I was cocky and thought placing my new wife in a position where she was surrounded, fenced in like an animal, would make her skin crawl. And it did. What I did not plan for was my own reaction to her discomfort.

Introducing her to my father was an obligation. When he told me he planned to show me who Vittoria Vero really was, I welcomed it. I was certain he would be the one to see her true self. But then, he baited her. Gave her the perfect opportunity to shame me.

What a surprise my little flower was. Yes, her petals were delicate and bruised, but she hid thorns under her lovely exterior. And when she unwaveringly looked my father in the eye and lied easily about my treatment of her, there was a swift moment, a sharp sting at my nape, where uncertainty flashed in forewarning.

I chalked what she had done down to self-preservation.

Meeting my children was a test. The boys were a warm up. But Ella was worth fifty percent of her grade.

Had I known my daughter would physically attack the woman?

No, but I had my suspicions.

Did I relish in it?

Only momentarily.

Watching her be struck and fall, brought down by a child – my child – should have brought me the sick sense of satisfaction any bastard would have enjoyed. I predicted her to snap. I wanted her to snap. I willed it. Then I could turn to my father and silently gloat. But my resigned Vittoria took the abuse without more than a flinch. Like it was normal. Expected.

And I found I did not like that.

It made me question things, and I liked that even less.

Regrettably, I had been far too preoccupied with this internal dilemma to foresee my brother’s planned degradation of my young bride. By the look he threw me as he walked her meal out the back door, I was sure he thought I would enjoy it. But once again, it was her reaction that concerned me.

I observed closely as her hands clawed and her fingernails dug into her thighs, the material of her skirt bunching awkwardly under the table. Vittoria remained straight-faced as members of my family tore her down, piece by piece.

And, suddenly, it felt wrong. Like flogging a dead horse.

The last straw was seeing the blood rush from her pretty face as the reminder of what occurred the day before hit. She tried to hold it together, but nobody was that strong. Her body quaked, her forehead beaded with sweat, and then, I watched her spiral.

Her pain. Her humiliation. Her panic.

I did not enjoy it. Not one bit.

Grudgingly, I had to face facts. These were not the actions of a cold-blooded killer.