Blood Right The Valente BetrayalChapter 1
My five-year-old daughter came home from the Academy, knelt in front of me on the hardwood floor of our kitchen, and begged me not to send her back.
She said she didn't want to go anymore.
I asked her why, but she just cried and shook her head, too scared to speak. Her small fingers found the hem of my sleeve and curled into the fabric, holding on like it was the only safe thing left in the world.
Sensing something was wrong, I lifted her shirt.
Her arms and body were covered in tiny puncture marks. Dozens of them. Deliberate. Patterned. Someone had done this to her slowly, and more than once.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I took a photo and posted it in the Academy parents' group chat.
[Who did this to my daughter?]
The reply came fast. A woman named "Luna" answered, and the arrogance bled through every word:
[I told my son to do it!]
Then she sent two pictures.
The first was a wedding photo. Her and my husband. Davide Ferraro, in a suit I'd never seen, standing beside a woman I'd never heard of, in a church I'd never been to.
The second was a photo of me, my daughter, and Davide. Our family. Except Luna had drawn a red circle around my face and scrawled a word across it that I won't repeat.
[You homewrecker! You dared steal my husband and have an illegitimate child? It's a miracle I didn't have my son beat that brat to death!]
The group chat detonated. Message after message, parents I'd never spoken to piling on with insults aimed at me and my daughter. Women who smiled at me during drop-off. Fathers who'd nodded politely at school events. All of them, suddenly righteous, suddenly vicious.
Even the teacher tagged Luna's name with a reply:
[Massimo did well today. I'll make sure to give him a gold star tomorrow.]
Luna sent a smug emoji and taunted me directly:
[If you're mad about it, come find me. My son and I are still at the Academy.]
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Then I looked down at Emilia. She was still holding the hem of my sleeve, her grip so tight her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't made a sound. She never cried out. That was how I always knew it was bad. The silence.
I picked her up, carried her to the armored sedan, and buckled her in.