Bad Bishop by L.J. Shen - 4

“ Madonna Santa , Chiara, your daughter is such a beauty. What a shame she’ll never marry!” Tammy, Mama’s friend, raked her gaze along my frame, clucking her tongue.

I wore a pink chiffon dress with off the shoulder pleats and a tight corset. My long pale hair tumbled in waves down to my waist, haloed by a tiara of snow-white roses. They were real roses, twisted into one another. The tiny thorns dug into my skull, but Mama always said that beauty was pain.

Mama picked the tiara and outfit.

She dictated my wardrobe. My activities. My future.

I felt a little ridiculous in the white satin gloves and high heels. Like I was playing teatime with my dolls, something I did publicly sometimes to make people believe I was mentally delayed. I hated the teatime routine and always thought it was overkill. But as Mama said—in our world, one can never be too pretty or too cautious.

Besides, it wasn’t every day my eldest brother was getting married. And to a princess from the Outfit, no less.

Sofia’s family was well known in Chicago. So influential were the Bandinis that the wedding attracted none other than the president of the United States, Wolfe Keaton, and First Lady Francesca Rossi-Keaton.

Luca and Sofia stood in the far corner of the room, careful not to touch or look at one another as they politely mingled with their guests. My brother was tempered in movement and thinking. Eerily still and cold as a fish. He looked like he was attending his own funeral, not his wedding.

Sofia seemed to share his desolation. Misery was stamped on her lovely, tan face like the angry welts of a belt.

“Yes, well, in our world, marriage is overrated.” Mama huffed. “I’m relieved Raffaella won’t be subjected to a marriage with a cruel man who would cheat and disappear on her for days on end. I gave Vello three boys, and he shaped them into merciless killing machines. Lila is my reward for fulfilling my end of the bargain. Mine to keep and protect.”

Tammy and the rest of the women in the circle nodded.

“Speaking of awful husbands…” Mina, another friend of Mama’s, flashed a sly smile. “I saw Tony’s Alyssa in the shops the other day. She had a black eye. Swore up and down it was due to undereye fillers gone wrong. Just three months ago, her arm was in a cast. Does she think we’re all stupid? She’s barely even twenty-seven. And with three kids already.” Mina tsked. “I always told my Pietro to keep away from that man. He’s a hot-tempered one, Tony.”

“And what about Maggio?” Tammy clucked her tongue. “Cheatin’ on his wife left and right. Three bastards out of wedlock, all on child support, and he still sees the mothers regularly. One of them even works for him. The baldracca .”

“They’re all as awful as each other.” Mama’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Cheating, beating their wives, bringing trouble to our doorsteps. Men are terrible creatures. The world would be a better place if women ruled it.”

“What, and miss our weekly gel manicure and hair appointments?” Tammy snorted, sparking a chorus of giggles. “No, thank you. They can do the hard work while we pamper ourselves. We earned it.”

“It’s not all bad.” Mina gestured a manicured hand to the ballroom in our mansion. It was dazzling. With gilded pillars, marble arches, and frescoed ceilings so high you could barely see the medieval paintings on them. The room glowed golden by candlelight and chandeliers, its deceiving warmth masquerading the awful people inside it.

I craned my neck past the sea of puffy hairdos, searching for Tate Blackthorn.

“Are you going to Ischia for the summer?” Rita asked Mama, her lips curving around her words in the corner of my eye. They were all sipping on champagne while I was holding a pink lemonade.

Everything about me was pink. My wardrobe. My room. My ruddy cheeks.

“Of course.” My mother’s face immediately relaxed at the mention of our summer house. “Lila and I enjoy the sun, the food, the culture. Ischia is our home.”

Mama and I spend two months out of the year on the Italian island to get away from the men in our family. I liked going there. I was able to live more freely. I read in public, played sports, and did cartwheels on the beach. I had a Latin tutor and a math teacher. My mother took me to the movies to watch old Italian films, and I never had to play with dolls or school my face to a blank mask of nothing.

