Violet Bento’s face flushed a delicate, theatrical crimson, like a stage actress invoking sympathy from a hushed crowd. She lifted her trembling hands to her cheeks, covering her face as tears welled up again and slid down like dew on rose petals. In that moment, she looked fragile, pitiful even, so convincingly so that anyone unaware of the fire in her eyes minutes ago might believe she had never raised her voice, never spat venom with that sugar-sweet tongue.

She was made ...