I looked at the screen. Beneath a post on the academy's official forum, hundreds of comments had metastasized like a tumor. They called me shameless. They said I had spread my legs to secure my place at the academy. The few voices that had risen in my defense, Rosalia had screenshot and reframed, presenting them as proof that I had organized a coordinated attack against her.
Salvatore ripped the phone from her hand and read the screen, his face darkening with every line. He turned on me, his voice a low snarl. "Seraphina, what the hell is this? It's one thing if you can't keep your own name clean, but to turn around and blame Rosalia for it?" His fist clenched at his side. "She has no one. She has nothing. And you drag her through the mud?"
Giancarlo did not raise his voice. He never did. But the way he looked at me, that quiet, measured gaze, carried a question sharper than any accusation. He studied my face the way a consigliere studied a witness on the stand, searching for the crack that would confirm a lie he had already decided was there.