Chapter Nineteen – Vieri
The room is quiet, but my mind isn’t.
Her breath brushes softly against my skin—light, even, but just rough enough to remind me she’s not fully healed. She’s curled into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her thick frame pressed against mine, one arm flung across my waist. My arm’s gone half-numb under her, but I don’t move.
I stare down at her face, memorizing it without meaning to.
Dark lashes rest against pale cheeks, splotched faintly with the last remnants of her fever. Her lips, parted slightly in sleep, still carry the ghost of the moan she made when I bit her ear. I can see the faint arch of her brow, the way her nose curves delicately like it was shaped from porcelain.
Too fucking soft for this life.
She shifts with a little whimper, her hand fisting weakly in the fabric of my pants. Instinctively, my hand moves to soothe her. I run my fingers through her hair, pushing the messy strands away from her face, and press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin is warm, but not burning.
I pull away—slowly. Gently.
Fingertips brushing her arm. A breath held as I shift her from my chest onto the pillow. Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t wake.
I slide out of bed, pad barefoot toward the inner chamber. My body feels wired, my chest too tight, like something’s clawing beneath my ribs.
I collapse onto the couch and bury my face in my hands.
“What the fuck are you doing, Vieri?”
I drag my hands down my face. I sit forward, elbows on knees, staring at nothing.
She was supposed to be a pawn. Not wrapped around me like I’m her protector. Not making me feel like I have something to lose.
I push her out of my mind. Bellandi is becoming bolder. I have to handle him quickly. I'll put Alfio on that, send him a nice warning too.
I snatch my burner off the table and dial without thinking.
Bugatti answers. “Boss.”
“Where the fuck have you been?” I snap.
“Club was busy—”
“I don’t give a shit about your club. You’re supposed to be updating me.”
Bugatti clears his throat. “Right. Right. Sorry, boss.”
I breathe hard through my nose. “Lapo might know something.”
He asks, “Do I bring him in?”
I rub the back of my neck. Lapo’s a fool, but a fool with connections. Rattle him and it would echo through every Don I’m still trying to win back.
“No. Not yet. Bring in someone close to him. Someone we can scare, if we need to.”
“Got it,” Bugatti says. “I’ll make the call. Give me a few hours.”
“I’ll be at your club in thirty.” Just before I hang up, I ask, “And the lady. Carmela Fiore?”
“She’s been making noise,” he says. “Going to police stations, saying her granddaughter was kidnapped. I’ve got guys running interference. No station’s touching her case.”
Guilt flickers in my chest. I shut it down.
“She doesn’t stop, handle it.”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call.
I stay on the couch for a long minute, listening to the muffled sound of Lunetta’s breathing from the bedroom. When I walk back in, the light from the hallway throws her body in soft contrast. She’s curled into herself now, clutching the blanket, her face peaceful.
I remember Enzo’s words.
Men like us don’t deserve angels like her.
She’s not mine. She can’t be.
I chuckle to myself. A dry, bitter sound.
What the hell was I thinking? That I… loved her? That’s not love. That’s hormones. I’ve been locked up for years. She’s the only woman I’ve touched in years—of course I’m acting like a dog in heat. Back then, I’d have three women in one night and still wake up unsatisfied.
This is just proximity. Just deprivation.
I turn from her and walk to the closet, yanking a shirt from the hanger. I throw it on and grab my gun from the side table, tucking it into my waistband.
As I run a hand through my hair, I glance once more at her sleeping form.
Peaceful. Beautiful. Too good for me.
“Vieri,” I mutter to myself. “Tonight, you’ll find a woman who’ll make you come… and you’ll get over this fucking nonsense.”
****
In Bugatti’s club, the music’s low and throbbing, wrapping the private lounge in a haze of smoke and velvet shadows. The lights are dimmed to gold and burgundy, casting soft, seductive shapes across the walls. My shirt is unbuttoned to my chest, collar loose. A woman—tall, lean, blonde—sways her hips in front of me, bare thighs brushing my lap as she straddles me. Her perfume thick and sweet, her breasts pressed up. Her movements are smooth, her hips syncing with the beat pulsing through the club’s bones.
