I dropped low, my knees hitting the expensive Persian rug with a thud, and wrapped my arms protectively around the frail frame of Rosa Moretti. She was trembling in my arms, a small bird caught in a hurricane. Her eyes, wide with a terror that no 75-year-old woman should ever have to know, were fixed on the woman standing above us.
She was beautiful, in that sharp, terrifying way that cuts you if you look too close. Her designer stiletto, a weapon of patent leather and steel, connected with my ribs.
Crack.
The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain exploded in my side, radiating outward like fire, but I didn’t let go. I couldn’t let go.
“Get your hands off her, you meddling piece of garbage!” Serena hissed, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.“Please, stop!” I gasped, the words scraping against my throat. “She’s hurting! Please, Serena, look at her! She’s your fiancé’s mother! Her heart… she can’t take this!”
But Serena just laughed. It wasn’t a human sound. It was the sound of nails dragging down a chalkboard, high and piercing.
“You think I care about this old hag?”
She snatched a heavy crystal vase from the mahogany table—something that probably cost more than my entire year’s salary—and hurled it.
