5. Vincenzo
FIVE
Vincenzo
T he room is filled with laughter, the clinking of fine crystal, the low hum of polite conversation. To everyone watching, we are the perfect couple.
My hand rests at the small of Ottavia’s back, guiding her through the crowd with ease. I nod when necessary, shake hands when expected, murmur pleasantries to people I care nothing about. And through it all, I keep my grip firm, a reminder. A warning.
Ottavia smiles as if she doesn’t feel it.
She’s mastered the art of the illusion. She laughs at the right moments, leans in when required, touches my arm in that delicate, practiced way. She plays her role to perfection.
But underneath the elegant facade, where no one else can see, I press just a little too hard at her waist, let my fingers linger just a little too long. A silent game, one she pretends not to notice.
I lean in, lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. “You’re good at this,” I murmur. “Convincing them. Acting like you belong here.”
“I do belong here. I’m a Del Rossa now, am I not?” she says quietly.
“By name only. My name. Which means…without me, you’re nothing.”
“I’m a born Savelli.”
“Which means jack-shit in this world. Everyone knows it. Your father, too. Why else would he trade his own daughter for an alliance?”
Ottavia’s gaze snaps to mine, her eyes giving nothing away. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe it wasn’t my father who traded me, but yours who sold you?”
Anger flares beneath my skin, a sharp, pulsing burn. I smirk yet tighten my grip. A warning, one she pointedly ignores.
“Vincenzo, Ottavia!” My mother’s voice is warm, indulgent, as if she believes this night is exactly as it should be. She gestures for us to join her at the head of the table, where our fathers sit. “Come, let everyone see what a perfect match you make.”
I guide Ottavia to the table, sliding into the seat beside her. The conversation flows around us as wine flows. She sits straight-backed, poised, offering her rehearsed responses when addressed. A proper wife. A proper Del Rossa.
I let my hand slide beneath the table, resting lightly on her naked thigh, just above the hem of the white cocktail dress she’s wearing.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the touch at all. I press my fingers in. Hard.
Her wine glass doesn’t waver as she lifts it to her lips. “Do you need something, husband?” she asks sweetly.
I exhale a low chuckle, a lazy flicker of amusement curling at the edges of my mouth. “You’re playing your part so well tonight. I might reward you by allowing you to suck my cock later.”
Her reaction is instant—sharp inhale, a barely perceptible tightening of her fingers around the stem of her glass. But she recovers quickly, masking whatever flicker of emotion I just wrung out of her. She won’t give me the satisfaction.
That only makes me want to push harder.
She turns her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine in a way no one else can see. Cold. Unyielding. A silent challenge.
“Do not mistake control for ownership, Vincenzo.” Her voice dips to a hushed whisper. “Just as you should not mistake tolerance for submission.”
Heat moves down my spine, something sharp curling in my chest. There’s something about her fight, her defiance, that’s like a velvet tongue licking up and down my shaft.
I brush my hand farther up her inner thigh, fingers grazing the soft heat between her legs, lingering just long enough to remind her exactly where we stand.
Her breath hitches, a delicious little tremor, but she quickly schools herself, pretending it didn’t happen.
“You call your pussy weeping for me tolerance?” I murmur, voice dark with amusement. “Correct me if my memory fails me, but from what I recall of our wedding night—which isn’t much, as it was quite forgettable—your cunt was drenched for me, that little intact entrance of yours pulsing to swallow my cock.”
I’m not gonna lie, the thought of her wet slit is making me hard. Ever since that night, my mind often wanders to the idea of breaking her in, hearing her cries of pain as I tear through her virginity with one punishing thrust.
Her teeth grind together, the slightest tic in her jaw. I’m affecting her, shattering her polished veneer.
But I’m more than surprised when she reaches out beneath the table, cupping my hardened cock. Dark brown pupils beam with poison as she looks at me. “The body can be deceiving, Vincenzo.”
I move my hips ever so fucking slightly, pressing my dick harder against her palm, but she quickly pulls away, picks up her glass, and murmurs against the delicate rim, “Just like your cock swells for me, yet your heart refuses to beat for anyone but yourself.”
Jesus, I could fuck her right here on this goddamn table in front of everyone. It’s like my disdain for her, her challenge, her fight, it’s all morphing into an exquisite hunger that gnaws at my restraint. Her defiance is an aphrodisiac, each barbed word igniting my desire even more.
