Page 127 of Dishonored

A quiet laugh echoed from beside Aria.

Martina.

The bitch.

Nasally and slurred, the woman asked, “And do you honestly think Caesar will follow through with this one, Angelo? How many marriages have you tried to arrange for him so far? Five … six? A bit pointless by now, isn’t it?”

“Martina,” Angelo started.

The woman set her now empty wine glass to the table, and gestured for the bottle that was just out of her reach. It was passed to Aria first, but she hesitated in handing it to the already hammered woman beside her. It wasn’t like the cunt needed more alcohol.

“Oh, whatever,” Martina said with a wave of her hand, and a higher laugh. “You almost have to feel sorry for any poor woman who gets saddled with Caesar’s mess, don’t you?”

Martina gave Aria an apologetic smile, and shrugged her velvet covered shoulder, saying, “He’ll fuck anything that’s warm and wet enough to call his name, sweetheart, and you might as well just accept it now. Everyone at this table has already gone through the rounds.”

First, it was disbelief.

It saturated Aria.

Silenced her like it did the table.

And then the fury came.

Fast.

Destructive.

Painful.

That pain was echoed from the man sitting across from Aria—oh, he hid it so well, but Aria could still see it in the dimming of his eyes, and the way he tensed all over.

How dare she?

After everything she did to him … after it all?

“Like you, too, right?” Aria asked softly before she could stop herself.

That silence echoed louder.

Sharp as a blade and ready to injure the way this woman had, Aria said, “Like you did to him when he was a boy—how you dishonored him when he was a child?”

Martina’s gaze cut to Aria and widened.

Fear and anger stared back.

Aria didn’t care.

“Deny it,” Aria urged a little louder. “I dare you.”

“Aria,” Caesar murmured. “That’s enough.”

She didn’t even look at him.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Except Martina, and her reddening face.

“You’re a stupratore,” Aria said, standing from the table, and still holding the neck of that wine bottle in a death grip she wasn’t letting go of. “A pedofilo, Martina.”