Chapter 2 #2
"I'm sure it was." Enzo's smile widens, and that makes me want to put my fist through his face. "A beautiful young woman, alone with other beautiful young women. I imagine you had quite a few... experiences."
The implication is clear, and I see Giulia's spine stiffen. Dante's eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't intervene. This is a test—to see how she handles herself, how she responds to pressure.
"I spent most of my time studying," Giulia says, her voice cool. "The program was quite rigorous."
"Of course, of course." Enzo's hand lands on her arm, his fingers trailing down to her wrist in a gesture that's far too familiar. "But surely you had some fun? Went to parties, met interesting people?"
His thumb is making small circles on her skin, and I can see the discomfort in her eyes even as she maintains her polite smile. She shifts slightly, trying to create distance without being obvious about it, but Enzo doesn't take the hint.
"Some," she says. "But I took my studies seriously."
"A woman of discipline. I like that." Enzo's voice drops lower, more intimate. "I think you and I would be very good together, Giulia. You're beautiful, intelligent, well-bred—everything a man could want in a wife."
His hand is still on her arm, possessive and presumptuous. Like he's already decided she's his and this is just a formality.
The violence in my chest coils tighter. I want to cross the room and break every bone in his hand.
I want to make it clear that he doesn't get to touch her like that, doesn't get to look at her like she's already his property.
But I can't move. I can only sit here and watch, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles are white, because I have no right to say any of that. I have no right to her.
Romeo shifts slightly across from me, and when I glance at him, I see his jaw is tight. He doesn't like Enzo either. Good. At least I'm not the only one who wants to kill him.
But then Alessandro Ferrucci speaks, and everything gets worse.
"I have to disagree with Marco's assessment," Alessandro says, his voice gentle but firm.
He's been quieter than the other two, watching and listening more than talking.
"I don't think Giulia needs to be lectured about traditional values.
She clearly understands duty and family. What she deserves is respect."
He turns to look at her, and there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach drop. Not the crude entitlement of Enzo or the cold calculation of Marco. Something worse.
He’s looking at her as if he cares about her. As if he has an interest in her that goes beyond business and what she can do for him. I don’t trust it in the slightest.
There’s something too perfect about him. Too on the nose for what a woman trapped in this situation would gravitate toward. It’s as if he’s been created to be a foil for the other men who aren’t shy about the fact that they only want her money and her body.
I watch her face soften slightly, see some of the tension leave her shoulders. She's responding to him, engaging in a way she didn't with the other two.
And it's killing me. Alessandro is good at this. He's making her feel seen, heard, valued. He's doing everything right. And then his hand reaches over to touch her arm—just a brief, gentle touch that probably looks reassuring to everyone else.
To me, it looks like a brand.
Something dark and violent explodes in my chest, hot and vicious and completely irrational. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to physically force myself to stay still, to not cross the room and break every bone in Alessandro's hand.
The intensity of the reaction shocks me. I've killed men—more than I can count, more than I probably should be able to live with. I've done it efficiently and professionally, without hesitation or remorse. Violence is a tool I use when necessary, nothing more.
This isn't that. This is something primal and possessive and so far beyond professional that I don't recognize myself.
"I'd love to take you to a gallery opening next week," Alessandro says, his hand still resting on her arm. "There's a new exhibition at the Met that I think you'd enjoy. We could make an evening of it—dinner, the gallery, maybe a walk through Central Park afterward."
He's asking her on a date. In front of everyone. Staking his claim publicly. And Giulia is smiling. Actually smiling, even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"That sounds lovely," she says.
Dante nods approvingly from the head of the table. Romeo's expression is carefully neutral. And Alessandro's smile widens, satisfied. He thinks he's won. He thinks she's already his.
My vision is starting to blur at the edges, red creeping in from the sides. I can feel my control slipping, feel the violence that lives in me rising to the surface like a beast that's been caged too long.
Alessandro leans in closer, saying something that makes Giulia laugh—a polite, practiced sound. But he doesn't seem to notice. His hand moves from her arm to her shoulder, a gesture that's probably meant to be comforting but looks possessive as hell.
"I have to say," Alessandro continues, his voice warm, "I'm very interested in your family's business operations. Your father has built something remarkable here. The way he's managed to maintain control while expanding into new territories—it's impressive."
He's asking about the family business. Trying to show he's not just interested in Giulia, but in becoming part of the organization. Smart. Strategic. It makes me hate him even more.
"I don't know very much about the business side of things," Giulia says carefully. "My father prefers to keep me focused on other matters."
