.
"Be the man you pretend to be," I challenged quietly. "End it."
My words should have cut him, but he didn't even flinch. It only made my frustration burn hotter, so I used the one line I knew would sink deep.
I gave him a slow, poisonous smirk. "You know," I said, letting each word drip like venom, "when Roman came home after ending your pathetic brother, I was the one who cheered the loudest."
It hit him instantly.
His jaw locked so tightly the muscle twitched. His lips thinned to a hard line. His glare sharpened into something lethal… but behind it, for just a fraction of a second, there was shock. Real shock. Good. It was working.
And I didn't stop. I couldn't. Not if I wanted him to finally end me.
"Roman told me everything," I continued, voice low and cruel. "Your brother didn't even fight back. Not once. He just let my brother finish him. Pathetic. A wuss who practically handed his life over."
The words tasted rotten in my mouth. They were vile, too vile, the kind of insults that scraped even me from the inside. But I forced them out anyway. I needed to break him. I needed that trigger to finally be pulled.
I didn't know much about Ettore, but I knew this: he loved and hated with the same ferocity. He could kill for the people he cared about. He could die for them.
He loved Mateo, and he hates me.
I watched that love shatter into rage… pure, seething, murderous rage… right in front of me.
The smirk vanished from my face the instant he dropped the gun.
Before I could even register the sound of metal hitting the floor, his hand was around my throat. A brutal and unhesitating grip. I gasped as his fingers closed tight, cutting off air, and then he shoved me hard. From the middle of the room straight into the wall.
The impact rattled through my skull. My head cracked against the plaster and my vision exploded into white for a split second. A hiss escaped me as the pain shot down my spine. Everything blurred for a moment and then slowly sharpened again.
Ettore's face came into focus inches from mine. He looked furious and flushed, his eyes burning with open fire. His grip did not ease. If anything it tightened, squeezing and crushing, forcing my lungs to claw for even a thread of air.
My chest burned. My body panicked. But I did not.
I did not fight him.
I let him choke me.
My vision wavered again, the edges darkening. I was not crying. I was not begging. A faint smile tugged at my lips instead. Bitter. Satisfied.
I had finally pushed him far enough.
He was going to do what I was not brave enough to do myself.
But my happiness was short-lived.
In a sudden snap of movement, his hand vanished from my throat. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, collapsing forward as I dragged in air too fast and too desperately. I gagged, coughing, my lungs clawing to refill themselves. My knees buckled, ready to hit the floor.
He didn't let me fall.
His hands seized my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he slammed me back into the wall with even more force than before. My skull rattled. A weak sound escaped me.
"You think I will do it for you, huh?" he growled.
His face was so close his breath struck my lips. Hot. Furious. Shaking.
"You think your little words are enough to rile me into killing you?" His voice shook with barely controlled rage, every syllable dripping poison. "Do you truly believe I would give you the luxury of a sweet escape?"
His grip tightened. His body pressed closer. His nose brushed mine, a ghost of a touch, but there was nothing tender in it… only threat.
"If so, then you are sadly mistaken, wife."
The word landed like a curse.
"No. I am not going to punish you with death." His lips curled, almost cruel, almost smiling. "I am going to punish you with life."
His voice was a hiss, his anger vibrating in the inch of space he refused to give me. His forehead nearly touched mine, his breath mingling with my own ragged gasps as he caged me against the wall, making it clear:
Death would have been mercy, and Ettore Moretti had none to spare.
There was silence after that… thick, suffocating, and poisonous.
The only sounds in the room were his furious breaths, sharp and uneven, and my own broken gasps as I clawed at the air my lungs fought to reclaim. My throat throbbed violently. Each cough felt like it scraped the inside raw. My vision was a blur of tears, my eyes stinging so badly that all I could see of him was a dark, towering outline.
But even without seeing him clearly, I felt his gaze.
It pressed against my skin like a blade. It was hot, unmoving, and unforgiving.
He kept staring, drinking in my weakness, letting the moment stretch until it hurt.
Then, finally, he released me.
My body crumpled instantly. My knees hit the cold floor, my palms catching me too late as I sucked in a desperate breath that burned like fire going down. The floor was freezing, shocking against my skin, but I barely felt anything beyond the ache of oxygen returning to a starved body.
His shadow still loomed over me. "There is an event tonight," he said, voice low and venomous. "A celebration thrown by my family. A celebration of our marriage." He gave a dry, humorless snigger. "They might gather to toast this farce of a wedding…" He leaned down slightly, just enough so his words struck the back of my neck like a warning. "…but I will be celebrating something else."
I forced myself to look up through the blur of tears.
He was smirking. Cold. Cruel. Completely certain. "The beginning of your doom, Vera Ettore Moretti." He let the name hang between us, heavy and damning. "Count your fucking days."
And then he turned his back on me and left, the door slamming so hard the walls shook.
I stayed on the cold floor, trembling, tears slipping quietly from the corners of my eyes, tasting the metallic bitterness of fear and fury on my tongue.