She wore the Bulgari necklace Piper had gifted her—a gaudy thing dripping with stones that screamed new money trying to buy old respect. Her eyes ran over me with undisguised disdain, cataloging every flaw, every perceived slight against her precious bloodline.
"You're an hour late. No surprise. No manners at all—just like your mother the thief."
But Colino told me the gathering started at eight.
I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms.
A long time ago, I'd mentioned in passing that Piper's mother had been a mistress—a comare who'd spread her legs for a married man. The next day, Carmela Marconi's missing jewelry "miraculously" appeared under my mother's pillow.
Colino knew my mother had been framed.
He never defended me. Not once.
But now—I didn't grovel. I didn't bow my head like a good little servant's daughter should. I looked straight into Carmela Marconi's cold eyes, then right at Piper's smug little face.
"I'm not here to be insulted," I said, my voice cutting through the garden's polite murmur like a blade through silk. Then I looked Piper dead in the eye. "My mother was not a thief. She didn't raise me to seduce men like some women raise their daughters."