At home, I needed to hide these abilities. My intelligence.

“You should come,” Mama told the three women, but I knew she didn’t mean it. She loathed her friends. Loathed everyone and everything connected to the Camorra.

“What a marvelous idea,” Rita cooed. “I’ll speak to Antonio, see if we have any plans.”

I wondered why they did that. Made plans they weren’t going to execute. Feigned excitement about things they didn’t care about.

My heart skidded to a halt when I finally found the subject of my interest.

Tatum Blackthorn.

He stood across the room, next to Luca, Sofia, Enzo, and Achilles. Half man, half god. A timeless marble statue towering over mere mortals. Slung on his arm was his beautiful wife, Gia. Draped in a red satin gown, she exhibited her pregnant belly. I wondered what it felt like to be loved like her. To have someone accept and adore your every flaw, your every win, your every breath.

Mama and her friends quarreled in the background, but I didn’t watch what they were saying. I was laser-focused on the Blackthorn couple.

Lila, this is unbecoming. You can’t keep staring at someone else’s husband , Mama’s voice scoffed in my head. I knew she was right, even though my interest in Blackthorn wasn’t romantic at all. All I wanted was another dance.

My eyes followed Tate’s lips as they shaped around his words.

“If you so much as look in her direction, I will scoop the other one out. And unlike the Ferrantes, I won’t stop the blood loss.”

A sharp elbow found my ribs—Mama’s way to tell me to stop staring—and my gaze quickly scurried to the person Tate spoke to.

A tall, agile man in a sharp suit, just like 80 percent of the room. And yet, I immediately recognized him, and bile hit the back of my throat.

The coppery hair.

The black eye patch.

The languid, fuck-you stance of a hunter quietly surveying the room for his next target.

His taciturn indifference to it all.

The man who nearly drowned me and then handed me his eyeball.

I wrenched my gaze away from him before he noticed me.

Next to him was another man who was unmistakably his brother, maybe even his twin.

“Oh, the music started.” Rita clapped excitedly. “Let’s gather around the newlyweds for their first dance.”

My feet shifted heavily toward the human ring forming around Luca and Sofia. The couple assumed their place robotically, with Luca taking the lead and moving to what I assumed was a waltz. Their faces were grim, their eyes dim with apathy.

Papa wedged himself between Mama and me, slinging his arms over our shoulders with a cunning grin. He appeared gaunt and yellow, but happy for a change.

“D’you see who’s here, Lila?” He turned to look at me. “The president of the United States, no less. And he brought his wife, too. This marriage puts us in a different league. The Ferrantes are going to be the new Kennedys. Mark my words.”

I blinked at him, pretending not to understand what he was saying.

“Eh, che Dio ti benedica . Your head just keeps your ears apart.” He patted the top of my head, laughing rancidly. “God really was cruel to you, cara mia . Giving you so much beauty and nothing to do with it.”

Ignoring the urge to smash his head against a sharp object, I returned my attention to Luca and Sofia. The waltz ended, and when another one began, a stream of couples flooded the floor. Everyone paired up like magnets, drawing toward one another in perfect harmony. Couples swirled and fluttered. Laughed, hugged, and twirled. I watched Tate Blackthorn holding his wife close, whispering in her ear, paying no heed to the tempo everyone else in the room was shackled to.

Enzo dipped a famous model to the floor, his lips a breath away from hers.

Achilles had a shoulder pressed against the wall, surveilling the room with his dead eyes, hands in his pockets. He didn’t dance, and I wondered if it was out of choice, or because no woman was brave enough to touch him.

“Roger, please.” My mother tapped a waiter on the shoulder. A middle-aged man spun around in his uniform, holding a silver tray filled to the brim with champagne. “Get Lila more pink lemonade,” my mother prompted. “Two ice cubes. Plastic cup.”

No sharp objects for me. My mother said I had severe mental impairment, which put me at age six or below on the scale.

