"It's only right for a wife to slap a mistress," she said. Her voice carried across the courtyard, pitched for an audience. "Besides, I'm the wife of the Valente Syndicate's Don. Beating you and your filthy daughter is nothing. I could take your lives, and it wouldn't matter."
The Valente name. My mother's name. My name. Falling from this woman's painted mouth like loose change.
The other parents pressed closer, feeding on her certainty.
"If you hadn't been a mistress, Luna wouldn't have hit you. You brought this on yourself."
"You're just a filthy side piece. Instead of keeping your head down, you're out here provoking people. Getting slapped is the least of what you deserve."
"Yeah, you've got a taste for being a tramp, huh? Who are you pretending to be the innocent victim for? We're not like those men blinded by lust."
Even the bystanders joined in. Each insult landed sharper than the last, and each one emboldened Luna further. I could see it in her shoulders, the way she straightened, the way she fed on their approval like oxygen. She was performing. She had always been performing.