Since I’m far from done playing this game, I slide my hand all the way up between her legs, brushing my pinky against her heated core, and I smile when I feel wetness there.
“What do you know? You’re soaked for me.”
“I assure you, it’s only the illusion of your ego,” she retorts, her tone sharp as she takes a sip from her glass. Her light retort cloaks the shock underneath, but I can detect the minute dilation of her pupils, the subtle quickening of her breathing.
“I wonder if I can make you say it again.”
“Say what?”
I find her clit, and she sucks in a breath just as I lean close to her ear. “‘Please fuck me…Vincenzo.’”
Abruptly, she stands, the feet of her chair screeching across the lacquered floors. Everyone looks up at her, her cheeks flushed, eyes glimmering.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says politely, yet I hear the tremor in her voice. “I need to use the restroom.”
She makes her way toward the restroom, her hips swaying with a grace and sensuality that makes me salivate. I can’t help but trail after her, leaving a bewildered crowd in our wake.
The door slams shut behind me, echoing in the silence between us, and my eyes find hers just as a tear escapes.
Something sharp tugs at my chest. “I told you, you don’t belong in this world, Ottavia. You’re far too,” I place my hands in my pants pockets, “delicate.”
“Why?” She wipes at the tear. “Because I cry when my husband’s cruel? Because I hurt when he toys with me, uses my body against me?”
“Because you’re weak. You’re fucking weak, and you don’t have what it takes to survive in this family.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I barely fucking survived!” I snap, and her expression instantly softens. I grind my teeth. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pity me.”
“I don’t pity you, Vincenzo. I’m wondering when you’ll stop pretending.”
I freeze. “Pretending?”
Ottavia tilts her head, watching me like she can see past the surface. “When will you stop pretending like you don’t have a heart?”
“Who says I’m pretending?”
“I do,” she murmurs, and the air slowly evaporates as she steps closer. “And the starling you saved.”
I still, the memory slamming into my chest like a hammer, reverberating through bones I thought had long since turned to steel.
She leans forward, her voice softer now, almost desperate. “You saved that starling. Nursed it back to health and set it free. Remember that?”
I force myself to smirk, but it feels wrong on my face. “You’re clinging to childhood fantasies, Ottavia.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t owe you one.”
“You do,” she says, voice rising now, anger seeping through the cracks. “Because no matter how cruel you try to be, I know—I know—that you weren’t always this way.”
I laugh, a cold, empty sound. “And what, you think reminding me of some worthless bird will change me? That I’ll suddenly become the boy you’ve built up in your head?”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. She never does. “It wasn’t worthless to me.”
Something snaps inside me. The patience I don’t have burns to ash, and before I can stop myself, I slam her back against the cold wall, my hand catching her throat—not squeezing, just holding. Just enough to feel her pulse hammer against my palm. Just enough to make sure she fucking listens.
“You think I saved that bird for you? That it meant anything?”
Ottavia lifts her chin, defiant. “If it meant nothing, why do you still remember it?”
“Because I got the shit beaten out of me over that fucking bird.”
She sucks in a breath.
“I saved that bird, and what did I get in return? A bruised face, a fractured rib, and broken collarbone. I got a father who didn’t talk to me for weeks because his only son disappointed him by setting that bird free instead of killing it. And when he finally decided to speak to me—” I stop, clenching my jaw.
The memory burns, like a demon slithering down the spine of my soul. My father made me do unspeakable things, things that would break the mind of a delicate thing like her.
Her eyes widen in shock, color draining from her face, and I rear back with a grunt, hating how my father’s words start rushing back.
“The only thing worse than weakness is a man who lets others see it.”
“Compassion is a leash. The second you show it, someone will choke you with it.”
“Next time you break the wing completely. If it can’t fly, it has no fucking purpose.”
Ottavia reaches for me, but I flinch back, anger rolling in waves as I sneer at her, “I was weak…because of you.”
Silence stretches between us, and it’s fucking suffocating.
Her lips part, but no words come. For the first time, she doesn’t know what to say. There’s no sign of her fight.
Good. Now she knows.
I turn my back on her and open the door but stop to glance at her over my shoulder. “I will never allow you to make me weak again, Ottavia. Never.”
I hear her sob. Hear the sharp inhale of breath. The fucking pity. And as I walk away from her, I tell myself I feel nothing.
Not for her.