A handsome, fair-haired man approached us from the center of the room. I recognized him instantly. Angelo Bandini was in his early thirties, impeccably mannered and dressed, and prominent in his family business. Sofia’s older brother.

He kissed Mama’s and Papa’s cheeks, then turned to me with a hopeful smile.

My heart fluttered against my rib cage like a butterfly testing its new wings. I forced myself not to smile back.

“Might I ask the youngest Ferrante for a dance?” I watched his lips move. He opened his hand, offering it to me.

My fingers twitched in anticipation beside my body.

“My daughter doesn’t dance,” Mama said.

Angelo chuckled good-naturedly. “Surely, just once? With her new brother-in-law. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Mama stepped forward, cementing herself between us. I couldn’t see what she was saying, but Angelo’s beam morphed into a scowl. The sharp movements of her arms told me she was yelling. The blood drained from my face.

Mama had always been overprotective of me. Most of the time I was grateful, but this time…this time something dark and resentful unfurled behind my rib cage.

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on this, Lady Chiara,” Angelo’s mouth moved smoothly as he stepped back. A sheet of brutality draped over his expression. “I could count the things I wanted and never got on one hand and intend to keep it that way.” His gaze flitted to President Keaton across the room and the woman he held possessively in a waltz. His wife, Francesca.

“Forgive my wife.” Papa inclined his liver-spotted head. “The wedding preparations have left her exhausted and distraught. She means no disrespect, Bandini. My daughter…” Papa pinched my cheek, then kissed his fingers. “She’s simple, you see.”

What a prick. Mama told him to stop using this derogatory word, but he never listened.

“No hard feelings, Don Vello.” Angelo’s lips expanded into an insincere smile, which my father returned. He then yanked Mama by the elbow, dragging her reluctant figure to the dance floor to save face. Angelo strode away, but not before giving me one last derisive look.

I stood alone, surrounded by couples.

Jealousy clogged my throat. I normally didn’t mind being left alone—preferred it, actually—but right now, I hated it.

I turned around and stormed away, shouldering past catering staff and uniformed waiters. The main entrance was swarming with soldiers and security, so I slipped through the wine cellar’s door.

I was immediately clasped in a womb of darkness.

Crimson Key was an island tucked between Florida and the Bahamas. An independent jurisdiction that belonged to my family. The Devil’s Playground , as the rich called it.

It consisted of our mansion, a few hotels of award-winning grandeur, golf courses, and casinos. Trusted friends of the family had snowbird properties here, but it was Ferrante turf through and through.

Tropic humidity licked at my skin. I felt suffocated—by the heat, my dress, and most of all, my family.

I glared behind my shoulder at the arched windows of the ballroom. Usually, when music started playing, I retired to an adjoining empty room, laid on the floor, and closed my eyes. The bass reverberating against my spine mimicked the tempo of the music. It was the closest I could get to listening to it. Right now, though, I didn’t want to lie still.

Wrenching my heels off, I stomped barefoot past the Roman balustraded pool and the densely planted cypresses framing the estate, farther down, toward the thick woods enveloping the back of the property. I kicked the dirt with a huff as I left the pickleball court and pool house behind me, putting more space between the wedding and me. At the end of the vast expanse of tropical trees was a strip of pearly-white sand kissing the Atlantic Ocean. It was my secret spot. A place I often visited on the island when no one was paying attention.

I didn’t care that I was soiling my dress with dirt and mud. Didn’t care that Papa was going to be furious. That Mama was going to be worried. I wanted to lick my wounds privately.

Ten minutes later, I reached the end of the woods. I fell down to my knees, the cold grains of sand digging into my fine bones, and stared at the blackened ocean, biting my lower lip. I grabbed a handful of smooth rocks, tossing them out to the ocean.

Never would I hear the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

Skip. Skip. Skip.

Never would I waltz to live band music.

Skip. Skip. Skip.

