Chapter 6

The cast encasing my leg felt less like medical aid and more like a heavy, plaster shackle.

It was a constant, itching weight that throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, synchronizing perfectly with the sluggish beating of my heart.

I lay there, staring up at the hospital ceiling.

White tiles.

Countless little dots, swimming in my vision.

I had counted them four times already, losing myself in the monotony.

Then, the door opened.

I didn't bother to look.

I knew that cadence-the sharp, deliberate strike of expensive heels against linoleum.

Isolde.

She breezed in, clutching a bouquet of white lilies.

Funeral flowers.

She placed them on the bedside table, dangerously close to the morphine drip I had stubbornly refused to press.

"You look terrible, Azalea," she purred.

Her voice was cloying, like syrup poured over broken glass.

She sank into the chair beside me, crossing her legs with an elegant sweep.

That's when I saw them.

She was wearing my earrings.

The diamond studs my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday glinted mockingly from her lobes.

"They fit me better," she said, catching the direction of my glare. "You don't have the complexion for diamonds anymore. You look... grey."

"Get out," I rasped.

My voice was a rusty hinge, unused and scraping against my throat.

"Alexander is worried about you," she continued, breezing past my command. "He's worried you're becoming a liability. A crippled bride isn't exactly the image of strength the Kidd family needs right now."

She reached out, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the hard shell of my cast.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The vibration sent a spike of white-hot fire shooting up my thigh.

I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.

"You should have just drowned," she whispered, leaning in until I could smell her perfume. "It would have been so much easier for everyone. Alexander wouldn't have to deal with your temper. I wouldn't have to pretend to like you."

Before I could retort, the door opened again.

The air in the room shifted instantly.

It became heavier.

Colder.

Alexander walked in.

He didn't look at me.

Instead, his attention was fixed on the medical chart hanging at the foot of the bed.

"Femur fracture," he read aloud, his tone clinical. "Spiral. Nasty. Six weeks in a cast. Months of physical therapy."

He finally lifted his gaze to meet mine.

His eyes were empty voids.

There was no love.

There was no hate.

There was only cold, hard calculation.

"You're damaging my investment, Azalea."

"I'm not an investment," I spat, forcing the words out. "I'm the Don's daughter."

"Your father is dead," Alexander stated flatly, stripping the words of any empathy. "And you are a woman with a broken leg and a documented history of hysteria. Who do you think the Commission will believe? The loyal Capo who stepped up to save the family, or the suicidal girl who throws herself into pools and under horses?"

He moved to the side of the bed.

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

It felt like a branding iron.

"Here is the deal," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "The Gala is in three weeks. You will heal. You will smile. You will stand by my side and announce our engagement. You will tell everyone that you are grateful for my protection."

"And if I don't?"

He squeezed my shoulder.

Hard.

My collarbone groaned under the immense pressure.

"Then the next accident won't be a broken leg," he said softly.

"It will be a closed casket."

He released me abruptly.

He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket, as if touching me had soiled him.

"Isolde, come. We have a dinner reservation."

Isolde stood up, a smirk playing on her lips.

She blew me a mocking kiss.

They walked out together, leaving the door open just enough for me to see the two large men standing guard in the hallway.

They weren't looking outward, scanning for threats to protect me.

They were looking inward.

At me.

They were jailers.