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She takes a step closer, and I instinctively back up, the voluminous skirts of my wedding dress trapping me.
Bianca snarls. “But imagine my rage when, two years ago, I found out you not only refused to die, but you were fucking a Vitelli.”
My mind reels, struggling to process this flood of information. I stare at the gun in Bianca’s hand, its barrel a black hole threatening to swallow my future.
“To add insult to injury,” she spits, “Orlando changed his will when he found out you were alive. He gave you everything, the cold, selfish bastard. He loved a dead woman’s child more than his own family.”
The gun in her hand trembles slightly, but her aim doesn’t waver. “You’ve taken too much from me. From Alina. Her father’s love. Her inheritance. The man she loves.”
My mind reels, trying to process the depth of her scheming. Bianca’s voice drops to a near whisper, laden with bitterness. “Especially since the man kept pining for you with his fascination with women who looked like you. I knew it was a matter of time until he came after you and brought you back here.”
She takes a step closer, her eyes gleaming with a manic light. “So I was ready for you to step into Chicago. To kill you and violate the treaty with the Irish. Then I’d get Orlando to rebel against the Outfit. Nico wouldn’t survive the war. The captain never leaves his sinking ship after all. But Dante would survive.”
The enormity of her plan hits me like a physical blow. This goes beyond personal vengeance; she was willing to tear apart entire families, to ignite an all-out war, all for her twisted sense of justice.
“It would work out in the end,” Bianca continues, a note of pride creeping into her voice. “Dante would become Don and all too eager to marry Alina to get the fractured empire back together. With you dead, there’d be no one to turn to for comfort except his wife. And she’d be more than ready to make it all better. I had it all worked out, you see.”
I stare at her, horror and disbelief warring within me. “You’re insane,” I whisper.
Bianca’s face suddenly contorts with rage. “Insane? I’m the only one who sees clearly! Men are so fucking weak and stupid. Vito. Orlando. Even my brothers who were supposed to do one thing for me, failed. They told me Emil Novak was the best. And then they said it was Owen. Liars. The lot of them.”
She raises the gun higher, her finger tightening on the trigger. In that moment, I realize that this woman, consumed by hatred, won’t stop until one of us is dead. The champagne flute in my hand suddenly feels woefully inadequate.
“So,” Bianca says, her voice suddenly calm, almost conversational, “there’s nothing left to say. Except that you have ten seconds to choose. A bullet in your heart, or a more graceful way.” She gestures to the champagne glass with her free hand.
Time seems to slow. I look at the bubbling champagne, knowing it’s laced with poison. I look at the gun, steady in Bianca’s grip. I think of Dante, waiting for me at the altar. Of the child growing inside me.
In that moment, a strange calm washes over me even as a bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat. I’ve survived six bullets, a bomb blast, a kidnapping, and a forced marriage. To die now, forced to drink poison like some tragic Shakespearean heroine, seems absurdly anticlimactic.
With a sudden burst of energy, I smash the champagne flute against the nearby dresser. The crystal shatters, poisoned wine spilling across the polished wood, leaving me clutching the jagged stem. It’s not much of a weapon, but I’ve killed a man with less. Of course, that man was drunk and didn’t have a gun trained on me with unwavering precision.
“Neither, actually,” I spit out, surprising myself with the venom in my voice. “I’d prefer the idea of fucking the man your daughter loves for the rest of my long, happy life. I’d also love to bear your husband’s grandchildren, to inherit everything he owns, and to become a Vitelli—a feat you never managed.”
Rage contorts Bianca’s features, her carefully maintained facade crumbling to reveal the monster beneath. “Why you little . . .” She cocks the gun with an ominous click, and I know I have only seconds left to act.
My eyes dart to the champagne bottle still sitting on the silver tray. It’s a better weapon, and it’s within reach, but can I grab it and swing before Bianca pulls the trigger? The odds aren’t in my favor, but it’s the only chance I have.
Bianca follows my gaze, a mocking smile twisting her lips. “Go ahead,” she taunts, her voice dripping with derision. “Please. Give me a good reason to paint these walls with your brains.”
Time seems to slow. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel each bead of sweat trickling down my back.
This is it. I have two choices.
Lunge for the bottle and possibly die.
Or remain as a still target and surely die.
And so with my choices spelled out for me, I lunge for the champagne bottle, my muscles coiling and releasing like a spring.
The gun goes off with a thunderous crack that makes me freeze. I wait to collapse to the floor. All I felt was a searing heat in my left arm. The realization that she missed my chest sends a rush of adrenaline through me, dulling the pain.
My right hand closes around the bottle, and I use my weight to swing hard. Another explosion rings out but this misses me by a mile. Her aim is shot as she raises her arm to defend herself against the heavy champagne bottle.
It connects with the gun in Bianca’s outstretched arm and shatters with a satisfying shower of champagne and glass.
She screams, and the gun clatters to the floor. I’m not sure if it’s being doused in poisoned wine or that one of the glass shards has embedded itself in her wrist that’s driving her panicked reaction, but I’m not done yet. I bring the bottle down again and the jagged ends connect with her bare shoulder.
Blood sprays in a crimson arc, splattering across the floor and my once-pristine white dress.