"Of course, of course." Alessandro smiles indulgently at her. "But I'm sure you understand more than you think. Growing up in this world, you absorb things. You understand the importance of loyalty, of family, of maintaining appearances."
He's good. He's so fucking good at this.
He's making her feel valued while also showing Dante that he understands how things work, that he'll be a good addition to the family.
And Giulia is responding. I can see it in the way she's leaning slightly toward him, in the way her smile is becoming a little more genuine.
He's breaking through her walls, making her feel something other than resignation. She wants something real out of all of this, something to make it not as bad as it is, and he’s giving her that… or at least pretending to.
I want to put my fist through the wall. I want to drag him away from her and make it clear that he doesn't get to touch her, doesn't get to look at her like that, doesn't get to act like she's already his.
But I can't. Because she's not mine either.
She's not mine, and she never will be, and standing here watching her smile at a man who sees her as a prize to be won is a special kind of torture I didn't know existed.
Marco tries to regain her attention, talking about his properties and his wealth, but it's clear he's lost. Enzo makes a few more inappropriate comments that make Giulia's smile tighten, but even he seems to realize that Alessandro has the advantage.
And through it all, I'm dying. Slowly, painfully, watching the woman I can't have smile at a man who will probably be her husband.
"Luca."
Romeo's voice cuts through the haze of violence in my head. There's something sharp in his eyes that tells me I'm not hiding my reaction as well as I thought.
I need to get out of here. Now. Before I do something we'll both regret.
"I need some air," I say, my voice low and rough.
Romeo studies me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He's known me for years. He can read me better than anyone. And right now, he's seeing something that's making him concerned.
"Go," he says finally, but there's a warning in his voice.
I don't wait for him to change his mind. I turn and walk out of the dining room.
The cool night air hits my face, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I need to fucking go home.
I head for my car, well aware of the insult I’ve given Dante Ciresa but hoping Romeo will shield me from it. It would be a lot fucking worse if I assaulted one of his guests at the dinner table.
My apartment is on a high level of a building in downtown Manhattan, sparsely furnished by a decorator whom I paid a lot of money to. I go straight for the bar cart and pour myself a drink—whiskey, neat—and stand at the window, looking out at the city lights below.
All I can see is her face—the careful smile, the resignation in her eyes.
The way she held herself like she was trying to disappear even while being the center of attention.
And I keep seeing Alessandro's hand on her arm, Enzo touching her.
The possessive certainty in their expressions, the way they looked at her like she was already one of theirs.
The glass cracks in my hand. I look down and see blood welling up from where a shard has cut into my palm, but I barely feel it.
This has to pass. This attraction, this obsession, whatever the fuck it is—it has to fade.
I just need time to adjust to her being back.
I need to remember who I am and who she is and why this can never be anything more than a fantasy.
A fantasy that I shouldn’t indulge, no matter how badly I want to.
I pour another drink, then another. The whiskey burns going down, but it doesn't help.
Nothing helps. She's going to marry one of those men.
Probably Alessandro, based on the way Dante was watching them tonight.
She's going to marry him and have his children and live the life that was decided for her before she was old enough to have a say in it.
And I'm going to watch it happen, because that's what loyalty means.
That's what being Romeo's right hand requires.
I down the whiskey in one swallow and pour another.
The apartment feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in.
I pace to the window and back, my mind churning with thoughts I shouldn't be having.
Thoughts about what it would be like to touch her, to kiss her, to hear her say my name in the dark.
Thoughts about taking her away from all of this, giving her the choice she's never had.
Thoughts that will get me killed if I ever act on them.
Because Romeo would kill me. Dante would kill me. The entire organization would see it as a betrayal, and they'd be right. I'm an enforcer, a weapon, the man who's supposed to protect the family. Not the man who falls in love with the daughter. Not the man who wants to claim her as his own.
I look down at my hand, at the blood still seeping from the cut. The pain is distant, irrelevant. Physical pain I can handle. It's this other kind—this aching, impossible want—that's destroying me.
By the time the bottle is half empty, I've almost convinced myself that I can do this, that I can bury these feelings deep enough that they'll eventually suffocate and die. That I can watch her marry one of those men and smile through it, and pretend my heart isn't being ripped out of my chest.
But then I close my eyes, and I see her standing in the doorway of the dining room, beautiful and sad and so far out of reach she might as well be a ghost. I see the future stretching out before me—years of watching her with another man, years of maintaining this distance, years of wanting something I can never have.
I'm fucked. And the worst part is, there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it.
The whiskey bottle is empty now. I set it down on the counter and stare at my reflection in the window—a man I barely recognize, consumed by something I can't control.
I have no idea how I'm going to survive it.