Page 7 of Brutal Crown
“Elio gives hugs?”
Marco sounds shocked. Elio is not the most affectionate person.
“To those who deserve it,” Elio mutters.
“Ouch,” Marco huffs.
A small smile cracks my lips as I inhale Elio’s cologne for a few seconds before he pulls away.
For a brief moment, everything feels normal. Like a normal family having a normal reunion. Like the ghost of Lorenzo’s memories isn’t still walking these halls.
We don’t talk about him. We never do.
Before Elio can drag me toward the bar to have a few drinks, a loud crash echoes from the east wing.
A raised voice pierces through the walls. It’s a woman’s voice. At first, I think it’s a fearful scream. Maybe something terrible happened. But the louder it gets, the more I realize the voice sounds angry.
Without thinking, I move.
Marco curses under his breath but follows. “Great. It’s our grand return, and we already get a show.”
We cut through the hall toward the library. The large doors are flung open, and there are books scattered across the floor. Apuddle of water glints under the heavy lights. An older woman, an aunt from my mother’s side, is screeching, red-faced and all, at a figure in a maid’s uniform.
And the maid?—
My breath catches.
Rosalia Ricci.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s older now, sharper around the edges, and more beautiful. It’s obvious that the fire in her hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s burning hotter.
“I told you,” Clara, my aunt, hisses, jabbing a finger at her, “you don’t speak unless spoken to. You’re here because we allow it.”
Lia stands there with her fists clenched. I see the fury in her eyes as she refuses to back down.
Her voice, when it comes, is steady. “But you’re accusing me wrongly.”
Marco whistles under his breath, low and impressed.
“Well,” he mutters, “someone grew claws.”
“Itoldyou not to speak back,” Zia Clara shrieks. “How dare you pour water all over me like I’m some street rat?”
“I didn’t pour anything on you,” Lia says calmly. “You set your leg for me to trip while I was holding the mug.”
Zia Clara’s face twists with rage and embarrassment.
Before anyone can move, she raises her hand and slaps Lia across the face.
The crack of it echoes through the old library.
Lia’s head snaps to the side, but she straightens slowly. Her cheek is flushed red, and her eyes are almost as red as her cheeks.
I expect her to cry or apologize, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and raises her steady, defiant eyes back to my aunt.
Zia Clara raises her hand again, ready for another blow.
