Chapter 9 Vincenzo
Vincenzo
He walks away like he hasn’t just set fire to my fucking world.
Like he didn’t step into this gym, drag his gaze over my sweat-slicked skin, and whisper filth with a mouth that should’ve been washed out with bleach. His steps are slow, almost lazy, that loose-hipped swagger designed to be remembered.
And I do remember; every inch of it, every second of it. The way his voice dropped right before he tapped my chest, like he already knew what kind of storm he was stirring in my gut. Like he knew I’d stand there while the last scrap of my self-control slipped between his fingers.
Fuck.
I grit my teeth, jaw locking so hard it creaks. My fists curl at my sides as the gym door clicks shut behind him.
It shouldn’t be like this. No one is supposed to get to me; no one’s ever had the leverage. I’ve built my life—my reputation—on restraint. I was raised on discipline, on silence, on brutality that never showed itself in vulgar displays.
And yet, here I am—fists trembling, blood hot, hard as fuck, and shame thick in my throat.
Because of him.
That smug, teasing, sin-wrapped-in-skin brat with a mouth made for war and ice blue eyes that see too much. Nikolaj Dragovich walks like he’s untouchable. Talks like he’s already won. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t falter, and that’s what makes him dangerous.
That’s what makes him tempting.
He’s not afraid of me like everyone else is. They know what my name means, what I was born into, and what I’ll inherit. But he doesn’t care, or worse—he does and still chooses to poke and prod. To peel back layers I’ve spent my entire life welding shut.
I snarl and throw a punch at the nearest bag.
Leather smacks against my knuckles. The bag swings wide on its chain, but it doesn’t help.
Doesn’t drain the pressure building under my skin like magma.
I hit it again, imagining his face and that smug curl of his lips when he said, “Next time you pin me down, try doing it because you want to.”
It’s like he knows how badly I wanted to drag him beneath me and ruin him for the way he makes me want this at all.
My family would slit my throat if they ever saw the truth in my eyes.
The Cosa Nostra doesn’t make room for men who bend beneath other men.
My father calls it decay. Weakness. “A disease of the West,” he once spat, “where men forget what it means to conquer and instead beg to be touched.” He never said it directly to me, but he didn’t have to.
The implication was always there, stitched into every lesson and every sidelong look when a man moved too softly or smiled too long at his brother-in-arms.
Which is why I can’t want this. Why I shouldn’t want him.
Another punch lands. Then another. But my mind won’t stop replaying the scene.
The glint in those light blue eyes—almost silver under the fluorescents.
That low, dirty way he spoke to me like we’d done this before.
As if my resistance was nothing more than foreplay to him.
Like I’d already given him something just by watching.
And I did. Fuck. I did watch. From the moment he walked into this goddamn school, all scars and swagger, too pretty to be safe and too violent to be dismissed. I noticed everything. The way he laughs, the way he eats, the way he stretches his arms behind his head as if he wants you to look.
He’s a weapon built for temptation, and I’ve already let him cut me once.
I drop my fists and exhale sharply. The bag swings again, mocking me with its weightless sway. My pulse is still racing, heat coiled low in my gut. I can’t stay here, not when my thoughts keep drifting back to his mouth, to the curve of his hips and the way he says my name.
I need a distraction. A suitable one. Something acceptable. Traditional. Something I can fuck without shame or consequence. Something that doesn’t whisper back at me with a Russian accent and a crooked smile.
I grab my towel, wipe the sweat from my neck, and head for the locker rooms, mind already filtering through the list of girls who’ve made it known they’d love to be seen on my arm.
Bianca, the daughter of the Venetian syndicate.
Lucia, whose father owes mine three favors and would sell her like a dove if it meant earning my approval.
Hell, even one of the quiet cartel heirs, who stare too long when I walk by.
Any of them will do.
They’re simple.
Safe.
I need to be seen wanting someone else. I need it plastered across these halls so the next time that Russian bastard looks at me like he knows the things I dream about in the dark, he’ll see someone else in my bed. He’ll see that I chose loyalty, image, and the path carved in blood by my ancestors.
Even if it doesn’t satisfy me or leaves me colder.
I check the time as I walk, passing under the neon-lit arch of the East Wing. My phone’s already vibrating with a new message—Bianca, as if summoned by thought, texting something casual about a drink she has stashed in her dorm. I type back a single word.
Tonight.
It’ll do. It has to.
I slide my phone away, take the staircase up toward my quarters, and try not to feel the pulse that still hasn’t calmed or the phantom heat of his breath on my jaw.
But it’s there; it’s always there. Every time I close my eyes, I see silver eyes, bruised lips, and that goddamn smirk. And I know that no matter who I touch tonight, no matter how loud she moans or how tight her body clings to mine…
I’ll still be thinking about him.