Till Nuts Do Us Part

Gianna pointed right at me. "You guys heard that, right? She's still screaming. Does that SOUND like someone dying?" Her voice dripped fake concern, pure theater—like I was some freakshow for her amusement.

Next to her, Carlo's jaw tightened. That look—the one that always meant I was embarrassing him again. "Siena, enough. It's our anniversary party. Can't you, for once, not kill the vibe?"

Those words stung worse than any slap.

"I'm... not faking," I wheezed. "I'm really allergic..."

The room spun, walls melting into black. My lungs felt like they'd been shrink-wrapped, but I still turned toward Carlo—because apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson about hoping.

Gianna slinked between us, fingers curling around his arm. "Forget her, Carlo. She'll drop the act the second no one's watching. Come on, let's cut the apple pie."

The crowd parted like trained dogs, clearing a path for their grand entrance.

They sliced the first piece. The smell of cinnamon and butter—once comfort—now just made my stomach twist.

Then Gianna gasped like she'd been shot.

Her slice had "accidentally" slipped, jam smearing across her designer dress.

"Oh no, it itches. Am I allergic to the jam?" she whined, wide-eyed.

Laughter broke out.

"Jam can totally cause skin reactions, Capo! You better help her wipe it off!"

"Too bad, last napkin's gone. What if it's serious? You might have to lick it off!"

Carlo frowned, staring at the napkin box.

Gianna dragged a finger through the jam, voice low. "Carlo, help me—"

"Enough," he snapped—then leaned in anyway.

Someone shouted from the back, "Yo, Capo, your wife's watching! Think she's jealous?"

Another voice cackled, "Nah, she's too busy starring in her own tragedy!"

Laughter exploded again—ugly, roaring, cruel.

Through the blur, I saw Carlo glance my way. Just once.

Then he dipped his head toward Gianna's chest.

And time stopped.

The pain hit fast—sharp, brutal.

The pie I'd baked for us? Just another prop in their sleazy little show.

I tried to move, crawl, anything—but the second I pushed up, the world dimmed to black. My body refused to fight.

Then it hit me—my spare pill. I'd shoved it into my coat pocket days ago.

My hands shook so hard I could barely grip the fabric. Seconds stretched like years. Finally, my fingers brushed something small and smooth. I yanked it out, vision flickering.

'Almost there. Just get it in your mouth...'

But my hands wouldn't stop trembling.

The pill slipped, bounced once—then crunched under a jeweled stiletto.

Gianna.

She twisted her heel slow, deliberate, grinding until nothing was left but white dust. Then she pressed down—on my hand. Pain shot up my arm. I heard a tiny crack, but no sound came out.

"Why..." I breathed.

Gianna crouched, her smile pure venom. "Let's play a game, Siena. What if Don Suvari's precious daughter just... died in a freak accident tonight?

"Her heartbroken husband would inherit everything, right?

"And if I happened to marry that grieving widower afterward..."

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Then the Suvari empire would be mine."

And just like that, it clicked.

She didn't want to embarrass me. She wanted me gone. Dead.

But she'd messed up. The Suvari Family doesn't hand their throne to outsiders—especially not snakes in designer heels.

I forced my eyes open, found the clock.

Three minutes left.

Gianna sighed, already bored. "You're tougher than I thought." She smoothed her dress, flashing that cold little smile. "Guess I'll do you a favor and finish the job myself."