I sit back, expression blank, fingers draped loosely over the armrest while she rides my crotch. My eyes drift over her curves. Her hand traces a line down my chest as she makes eye contact. The door opens and a second woman steps into view.
Curvy. Full-bodied. Soft where the dancer is all angles and lines. Her breasts strain against a backless black dress, the neckline plunging so low it almost reaches her stomach. I asked for her specifically.
Her curls are a rich brown, and she styles them like Lunetta styled hers at the party. A few strands fall loose, brushing her cheek
She smiles, there's nothing innocent about her and it is what I need. Her lips are painted a bright, aggressive red. Her gaze flicks to the dancer still working my lap.
I tap the blonde’s hip once. She gets up and leaves without a word.
The second woman strolls toward me, hips swinging beneath the black silk and she hands me a glass of wine, brushing her fingers along mine as I take it.
“You can call me Donna,” she purrs, voice thick, slurring just enough to sound intentionally breathy.
She slides down onto my lap—slowly, deliberately—her thighs warm and plush as they straddle me. She’s soft, curvy, heavy in all the right places. Her perfume is warmer than the last—spiced, smoky. Still wrong.
Her hand drifts up to my chest, nails grazing across my collarbone. “You don’t talk much,” she whispers. “I like that in a man.”
I down half the wine in a single swallow. She presses closer. Her eyes are half-lidded. Her tongue runs across her lower lip.
I lean in and kiss her.
Her mouth is wet, and she presses in like she’s hungry for it—but I feel nothing. The pressure is wrong. My jaw clenches. Her breath smells like synthetic cherry gloss and wine. I pull away after barely a second.
She giggles, fingers brushing the edge of her neckline as she wipes her mouth. “I like you already.”
I force a smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. She looks so much like Lunetta—at least from a distance. Full hips. Dark curls. Lush curves.
But everything else is wrong.
There’s no innocence in her eyes, no tremble in her hands, no hesitation in her touch. No breathless gasp when I get too close. No wide-eyed confusion. No sweetness.
The door opens again and Bugatti steps in. He glances at Donna.
She stands, reading the room like a professional. With a teasing smile, she reaches into her dress and produces a sleek black card. She slides it into my palm. Then she leans down, plants a kiss on my mouth. She pulls back with a wink. “Call me,” she whispers.
Then she walks away, her hips swaying.
I watch her leave. But all I see is the way Lunetta had trembled when I’d held her. The way her lips had parted beneath mine like she didn’t understand what was happening to her—or why she wanted more.
Bugatti looks at me and he nods. I stand and follow him to a velvet curtain. He opens it and I walk past first into the darkness. He walks in and closes the velvet curtain behind us, sealing off the pounding music and pulsing lights of the club’s VIP section. We walk through a narrow hallway, the walls soundproofed and bathed in dull red light. At the end, he opens a door and leads me into a room that smells like blood.
Inside, a man is slumped on the floor, nose swollen and crusted in red, a trickle of blood sliding past his jaw. His hands are zip-tied behind his back. He shifts when we enter, trying to look tough. Bugatti’s men line the room.
“His name’s Gold,” Bugatti says, gesturing. “Lapo’s right hand. Watches his back. Does his dirty work. Took a little convincing, but we got him here.”
Gold lifts his chin, lips curling into a snarl. “Took three of your men and a damn taser, but here I am.”
I drag a chair forward and sit down, resting my elbows on my knees. My fingers lace together as I stare at him.
He spits blood to the side, barely missing my shoe. “Go fuck yourself.”
My smile spreads slowly.
Then I stand. Gold blinks.
Before he can speak again, I step forward, grip his head, and slam it into the concrete wall.
The sound is sickening.
He crumples onto his side, groaning, blood pouring freely from his forehead now. One of Bugatti’s men steps forward, but I wave him off and return to my seat, brushing dust from my knuckles.
Gold rolls onto his back, moaning. I stare, my face calm, He coughs, turns, and slumps back to a seated position, cradling his head. “You’re fucking insane,” he mutters.
I tilt my head.
He groans. “The idiot's a liar. Whatever he said.”
“Then who’s feeding him? He looked well off, talked about retiring even,” I ask flatly.
He shakes his head. “No one.”
