a P

a play. Our dining room, usually so formal and cold, was set

oncern. My mother fussed over the flowers. My f

piece of artfully arranged sea bass on my

in event later. I looked at them, these strangers who had created me and

d a glass of warm milk, my nightly ritual.

t made my skin crawl. He handed me the glass. The slee

ze, a long, steady look. I wanted him to remember this mom

arino," I whispered, repeating the first line of the wedding vows he

before he smoothed it away. "Get some rest, Anya," h

sick, my fingers shoved down my throat until my stomach was empty. I r

dy foggy, but I h

grand foyer, a loyal soldier waited-one of the few whose allegiance w

urgent. "Do not enter until exactly ten o't o'clock. Not a minute befor

grim, and disappea

netian and slipped in through a service entrance. I moved throu

saw them cut the cake. And then, I saw the photographer arrange them for a picture. The five of them. Dante, Isabe

thing. The pain had been burned aw

zzed. A tex

ne. You

o the hotel's terrace, pulled my arm back, and threw the phone as hard as I could. It arc

I was untracea

the clock on the gra

ier I had entrusted with the package strode into the

sudden silence. "It's Mrs. Moretti! She's gone! She

r gift box. "A messa