Chapter Fifty

Adele

The click echoes in the silent room, chilling me to the bone. The champagne flute in my hand suddenly feels like a dead weight.

"I'm afraid I have to insist," she turns back to me, and the look on her face makes my blood run cold. Gone is any pretense of warmth or maternal affection. In its place is a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Bianca?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "What's going on?"

"What's going on, my dear Valentina," she says, her voice dripping with venom, "is that I'm finishing what the Novaks spectacularly failed at."

My heart thuds so hard I can feel it in my throat. I put the champagne glass down and brace myself against the edge of the dresser.

"I don't understand," I say, but I do. In fact, my mind is reeling from how much I understand. The champagne is poisoned. Or my flute. Whichever it is, if I drink a drop of this accursed champagne, it'll be the last thing I do.

Bianca laughs, a harsh, mirthless sound that sends a chill down my spine. "Of course you do. You Irish sluts never change. You just waltz in and take what isn't yours, not ever considering who gets hurt in the process."

As she speaks, her hand disappears into her purse. When it reemerges, my breath catches in my throat. The light glints off the barrel of a small pistol, now pointed directly at me.

"Now," Bianca says, her voice eerily calm, "I'll give you one last choice. Drink the champagne, or we do this the messy way. Either way, you won't be walking down that aisle today."

I pick up the champagne flute, watching as it trembles in my hand, the golden liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. My mind desperately searches for a way out of this nightmare. But as I look into Bianca's cold, determined eyes, one thought echoes loudly in my head:

I'm trapped.

"Why?" I manage to croak out, my throat dry. "Why are you doing this?"

Bianca shakes her head in disappointment. "Why? You home-wrecking little gutter slut. When you apologized just now, I thought you understood why neither of you deserved to live. I thought you were ready to pay true penance."

Her grip tightens on the gun, knuckles whitening. "I thought you both died. The stupid fucks fought over that fact for the next ten years. And watching how the grief tortured Orlando was the sweetest form of revenge."

She's sick. Bianca is fucking deranged.

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.

Bianca stumbles back, still screaming as blood runs from cuts on her shoulder and arm. Her eyes are wild with pain and fury, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

"Maybe you shouldn't do things yourself then, princess, since you obviously skipped shooting classes." I taunt.

"You fucking bitch!" she snarls, lunging for the fallen gun. But I kick it away, ignoring the burning pain in my arm with every movement. That I can move my hand and arm as a unit tells me it's likely a flesh wound.

The gun skitters across the floor, disappearing under a heavy dresser.

Bianca's gaze darts between me and the dresser. I can see the calculation in her eyes, her body tensing as she weighs her options. She's wondering if she can reach the gun before I can stop her.

"Don't," I warn, brandishing the broken bottle. Blood drips steadily from my arm, staining my white dress crimson.

She laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Or what? You'll kill me? You don't have it in you."

Her words ignite a fire in my chest, and the corner of my mouth lifts in a cold smile. "I've killed a man with less, and I loved it. Imagine what I'd enjoy doing to you."

Bianca's eyes widen slightly, her body stiffening as she perhaps finally realizes I could kill her. But then her face hardens, jaw clenching. "You're just like your mother," she spits. "A homewrecker. A slut. A thief. You deserve to die painfully, riddled in bullets, just like she did."

Her cruel words plow into me, and before I can recover, she makes her move, diving for the dresser.

I react on instinct, my body moving before my mind can catch up. I tackle her, both of us crashing to the floor. The bottle falls from my hand and shatters. As we grapple, rolling across the carpet, it's nearly impossible to breathe in my corset, much less fight, and my injured arm screams in pain, but I ignore it, focusing on keeping Bianca away from the gun.

She claws at my face, nails raking across my cheek, and I retaliate by driving my knee into her stomach. She wheezes, momentarily stunned, her body going slack beneath me.

I take advantage of her distraction, scrambling toward the dresser, but my movements are slow, restricted by the tight corset and the overly full skirt. If only I could get the gun first.

Bianca recovers quickly, grabbing my dress. I kick back, feeling my heel connect with something soft. She grunts in pain, and her grip instantly loosens.

Just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the gun, Bianca grabs a fistful of my coiffed hair, yanking my head back.

Pain explodes across my scalp, but I don't let go of the gun, somehow more pissed with her ruining my hair than when she shot me.

