The room hummed with whispers, growing louder and uglier with each passing heartbeat—vultures circling carrion.
"I heard her mother once lifted jewelry from Donna Carmela's collection," one woman murmured, her voice deliberately carrying across the marble hall. "Word is she died during some botched snatch job—turned up with her organs harvested like livestock. Honestly? Sounds like she had it coming. Disloyal blood runs true."
"And the daughter's cut from the same cloth," another voice added with venomous satisfaction. "Ungrateful little puttana. Raised to sink her claws into men above her station. Just like her whore of a mother."
I remained on my knees, the cold seeping through silk into bone. I wanted to scream—to tell them they were wrong. That my mother wasn't a thief. That Lucia Giordano had served the Marconi household with more loyalty than any of them would ever understand. That I wasn't some scheming woman trying to climb above my place.
But my throat was dust. My voice, stolen.
Colino's patience frayed like old rope.
"Apologize, Anneliese. I'll count to three." His words fell like hammer blows. "One... two—"