The Ghost Don's Poison Bride

Black Hollow took me in when I was a child. I learned only the basics of medicine, but when it came to poison, I mastered it. From capos with real power to street soldiers hustling on corners, anyone who took one of my poisons had no more than three days left. Not even Dr. Matteo could undo what I made. The day I left, he gave me a rosary and told me to use it whenever my temper started to rise. I remembered. For seven years, I moved from neighborhood to neighborhood and became the kind of doctor people trusted, the gentle woman who helped anyone who came to her door. Little by little, people forgot the strange, vicious girl from Black Hollow. They remembered only Alessia, the doctor with the soft voice and steady hands. Then the Scola family found me and told me I was the daughter who had been switched out of their bloodline years ago. The night I came home, the Scolas took me to dinner at the Falcone estate. At the party, Stella, my sister in name only, stood surrounded by daughters from the client families. They whispered behind their glasses. “I heard she grew up in that kind of place. Who knows if she’s even clean? In some places, women get passed around like merchandise.” “She’s just the sacrifice for the marriage alliance. If Stella hadn’t refused to marry that disgraced Vincenzo, why would the Scolas have bothered bringing her back?” My face did not change. I kept my mild smile. Then someone walked straight up to me, her pretty face twisted with contempt. “You feral little bitch. Who do you think you are, marrying into the Falcone family?” She shoved me hard. I stepped aside, but her fingers caught my wrist. Pain flashed across my skin. The rosary broke. The beads scattered across the floor. The smile on my face slowly disappeared. At the same time, not far away, Marco Falcone—who had once had the bad luck to taste one of my poisons—stared at my face, and his expression changed completely. …… The moment the rosary snapped, I looked down. The beads rolled across the polished marble, scattering one by one, the sound light and sharp. I still heard it. A thin cut had opened on my wrist. Blood seeped out slowly and slid along the bone. The girl who had shoved me had no idea anything was wrong. She only lifted her chin, disgust written all over her face. “What are you dodging for? I barely touched you.” Her name was Isabella. She had been circling Stella all evening, the cruelest mouth among them, the loudest laugh whenever someone insulted me. The girls beside her immediately joined in. “Girls from places like that never know how to behave.” “Isabella was kind enough to teach her some manners, and now she’s giving attitude.” “She should look at herself first. Does she really think being brought back by the Scolas makes her a real daughter of the family?” One sentence after another hit me. I bent down to pick up the beads and said nothing. At last, Stella stepped forward. She lightly pulled Isabella back, her eyes red, her voice soft as water. “Isabella, don’t. Alessia only just came home. Of course she doesn’t know the rules here yet.” That one sentence was sharper than all the mockery. Only just came home. With those words, she drew a clean line between us. I raised my eyes and looked at her. She looked back at me. In her eyes, I saw caution. I saw grievance. I also saw resentment hidden deep enough to pass for fear. Of course she resented me. For seventeen years, she had been the Scola princess, raised in luxury and loved by everyone. Now that I was back, her place was no longer secure. Even the marriage alliance that should have been hers had landed on me. Though in everyone’s eyes, that marriage was no prize. Vincenzo Falcone, the disgraced underboss they called the Ghost, was rumored to be cold, dangerous, and nearly ruined. Marrying him was no different from walking into a grave. That was why the Scolas had brought me back. I knew it. Stella knew it too. She was afraid I had come to take her place, but the truth was, I did not care. My identity, the marriage alliance, the Scola family—I cared about none of it. But they should not have touched my rosary. Dr. Matteo had given it to me. On the day I left, he slipped it onto my wrist and told me to use it to calm myself whenever I got angry. He said, “Alessia, there’s something wrong in you. You’re not like other people. If you don’t hold it down, sooner or later you’ll bring hell with you.” I thought he was right. I had never been a good thing. When I was ten, a boy stole my candy, so I put a laxative in his coffee and left him trapped in the bathroom for three days. At eleven, a groundskeeper called me a little forest ghost behind my back, so I lured him to the edge of the snake pit and listened to him cry all night. At twelve, after memorizing a poison manual, I made my first poison by myself and was so happy I could not sleep. Plants could save lives. But change the order, change the dose, and they could also make someone beg to live and beg to die. Interesting, wasn’t it? Dr. Matteo called me rotten by nature. He said it was a waste that I had been born with such a pretty face when everything underneath was black. But for all his scolding, he never had the heart to throw me out of Black Hollow. He said letting me loose would hurt people. So he watched me for ten years. After I left the Hollow, I spent seven years pretending to be a gentle doctor. I pretended for so long that these spoiled mafia princesses truly thought I was clay they could shape in their hands. Seeing that I did not answer, Isabella became even more pleased with herself. “What? Too scared to talk back? Makes sense. What good could a place like that raise? I heard in some places women get passed around like goods. Who knows if you’re even clean—” “Isabella,” Stella said softly, frowning. She sounded like she was stopping her. But I still saw the faint smile at the corner of her mouth. I closed my fingers around the rosary and slowly stood. “Are you done?” Isabella froze, as if she had not expected me to lift my head. “You—” I looked at her and asked again, very softly. “Are you done?” For some reason, her face stiffened.

