Chapter 2
Vittoria
I need a break. A real one and not some half-hearted attempt at zoning out while pretending I’m fine.
So, I end up at a dive bar in a part of town I usually avoid.
It's the kind of place where the walls are stained and the floor is sticky, where nobody cares to look at you unless you’re too drunk to stand.
It’s the kind of place my husband would never step foot in. He'd say it’s beneath us—full of riffraff, washed-up drunks, and people who’ve made bad choices. And maybe that’s what makes it perfect.
I’m here to breathe. To forget. For just a second, I want to not be me—not the girl always on edge, always careful, always worried. And a few drinks might help with that. At least for tonight.
The place is half-empty, except for a couple of old men hunched over the bar, talking about the good old days, and a few groups of people pretending they’re not too lonely.
I sit down at the far end of the bar, away from the noise. My fingers tap restlessly on the counter.
The bartender comes over with a small, rehearsed smile and winks at me.
She has a thick accent—not Italian, something rougher, maybe Polish.
Her eye makeup is just as heavy as her stare, but she doesn’t ask what I want.
She just pours a whiskey and slides it across the counter like she already knows why I’m here.
I nod, grateful, and toss it back in one go.
It burns, but it’s the right kind of burn.
This is the kind of place my husband wouldn’t look for me in. But I also wouldn’t be here if not for him. If not for what he asked me to do.
That’s when he walks in.
I don’t know what I expect when I look toward the door, but he—this man who feels like he should only exist in fantasy—shatters every expectation.
Tall, dark, and dangerously hot, he has that rare mix of beauty and raw masculinity that makes you itch to touch him. His body commands the space, like it was made to dominate every inch of the room. He hasn’t moved yet, but I can already feel the heat rolling off him, drawing me in.
His eyes—those deep, dark eyes—catch mine for a second. The weight of his stare settles over me, thick and smoldering, dragging across my skin like a slow burn.
I can’t help but watch him move. Every step he takes is deliberate, like he’s enjoying the way the room reacts to him. He’s well over six feet of raw power, and he doesn’t just walk—he prowls like a predator who knows every inch of territory is his.
His shirt clings to him in all the right places—over his broad shoulders and narrow waist, hugging the muscles beneath in a way that makes my fingers ache to trace them.
The sleeves of his shirt pull tight around his forearms, and my eyes are drawn to the tattoos there, marking him in ways that make me wonder how the rest of his skin would feel under my hands.
But it’s not just his body. It’s the way he carries himself.
There’s no hesitation in him—no need to prove himself to anyone.
His confidence is the kind that speaks for itself, that makes you want to fall to your knees in front of him and beg for a taste.
He’s beyond reach, and yet I feel him everywhere, like he’s already inside my head, inside my skin.
When he sits at the piano, I hold my breath. The man doesn’t rush—he’s in no hurry to show anyone what he can do. He cracks his knuckles, and then his fingers stroke the keys with the kind of precision that makes my pulse race.
Each note he plays feels like it’s designed to crawl under my skin, twisting something deep inside of me. His music is slow and seductive. And when he plays, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath, like everything has come to a standstill just to watch him.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring, but it’s not long enough. My thoughts are tangled and my body is on edge with every nerve ending firing, aching to touch, to taste, to feel the heat of him.
I forget where I am and who I am for a moment.
His eyes dart across the crowd, but it’s not like he’s really seeing them—his eyes are distant, like he’s lost in the music.
It’s now more obvious that he doesn’t care about anything except the sound, except the way his fingers glide over the keys.
And yet, it feels like he’s playing just for me, like every note is meant to pull me deeper into his world, into his grasp.
I feel the heat pooling in my core and my body responding to the rhythm of the music and the rhythm of him. And when the last note fades, I’m left breathless, suspended in a space where nothing exists except the ache in my body, the unease in my chest.
I think I want him. And in ways I haven’t wanted anyone in a long time.
The bartender lady nudges me and there is amusement in her voice. “Don’t look like you’re about to eat him alive.”
I blink, pulling my eyes away for a moment, but the desire doesn’t fade.
If anything, it is bolder, curling through me and making every part of me ache with anticipation.