I lean back and let out a low breath, my voice dipping. “I’ll cut to the chase, Gold. Someone stole my diamonds. My gold. Stolen from the blood of my father, and his father before him. Generational wealth. Gone.” I glance at Bugatti. “Our wealth.”
Bugatti’s nod is faint.
Gold exhales through his nose, shoulders sagging. “Are you going to kill me?”
I grin. “No. That’s not on the table.” I lean forward, voice lower now. “But I can make you wish for death. I can make you cry for it.”
“I know nothing,” he says finally. “I swear. Lapo only uses me for muscle. He doesn’t trust me with business.”
I watch his eyes.
Gold’s lips twitch into something between confusion and disgust. “He’s been bragging about some fish farm investments—small ones, local. He says they’re lucrative. Talks like he’s pulling gold from gills. But I swear to you, I wouldn’t risk my life to protect that kind of stupidity.”
I watch him a moment longer. Nothing in his posture changes. He’s telling the truth—or close enough.
I beckon Bugatti.
He leans in, and I speak just above a whisper. “He’s clean. But rough him up a little. See if he leaks anything else. Then let him go. Alive.”
Bugatti nods once, sharp and smooth.
I stand, brushing the dust from my slacks and rolling my sleeves back down. One of Bugatti’s men opens the door for me, follows me out as I walk out without looking back.
The music grows louder as I step back into the lounge beyond the curtains. I walk past the club and I glance to see Donna, leaning into a man in a crisp suit, nails dragging down his chest, lips parted in a seductive whisper. Our eyes meet and she smiles at me across the distance, a honeyed grin.
But when she smiles—I don’t see her.
I see Lunetta. Eyes soft and wide. Lips trembling with a smile that’s too innocent for a world like this. Her curls. Her breathless voice.
Get yourself together Vieri! Fuck!
****
The engine dies with a low growl as I pull into the mansion’s parking lot. The digital clock on the dash reads midnight.
I don’t go to my room because she is there.
I go where the voices in my head are quieter—where the distractions are loud enough to keep me from thinking.
The study is dark, save for the desk lamp I flick on with a sharp twist.
Wire transfers. Property fronts. Arms manifests.
I review the construction permits for the Zaffiro docks—a new shell company to clean cartel cash for Don Celano. He’ll owe me. I flip to the next file: expansion plans for a medical supply front. The fake invoices are lined up already, thanks to Omero’s tech work. These supplies don’t exist—but the money they’ll wash for the Tavano family will be very real.
By the time the sun begins bleeding through the edges of the blackout curtains, the desk is a warzone of paper and half-empty espresso cups. I lean back, unbuttoning my shirt, letting the fabric fall open as a cigarette smolders between my fingers.
My body aches with fatigue, but my mind?
A knock comes. “Come in,” I mutter, not looking up.
The door opens and closes with a soft click.
“You’ve been up all night?” Alfio asks.
“What do you want?”
“We’re taking the girl out for ice cream.”
“Don’t lose her this time.”
“She’s coming with all of us. Enzo’s not letting her out of his sight.” Alfio crosses the room and leans on the bookshelf. “Riccardo’s still pissed at you. So is Enzo, honestly.”
“They can suck balls,” I say flatly, tapping ash into the tray. “I’m not running a daycare. They’ll get over it.”
Alfio doesn’t laugh.
“You know you have us, right?” he says. His voice is quieter now. Less snark, more something else. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. Whatever this is.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap. “Also, keep an eye on Bellandi. Watch him like a hawk.”
“Last night? Do you think?”
“Just do as I say.”
He inhales like he wants to say something more—but he doesn’t.
He walks out without another word.
The door shuts behind him and I laugh.
A bitter, dry sound that barely passes for humor.
“Fucking stupid ice cream,” I mutter, flicking ash off the edge of my cigarette. “Why am I not invited, huh?”
From the inner pocket of my half-buttoned shirt, I pull out Donna’s card. Her name is scribbled in red ink, looping, seductive. There’s probably a kiss mark on the back. I stare at it for three seconds longer than I should.
Then I toss it in the trash.
I take a long drag of smoke and lean back, watching the sun creep across the ceiling.