The next second, Isabella straightened her back again. “What, am I wrong? You did grow up in that filthy place. Who knows what kind of people you’ve been mixed up with all these years? Now the Scolas bring you back, and you think you can step over Stella? Do you even deserve it?” Stella lowered her head and said nothing. That was what she did best. She never made the first move. She simply stood aside and let other people fight for her. I looked at her and suddenly smiled. When she raised her head and met my eyes, her face went slightly pale. “Stella,” I said gently, “do you think so too?” The room went quiet for a moment. Everyone looked at Stella. She bit her lip, her eyes reddening at exactly the right time. “Why are you forcing me? I never wanted to fight you for anything.” “Really?” I slowly gathered the last bead into my palm. “But you look very afraid of me.” Stella’s pupils tightened. As if I had stabbed the truth in one sentence. Just then, there came the soft clatter of glassware not far away. Someone seemed to have lost his grip and spilled wine across the table. Everyone turned. Marco Falcone stood beneath the chandelier, his face terrifyingly white. Marco was looking at me. More precisely, he was staring at my face. The shock in his eyes was so obvious that even the people around him noticed. Someone asked in a low voice, “Marco, what’s wrong?” He did not answer. He just stood there, frozen, like he had seen a ghost. I looked at him and smiled. Across half the ballroom, Marco actually stepped back half a pace. Everyone saw it. The room became even quieter. Stella saw it too. Her fingertips tightened almost imperceptibly. Clearly, she had not expected that I, an outsider newly dragged back by the Scolas, could make a son of the Falcone family look like that. Isabella still did not understand. She frowned and said, “Marco knows her?” Marco’s throat moved, but he still said nothing. He seemed to be hesitating. His eyes fixed on my bare wrist, then fell to the beads in my palm, and his face became uglier. I found it amusing, so I gave him a slight nod. “Marco.” Just two syllables. His hand jerked violently, and the glass between his fingers fell straight to the floor. With a sharp crack, broken crystal scattered everywhere. This time, no one could pretend they had not seen. Luciano, the heir apparent, had not yet arrived. At that moment, Marco was the most important Falcone in the room. Yet when he looked at me, he looked like a rat that had seen a cat, his face faintly gray. Even Isabella, slow as she was, finally sensed something was wrong. She looked suspiciously from Marco to me, but still forced herself to speak. “She’s just some wild girl from outside. Why would Marco—” “Shut up!” Marco snapped almost before she could finish. His voice was sharp and urgent. Isabella froze under the insult, her face turning red and white by turns. Marco, however, had no attention to spare for her. He only stared at me, a thin layer of cold sweat already forming on his forehead. That fear was not fake. Of course he was afraid. Seven years ago, at a private riding club outside the city, he got drunk and blocked my path with his men, trying to take me back to his apartment. Back then, I was carrying a collection case and wearing plain clothes. I looked ordinary enough. He thought I was an ordinary girl he could play with and smiled as he asked if I wanted to leave with him. I smiled too. Then I flicked a little powder into the bottle he carried. The poison was not fatal. It only made the whole body itch, itching down into the seams of the bones until a person could neither live properly nor die. The Falcone family’s private doctors were helpless. He begged every underground physician he could find, and in the end, word came from Black Hollow. Only then did he learn whom he had offended. From then on, whenever he saw a woman in dark clothes, he looked twice, afraid he might run into me again. And now, he clearly had recognized me. But he did not dare say it. Or rather, he did not dare say the name of that place in a room like this. Because once he said it, tonight’s family dinner would no longer be about a few sharp words. I did not speak. I only watched him quietly. More and more sweat gathered on Marco’s forehead. At last, he lowered his voice and bent slightly toward me. “They don’t know the rules. They offended you.” “Please, show mercy. Spare them this once.” A direct member of the Falcone family had lowered himself in public to apologize for two daughters from client families. The whole hall went still. Isabella’s face turned white. Only then did panic finally reach her.