Bianca throws herself on me, struggling to reach my outstretched right hand as both of us fight for control of the weapon. It goes off again, the bullet embedding itself in the ceiling. Plaster rains down on us as we continue to wrestle.

Suddenly, the doorknob starts to jiggle. Someone has heard us. Relief floods me just as the door crashes open. Orlando fills the doorway, gun drawn, his face paling in horror as he takes in the scene before him.

"Adele!" he cries, moving toward me.

In that split second of distraction, Bianca wrenches the gun from my grasp. She staggers to her knees, her bloodied hand trembling as she aims the gun at my chest. Sweat, champagne, and blood drip from her wrist and shoulder, and her eyes are wild with rage.

"Don't you fucking move," she snarls, her voice shaking.

Orlando freezes, his eyes flicking between Bianca and me, no doubt trying to figure out how to defuse the situation.

"Bi," he says softly, raising his hands in a placating gesture, his gun dangling loosely from his thumb, "please put the gun down. Let's talk about this."

Bianca laughs, a high, unhinged sound. "Talk? There's nothing to talk about. Your precious daughter needs to die. Just like her whore of a mother. It's like I always say: when you want something done right, you do it yourself."

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then I see something shift in Orlando's eyes—a flicker of resolve, a darkness.

The moment shatters as Dante appears at the door, his gun aimed steadily at Bianca. His voice, a low, cold, and deadly rumble, cuts through the tension like a knife. "Drop the weapon, Bianca. You have two seconds."

My breath catches. I can't tell whether I'm more relieved or terrified, but a single thought pounds through my mind—please, God, don't let this be the last time I hear that voice.

A strange chill appears to settle over Orlando, and he shrugs as if in resignation. "It's okay, Dante. Bi is right. There's really nothing to talk about."

My heart twists painfully at Orlando's words, and even Bianca seems surprised to have her husband's backing to shoot me.

And then Bianca's eyes dart back to me. Her grip on the gun wavers, appearing to be weighing her options, but in the next split second, Dante's gun fires.

The shot rings out, and Bianca's scream pierces the air as the gun is shot out of her hand. Blood pours from her now-maimed fingers, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor.

I watch in stunned silence, the scene playing out in slow motion. Dante's done this before—shot the phone right out of someone's ear, with the same unnerving precision. But this is different. This time, it's Bianca, and her distress is palpable. She clutches her bloody hand to her chest, her face contorted in pain and disbelief.

For a split second, I allow myself to relax. Dante's absolute control, always a step ahead, and right now I could kiss him for saving my life right after I figure out what the hell went wrong with my father.

But when I look at Orlando, I see something strange. He's looking at Dante, and his gun is raised, his expression unreadable. There's a tension in his body that wasn't there before, something cold and calculating in his eyes that makes my stomach churn with unease.

"Dante?" I glance at Dante, but he hasn't lowered his weapon either. His gaze is locked on Orlando, and there's a split second where something passes between them, as if they're communicating silently.

Orlando's eyes twitch, and he shakes his head, and Dante's widen in alarm. Orlando swings his gun to Bianca, his movements deliberate and calm.

"Orlando!" Dante barks, but it's too late.

Orlando fires.

The first bullet slams into Bianca's chest, and she crumples to the floor. The second follows almost immediately, and this time, there's no scream—just a sickening thud as her body jerks under the impact.

Dante's reaction is immediate. He takes a step toward Orlando and levels his gun at his temple, his eyes blazing with fury. No words are needed.

Orlando slowly lowers his gun, his expression a mix of grim satisfaction and a strange calmness. He raises his hands in surrender, his weapon once again dangling from his thumb.

Dante's eyes stay locked on Orlando, his finger still on the trigger, his whole body taut with tension. I can see the struggle in him, the war between his loyalty to family and his instinct to protect.

Orlando steps back, moving toward the wall, his hands still raised. "I'm done," he says quietly, then holsters his gun.

I'm still staring at my father, my mind reeling, when Dante is suddenly beside me, crouching down and gathering me into his arms.

"Christ! Addy. Fuck." His entire body is shaking as he examines me. I see his sharp intake of breath when he sees my bleeding arm—I haven't even seen it myself—but I'm guessing it's not looking pretty.

