"She's not who I thought she was," he said one night, loosening his tie as he paced our bedroom. "She's working three jobs to pay for her education. Can you believe that? The daughter of a man like Filippo, scraping by like a common street girl."
"And get this—" His eyes lit up with something I didn't recognize. "Some connected guy tried to proposition her, said he'd set her up as his comare, shower her with gifts. She stood up and slapped him across the face in front of everyone. What a feisty woman."
Then he added, his tone shifting to something almost accusatory, "I know you two never really got along. But maybe it's because you never gave her a real chance. If you just spent some time with her, maybe you'd see how lovable she is."
My gut was screaming at me that something was off. That the sister who'd smirked at my downfall was playing a long game. But I brushed it aside. Told myself I was just being paranoid. That the old wounds were making me see enemies where there were none.