The Scapegoat Fiancée: I Am No Substitute

I kicked the door open and strode into Chiara's room.

She was sitting on the bed, idly filing her nails, the very picture of boredom.

She looked up, her lips curling into that perfect, innocent smile that had fooled me for seven years.

"Dante," she cooed, her voice dripping with syrup. "Did you come to tuck me in?"

"Get up," I commanded, my voice low.

"What?"

"Get up!" The roar tore from my throat, shaking the walls.

She flinched, dropping the nail file. "You're scaring me."

"Good."

I threw the file folder onto the bed. It exploded on impact. Bank statements. Police reports. They rained down around her like a judgment.

"I checked the accounts, Chiara," I said, stepping closer until I loomed over her. "The 'charity' money you needed for your treatments? It went to Cartier. To Prada. To a condo in Miami."

"I needed comfort!" she cried, her eyes widening with feigned victimhood. "I was sick!"

"And the hit," I said, cutting her off. "The Falcone guy you ran over. I read the original police report. The one your father paid to bury."

Her breath hitched. The color drained from her face.

"You weren't just high," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You ran him over twice. You backed up. It wasn't an accident, Chiara. It was a thrill kill."

"He was rude to me!" she shrieked, her mask finally slipping. "He didn't open the door for me!"

The air left the room. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

She killed a man because he was rude.

And Alessia spent seven years in hell for it.

Giuliana stood in the doorway, holding a shredded sketchbook. Her face was pale. "She hates her, Dante. Look at this."

She showed me the photos. Alessia's face had been violently scratched out with a pen until the paper tore.

I looked at Chiara. I really looked at her. I didn't see a fragile flower. I saw a viper waiting to strike.

"You told me Alessia didn't love me," I said. "You told me she wanted to go to prison to get away from me."

"She did!" Chiara yelled, scrambling back against the headboard. "She never loved you! She was cold! I loved you, Dante! I needed you!"

"You didn't love me," I said, my tone icy. "You just wanted what was hers."

"She didn't deserve you!" Chiara stood up on the bed, her face twisting into something ugly, something monstrous. "She was always the smart one! The talented one! The strong one! I wanted her gone! I wanted her to rot in that cell until she died!"

My hand twitched toward my gun. The cold steel called to me. It took every ounce of control I had not to end her right there.

"You wanted her dead," I said.

"I wish she was!" she screamed, spittle flying from her lips. "I wish she had died in there!"

Behind me, I heard Isabella sob.

Marco walked into the room. He looked old. Broken. As if the weight of his daughter's sins had finally crushed him.

"That's enough," Marco said, his voice barely a whisper.