My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand and my pulse thumps in my ears.
I can’t look away, not even when the whiskey burns down my throat and the warmth spreads through my body like a slow, intoxicating fire.
"More whiskey," I mutter to the bartender. She raises an eyebrow but pours me another glass.
The night drags on, the music now quiet as it fades into the background. I can barely think straight, but the buzz is nice. I’m a little tipsy, and I don’t care. It’s a feeling I rarely get, but right now, I don't want to fight it.
I stand to leave, and turn to look at him—only this time, he’s gone. The piano’s empty. He’s disappeared like he was never here, and for a second, I wonder if I imagined him.
I step out into the cool air, the city buzzing in the background, and for a moment, I just stand there, letting the quiet settle over me. My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking it. I know he’s wondering where I am.
And then... I hear footsteps behind me.
At first, I think it’s just some drunk idiot stumbling in the same direction. But when the steps quicken, I get that sick feeling in my stomach. The kind of feeling you get when someone’s following you, and it’s not accidental.
I pick up the pace, trying not to look over my shoulder, but I can feel him getting closer.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
My hand goes instinctively to my purse, where I’ve got a tiny can of pepper spray stashed.
I keep walking faster as my mind races through all the ways this could end.
“Hey, pretty lady, you gonna ignore me all night?”
I don’t answer, just quicken my pace. But then his voice cuts through again, sharper this time.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Before I can react, he’s there, his long legs closing the gap in three steps. He grabs my arm, shoves me against the wall, and leans in, his body heat suffocating.
The guy’s got a clumsy military buzz cut that screams "I’m tough," but misses the mark on intimidating. His skin’s pale, like he’s allergic to sunlight, and his muscles are so stuffed into his shirt, it looks like he’s trying to flex his way out of a personality.
“Playing hard to get, huh?” he whispers in my ear, his breath awful like onions and cheap vodka, making my stomach churn. His body presses into mine, and I can feel every inch of his roughness, the sourness of him seeping into my skin.
I try to push him away, but he’s too strong. I meet his eyes, disgusted. “What do you want?” I snap, though I know it’s just the alcohol talking. He doesn’t look surprised.
He grins and his grip tightens. “I just wanted to have a little fun with you, sweetie. Been watching you all night. Thought you were waiting for someone, but I see now you’re alone. How about I keep you company for the rest of the night?”
“Never.”
He chuckles, and suddenly his disgusting tongue is on my face, licking the side of my face like some kind of animal. I freeze, repulsed. This is what I get for being out here tonight, for listening to my husband.
But damn it, if he asked me to again, I’d do it. I always do.
I’ll do anything for him, even if it makes me sick.
I’ll do what’s necessary to make him want me again—to make him see me, even if it means enduring moments like this. I know he’ll come through when it counts. He always does.
But it has to be on his terms. It’s always been that way.
This messed-up version of love we share.
One where I have to please him first. I wonder if I’ve been conditioned to believe this is how it should be—how it has to be.
Maybe that’s what we’ve always been. Twisted. Inescapable. Our own kind of madness.
Buzz Cut Guy yanks me out of my thoughts.
“Come on now, don’t play hard to get, love. I’ve been watching you, my cock has been hard the whole night looking at you. You could make it worth my while. And I’ll... lick your pussy, if you’re nice enough.”
His grip tightens again, and my pulse spikes. My wrist feels like it’s about to break under the pressure.
I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain the charade of staying calm. This is real, and I hate it. My thoughts drift to the pepper spray in my bag, but I know I’m not quick enough.
That’s when I hear it.
His voice.
I look up and it’s him. The Pianist.
“Let her go.”
I whip around, my eyes searching the dark alley, and there he is—the pianist. Not the quiet, soulful guy I saw earlier, but someone different.
He’s all sharp angles, and there’s a darkness in his eyes I didn’t notice before.
His hand is already gripping the guy’s throat and pulling him away from me like he’s nothing more than an afterthought.
Buzz Cut Guy chokes as his face twists in disbelief, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the pianist drives his face against the brick wall with a force that makes me wince.
I can feel the impact through the wall, the sickening thud echoes down the alley.