Page 9 of Bad Bishop

“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. Thebaldracca.”

“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.