Page 103 of Broken Honor

My knees buckle slightly as I’m forced forward, blind, stumbling. I hit something—carpet?—and I know I’ve been led inside somewhere richer. Hands shove me again, and I fall hard onto my knees.

The blindfold is ripped away and the light hits me.

A man walks over and sits in front of me with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Behind him is a tall, gaunt woman with hollow cheeks and tired eyes. I remember her. I remember him too, from the ball.

She was the woman who had taken me aside to get wine. The woman who told me that Vieri saw me as a toy. She looked different at the ball. She was bright eyed and cheerful. Now, she's the direct opposite.

We're in some kind of private chamber—wood-paneled, dim, expensive. Books line the walls. A chandelier glints above. And I am dirt on their polished floor.

The man doesn’t look at me first. He looks to the guards.

“So our feedback was right,” he asks.

“Yes, sir. We found them at the ice-cream shop.”

He sips his coffee. Nods.

Then his gaze lands on me.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

I don’t answer.

He whistles.

From the shadows, a man steps forward. His arm is in a sling. His lip is split, and his right eye is blackened, puffed. He looks detached and bored, like he doesn’t want to be here.

The older man gestures with his cup, casual. “I thought Vieri and I were good.” He shrugs, almost amused. “I even invited him to lunch. Told him to bring your obese ass, too. And he pays me back by assaulting my boy, for no reason?”

My lip trembles. I bite it.

He frowns, turns his head slightly. “Doesn’t this pig speak?”

He stands. Walks slowly toward me, placing his coffee on a nearby table. His shoes are soft-soled, barely making a sound. His fingers reach for me.

“Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te…”

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

His hand lashes across my face. My head snaps sideways, cheek stinging, skin swelling under the blow.

“…tu sei benedetta fra le donne…”

…blessed art thou among women…

“Speak!” he roars, backhanding me.

Pain bursts white-hot across my cheekbone. My teeth bite into the inside of my mouth and eyes water. My knees dig into the rug. He slaps me again. And again. Each strike is crueler than the last.

“…e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesù…”

…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

The woman in the corner—his wife—watches. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, her shoulders drawn inward, like she wants to vanish. Her eyes are glassy.

My cheek throbs, swelling hot beneath the skin. I’m swaying slightly now. Breathing in short bursts. But I stay upright.

“You’re a strong one, piggy,” Lapo says with a rasping laugh, shaking out his wrist like he’s impressed with himself.

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