Empress in Lingerie (Lingerie 5)

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath, processing the millions of emotions that just ran through her.

I continued the tale. “My father bought your mother from the Underground and kept her as his new slave. Your father stole her and unexpectedly fell in love with her. And then together, they killed my father.”

This must have been news to Vanessa because her eyes softened in defeat. A thin film of moisture covered the surface of her eyes, and her lips quivered slightly. “My mama…he did that to her?” It was the first time she’d shown weakness, overwhelming emotion. She covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes, giving in to the emotion and fighting it at the same time. Her chest heaved as she choked back the sobs. “No…”

I looked away, not wanting to see this strong woman break down in front of me. “Stop crying.” The noise was irritating. I didn’t like to listen to the way she breathed, the way she sniffed when her nose started to run. It was the first time she cried in front of me, and it was because of the pain of someone else.

She lowered her hands and closed her eyes harder, like she was willing herself to stop. “I said I was sorry about your mother. How could you not sympathize with mine?”

My answer was simple. “Because I’m a monster. You aren’t.” I took another drink of my scotch, letting the liquor burn my throat on the way down. “That left me in different orphanages without a penny to my name. I was just another poor kid in the system when I should have inherited billions. My legacy was stripped from me, and I turned into another beggar on the street. I became a man, hardened by my experiences. I’ve made my own fortune, but I’ve never forgotten where I came from—and who took away what was rightfully mine.”

Vanessa stared at the rug on the floor, her eyes still wet from the tears she just shed. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. But my parents did what they had to do. Let’s not pretend your father was a good man. You just admitted he was a rapist. He hurt two women in my family, including my namesake. How could you expect my family to do anything different? I’m not ashamed to say I’m glad your father is dead. The world is a better place without him, and he got what was coming to him.”

My eyes shifted to her face, the threat distinct in my expression.

She didn’t flinch. “And I’ll say it again—I’m glad he’s dead.”

My palm twitched before I struck her. I backhanded her across the face, hitting her so hard she rolled onto the floor. “Say it again.”

She quickly pushed herself to her feet, refusing to stay on the ground to recover. Her face was red from the handprint I left. “I’m glad your piece of shit father is dead. And I hope my parents made him suffer.”

I lunged at her throat, grabbing her tightly and squeezing so she couldn’t breathe. I wanted to kill her this way, to lift her feet from the ground and watch her suffocate. I wasn’t delusional about my roots. My father was a bad man. He treated women like animals, got off on hurting them. But if he were still alive, my life would have been better. “Take it back, and I’ll let you live.”

She held my gaze, gripping my wrist as she tried to squirm away.

“Take it back.”

She dug her nails into my wrist then spit on my face.

I threw her hard on the ground, making her thud against the hardwood.

“Never. I’d rather die.” She spit at my face again. “My mother is the best person that I know, and the fact that your father did that to her…” Her eyes welled up with tears. “In life and in death, he’s my enemy. You’re stupid to expect me to think otherwise. And I would rather die right here than betray my family—even if they aren’t here to witness it.” She moved to her knees and exposed her neck, tilting her head back. “Slit my throat and kill me. Gut me like a pig. I don’t give a damn.”

My hand twitched at my side, but for a different reason. I had a serious temper, and I’d choked my victims to death many times. Despite the way she insulted me, I felt an invisible restraint. She commanded my respect once again. Barsetti blood ran through her veins like the Nile river, and it was unmistakable that Crow Barsetti was her father.

A part of me pitied her, for telling her the truth about her mother when she had no idea. Her parents probably shielded her from that truth, knowing it would bring tears to her eyes. No mother wanted her child to know she’d been raped.