"I'm okay. I'm okay, Dante." I reassure him, raising my right arm to cup his face as he pulls off his tie.

"You're so fucking not. For fuck's sake, how many bullets do you have to take before it's enough for a fucking lifetime?"

"Hopefully the last," I smile, but Dante doesn't share my humor. Then I wince when he wraps the tie around my arm with trembling fingers, ignoring my protests that it's not even bleeding anymore.

As if just remembering the other disaster in the room—that a Capo has killed his own wife—Dante turns back to Orlando. "Tell me that's not what it looked like."

Orlando raises his head, eyes cold and resolute. "Yep. It's exactly what it looked like," he says simply and turns back to the wall.

When Orlando doesn't say more, I add, "It was she and her brothers. They hired the Novaks."

Dante nods gravely, already piecing it together. I think he may have got it during their weird eye contact earlier. He helps me to my feet, his movements gentle but his body vibrates with tension still.

The room quickly fills with Capos, their faces knit with confusion and alarm. Nico shoulders his way through, his eyes darting from Bianca's lifeless body to Orlando's eerie calmness.

"De Luca," he barks, "what is the meaning of—"

"That?" Orlando interrupts, his voice bitter and filled with decades of regret. "That was an eighteen-year blind spot. That was who started the decade-long war. Along with her brothers. Right under my fucking nose."

Nico's usual composure fractures slightly as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it uncharacteristically disheveled. "Christ," he mutters, shaking his head. "Rinaldis. How did we miss this?"

Orlando pushes away from the wall, shoulders slumped with regret. "I lived with her for two decades and I missed it." Regret, pain, and a fierce protectiveness war across his features.

"Adele," he starts, his voice rough with emotion, "I am so sorry . . ."

And the weight of it all suddenly hits me. My lids fall closed, and I'm surprised to feel tears slipping down my cheeks. It feels like every single one of my scars is throbbing along with my pounding headache. I nod, suddenly overwhelmed with it all. "I need air."

Dante understands immediately. He guides me to a nearby window, opening it to let in a rush of cool air. His hand rubs soothing circles on my back as I breathe deeply, trying to center myself.

"It's over," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "You're finally safe."

I lean into him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I know," I whisper back. "It's just—"

Suddenly I remember something. "Oh my God, Dante, the champagne," I say, "Bianca poisoned it. She may have poisoned more."

Shock ripples through the assembled men, and Nico's face is the hardest I've seen it yet. He looks like a storm that's about to erupt.

"Bar the gates," he commands as he yanks off his tie. "Not a single Rinaldi, no soul from New York, in fact, leaves this mansion in their bodies."

As chaos erupts around us, Dante's arms tighten around me protectively. "Let me take you home. We'll get you cleaned up."

"I don't want to go," I blurt out. "Not yet." My cheeks burn as every eye in the small room swings to me.

How can I say I still want to get married right here and now? In my father's house, covered in blood while justice is being served right outside the door.

But I don't need to. Because Dante's eyes find mine, a silent question in their depths.

Hell yes, I'm still up for becoming your wife today. A little gore isn't going to stop me.

I see the moment he gets it. He never fails to get it, this man.

" Tesoro, " Dante whispers, one word heavy with meaning.

I manage a small smile, covering his still shaking hands with mine. "What?" I whisper, "I'm learning from the best."

***

An hour later, Dante and I stand face-to-face in De Luca's library. The room, with its walls of leather-bound books and the lingering scent of aged paper, seems a fitting place for this moment. It feels right to be marrying the man who pulled me out of the mire when I didn't realize I was drowning. The man who showed me who I really am, in this unconventional setting.

His eyes, steely and intense, never leave mine as we exchange our vows.

I'm acutely aware of the state of my dress. Once pristine, it is now painted with the fury of a woman scorned. Stained with the blood of my mother's killer, the woman who left scars on me. There's a poetic justice to it, a deep satisfaction that I'm not quite ready to examine.

As we speak the words that bind us together, I know without a doubt that this is where I'm meant to be. With this man, in this world, for better or worse.

"I do," I respond to the priest's prompt.

Then Dante's hand cups my face, his touch gentle despite the strength in his hands from years of hard living. As his lips meet mine, I feel the last pieces of my old life fall away.

I am Adele Valentina Vitelli. Wife, mother, survivor.

And I will defend my right to be her with violence and blood.