Stella was completely stunned too. She stared at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. I smiled gently. “Marco, that sounds too serious. They were only making jokes. Why would I take it to heart?” After hearing that, Marco Falcone did not relax. Instead, his face became even paler. He probably knew too well that before I acted, I liked best to smile and say I had not taken anything to heart. Stella finally could not hold back anymore. She stepped forward and stood in front of Isabella, looking at me with hostility beginning to show in her eyes. “Alessia, what exactly do you want?” I lowered my eyes to her. The way she said “Alessia” was no longer soft. There was a bit of clenched teeth in it now. Understandable. On Falcone territory, the Don’s son was this wary of me. To her, that was more humiliating than a few insults in the room. I asked her, “Are you scared?” Stella’s face cooled. “Why would I be scared of you?” “Because you’re guilty.” I spoke slowly. “You took my place for seventeen years. You enjoyed the family protection and money that should have been mine. Now I’m back, and you’re afraid I’ll take everything from you.” Stella’s eyes reddened at once. “I didn’t!” Her voice was loud, as if she had suffered some terrible injustice. The people around her looked at her with sympathy again. She had always known how to act. I only smiled. “You know whether you did.” The air pressed tighter and tighter. At that moment, a staff member announced from outside the ballroom that Luciano had arrived. Everyone quickly composed themselves and lowered their heads in greeting. As soon as Luciano entered, he sensed that something was wrong. He glanced at the broken glass scattered across the floor, then at the people locked in a standoff, and frowned slightly. “What happened?” No one answered first. Stella bit her lip and was about to step forward, but Marco spoke ahead of her. “Nothing. A few ladies lost control of their mouths and had a little argument.” He said it very quickly, as if afraid one second of delay would invite bigger trouble. Luciano looked at him, clearly unconvinced. His gaze swept around the room and finally landed on me. At that single glance, his expression paused slightly. As if he thought I looked familiar. I lowered my eyes and said nothing. The hall grew quieter and quieter. Everyone was waiting. Waiting for Luciano to ask, waiting for Marco to speak, waiting for someone to break the deadlock no one dared touch first. Then the doors opened again. This time, no loud, theatrical announcement was needed. The conversation near the entrance died first, then the sound of glasses being set down followed, and the whole ballroom lowered its head. Don Corrado Falcone and his wife, Donna Beatrice, entered the hall. Everyone bowed. I lowered my head as well. Even with my eyes down, I could still feel several gazes fall on me. One was Stella’s, full of hate. One was Marco’s, full of fear. And one belonged to the Don. After Don Corrado took the head seat, he did not immediately allow everyone to relax. He only swept his eyes over the room. “What was the noise?” One sentence sank the air. No one dared speak first. At last, Donna Beatrice said gently, “I thought I heard someone cry out from outside. Did someone forget her manners?” Her voice was soft, but everyone understood that she was offering those beneath her a way down. Stella knew better than anyone how to seize that sort of chance. Her eyes reddened, and she was the first to straighten slightly from the crowd. “Don Corrado, Donna Beatrice, it was only a misunderstanding between a few of my friends and my sister. If we disturbed you, the fault is mine.” With one sentence, she made herself half-clean. She admitted there had been conflict, but reduced it to a misunderstanding. Following her words, the Don’s gaze landed on me. “This is the daughter George Scola brought back?”