Chapter 21 #2
"We haven't been public yet." I don't break eye contact with him as I speak. "But we will be." I pause, letting the silence stretch. Then I turn to Vittoria. "Right, Vittoria?"
Vittoria's fingers curl around the edge of the table. Her knuckles go white. I watch the rapid assessment of options behind her eyes, outcomes, consequences. She's brilliant, my solnyshko. She knows exactly what I'm asking her to do.
She knows what it will cost her.
And still, she lifts her chin. Meets my gaze directly.
Nods.
Something cracks open in my chest. A fissure I didn't know existed.
Rogers makes a strangled sound. "This is—you can't just—"
"I can." I don't look at him. Can't look away from her. "I am."
Dante still hasn't lowered his weapon. The Glock remains steady, aimed at my skull. I respect his dedication.
"I'm escorting Vittoria to her home," I tell him.
Dante's eyes narrow. The gun stays level. He steps closer.
"You're fucking not."
The words land between us like a gauntlet thrown.
Before I can respond, Vittoria moves. She places herself directly between us, her back to me, facing her guard.
"I'm going with Dmitri." Her voice brooks no argument. "You and Elio follow from behind."
"No." Dante's jaw tightens. "Absolutely not. Pietro's orders—"
"This is an order."
The words crack through the air like a whip. Vittoria's shoulders are rigid, her stance wide. She's magnificent like this.
Dante's gaze flicks to me over her shoulder. Pure murder lives in those eyes. A promise of violence, delayed but not forgotten.
I meet it without flinching.
Vittoria grabs her purse from the table. The movement is sharp, decisive. She doesn't look at Rogers. Dismisses him entirely, as if he's already ceased to exist.
Then she starts walking.
I fall into step beside her, matching her stride. Behind us, I hear Dante curse in Italian.
"You just made an enemy," Vittoria murmurs, not breaking stride.
"I have many."
"Dante's different. He doesn't forget."
"Neither do I."
We push through the restaurant's front doors. My driver already has the back door of the Mercedes open, waiting.
Vittoria pauses at the car. Turns to face me.
The streetlight catches her face, illuminating the high cheekbones, the dark eyes that see too much. She looks furious. She looks exhausted. She looks like she wants to either kiss me or kill me.
"You just announced our engagement to James Rogers."
"Yes."
"Without discussing it with me first."
"Yes."
"My mother is going to lose her mind. Pietro will probably shoot you himself for the disrespect."
"Probably."
Her lips press together. A muscle ticks in her jaw. "You're an arrogant, manipulative, infuriating—"
"Also yes." I step closer. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin in the cold night air. "And you're getting in my car anyway."
She stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—a crack in the armor, quickly concealed.
"Only because I want to yell at you in private."
"Whatever you need to tell yourself, solnyshko."
She slides into the back seat. I follow, pulling the door closed behind us.
Vittoria turns to look at me.
The interior of the Mercedes is dark. Only the passing streetlights illuminate her face in flashes—gold, then shadow, then gold again. Her eyes search mine, and I feel exposed in a way I haven't felt since I was a child.
"What's going on with you?"
The question hangs between us. Simple. Direct. The kind of question I've deflected a thousand times from a thousand people.
I sigh.
The sound surprises me. It's not a sound I make. I don't sigh. I don't show exhaustion or uncertainty or whatever the fuck this feeling is that's been clawing at my chest for days.
But with her, sitting in the dark of my car, the weight of the last week presses down on my shoulders…
"My father is dying."
I stare straight ahead, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. I don't look at her. Can't look at her.
"The doctors say he has days. Maybe less."
Silence.
I wait for the empty condolences. I'm so sorry. That must be hard. Is there anything I can do? The meaningless words people offer when they don't know what else to say.
Instead, Vittoria shifts closer. Not touching me. Just... closer.
"Is that why you canceled our plans last week?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me because...?"
I finally turn to look at her. She's not pitying me. There's no soft sympathy in her expression, no awkward discomfort. She's just watching me. Waiting.
"Because I don't talk about this." My jaw tightens. "I don't talk about anything. Not with my siblings, not with my men, not with anyone."
"But you're talking to me."
It's not a question. It's an observation. And she's right.
I don't understand it myself. Aleksander calls every few hours to check on me, and I give him nothing but business updates. My father lies dying in a bed twenty minutes from here, and I've spent more time in my office than at his side.
But this woman asks me one question, and the words start spilling out like blood from an open wound.
"He's been sick for months," I continue, my voice low. "Cancer. We knew it was terminal. I've had time to prepare." I pause. "I thought I was prepared."
"You're not."
"No." The admission costs me something. I feel it in my chest, a crack in the armor I've worn so long it feels like skin. "He's a bastard. Cruel. He turned me into a weapon before I was old enough to understand what that meant." I exhale slowly. "And I'm not ready for him to die."
Vittoria is quiet for a long moment. The car turns onto Lake Shore Drive, the city lights reflecting off the dark water.
"My father died when I was thirteen."
Her voice is soft. Not fragile but quiet in a way I haven't heard from her before.
"One morning he was teaching me how to pick locks, and by that evening he was gone." She looks out the window. "I wasn't ready either. I don't think you ever are."
I reach across the space between us. My hand finds hers in the darkness.
She doesn't pull away.