“You ever smelled blood on Christmas?” Vincenzo asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Seraphina flinched at the question.
“I have,” he continued, his eyes unfocused as if staring at something far away. “I was fifteen. Thought Christmas meant family. Laughter, Mama’s perfume. Papa’s loud singing.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But what I got... was the smell of blood soaked into the f*****g tiles.”
His voice dropped to a cold whisper. “They say revenge is poison. That it eats you alive from the inside out.”
He took a slow sip of whiskey. The ice clinked gently in the glass.
“But that night? When I saw my mother’s blood staining the marble floor and my father’s mouth was still open like he wanted to scream but didn’t get the chance