Never would I sing along to a familiar tune.

Skip. Skip. Skip.

Never would I kiss a stranger’s mouth, warm and soft and alive, feel their pulse beneath my palm, or whisper secrets into a lover’s ear.

The last rock sank into the water without skipping.

An angry roar ripped from my throat. Broken, desperate, yet I couldn’t even hear it.

Behind my back, there was a castle, and dancing, and lights, and life .

There were plans, hopes, and dreams.

There were people with agency over their own decisions.

Suddenly, a hand clasped my mouth from behind. I gasped, my eyes flaring in horror. An arm wrapped around my throat forcefully, dragging me backward. It was so unexpected, it took me a second before I dug my toes into the sand, bucking, fighting the intrusion.

Somebody followed me here.

And that person knew we were far enough not to be seen or heard.

Panic flooded my system and kicked my instincts into high gear. Whoever held me was male, strong and in a frenzy.

I bit the hand that clasped my mouth, sinking my teeth into his flesh until the metallic taste of blood detonated in my mouth. My attacker jerked, tumbling down to the sand and taking me with him. I fell against his torso, his forearm still pressing hard against my throat. Pressure filled my ears. I fought and kicked and clawed, thrashing and roaring, a wild thing; his fists came down on my face, my neck, blow after blow, making my ears ring. My fingernails punctured his skin, digging so deep they broke and splintered. Something long and thick swelled against my butt. It promised pain and punishment and made the blood freeze inside my veins.

No. No way. I won’t let it happen.

I writhed like a reptile, twisted sharply. I managed to bite his arm, sinking my teeth into his skin until it split, and managed to break free.

Air. I was finally able to welcome it into my searing lungs. I took a greedy gulp of it.

Looking back was a luxury my time constraint couldn’t afford. Instead, I army crawled across the sand, desperately blinking away the stinging blood from my eyes. My crown of roses fell to the sand. In the dark, I could see that the flowers weren’t white anymore. They were dark red. Drenched in my own blood.

My breath rattled in my lungs like a coin in an empty tin.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He snatched my ankle, yanking me back with force. Flipped me to my back roughly, then used a knife to slash the front of my dress, leaving a trail of hot, searing pain across my skin. I arched, crying out in horror. I kicked and punched him, too panicked to take in his features in the dark. It felt like trying to fight my way out of a fishing net. He was everywhere, all at once, too heavy, too much.

Sharp, frenzy eyes flared in the dark, taking in my bare breasts, my nipples, my stomach.

I recognized those eyes. Had seen them before. Two barrels of a gun, staring back at me.

I cataloged him into memory. Filed every plane of his face, each individual hair in his eyebrows.

I’m going to draw you.

And then I’m going to find you.

And then I’m going to kill you.

If you are stupid enough to let me live after this.

As he pushed my panties down my thighs, a peculiar calm washed over me.

In order for him not to kill me, I had to pretend I didn’t know what was happening to me. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d spare me.

I stopped fighting, letting my muscles lax, forcing my mind to drift elsewhere.

Ischia sunsets. Boat trips. Busy markets. Books. Imma’s grilled prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich.

He pushed a chemical-soaked rag to my face, one hand pressing against my mouth. I held my breath while he slapped my right breast, laughing as his hand skated down to the space between my thighs.

Men are filthy. Mama’s words rang in my head. They make you suffer when they have their hands on you. Never let them.

A lifetime passed. And then another. I became dizzy with lack of oxygen. The rag pressed harder against my mouth and nose. Finally, my traitorous body took a sharp inhale of breath. The chemicals rushed into my system. My eyelids grew heavy, my body slacked. I became a rag doll.

Boneless. Weightless. Defenseless.

My body melted into the sand, my mind drifting to the clouds. I was far away now, somewhere he couldn’t hurt me, no matter how hard he tried.

The last thought to cross my mind was that this stronzo could still kill me.

My last hope was that he would.