The boy looked to his mother. That quick, darting glance seeking approval. Luna gave the faintest nod, and his shoulders settled with satisfaction, the way they always did. He had never been the author of his own violence. He was a weapon someone else aimed.
Massimo squinted with a smug grin. "Hmph, it's what I'm supposed to do. I'll beat that brat every time I see her."
I was lying on the ground.
The stone was cold beneath my cheek. I could taste blood where I had bitten the inside of my mouth. My ribs screamed. My scalp burned where they had torn my hair. And somewhere to my left, my daughter lay on the pavement, silent, her fingers reaching for the hem of my sleeve even from the ground, because she was still trying to hold on.
I was trembling with rage as I gritted my teeth.
"You'll regret this."
The words came out quiet. Not a shout. Not a scream. Quiet, the way a door closes before the lock turns.
They burst into laughter as if I had told the funniest joke in the world.
"Did I hear that right? A lowly mistress has the nerve to make threats?"
"Hilarious! This wench actually thinks she's someone important. Mrs. Ferraro is the Don's wife. Squashing her is as easy as crushing an ant!"