Page 157 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

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.

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