Chapter 8 #2
I pivoted sharply, heading toward the living room, my bare feet sliding slightly on the polished stone as I pushed through the arched doorway that led to the terrace.
Moonlight spilled across the space, silvering the edges of the lake beyond the glass railings.
The water outside was calm.
Like it hadn’t witnessed anything at all.
“Careful... with that much fury, you might just set the whole house on fire.”
The voice came from the shadows behind me.
I froze.
Then turned.
Renzo stepped into the light like he owned it, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Dark eyes pinned me in place.
His black shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing tattooed forearms.
“Jealous?” he asked, voice low and mocking. “Jealous that Vincenzo had a grand dinner with Violet. Let me tell you something—Violet is the right woman for him. She always will be. You? You’re nothing but a convenience. A passing moment he could discard whenever he chose.”
He took a step closer, gaze never leaving mine.
“Do you think you have any right to be angry? There’s no love in your marriage. Only control. Only humiliation. So take a chill pill and stop pretending you matter to anyone in this house.”
His words struck like ice in my chest, pain flaring where it had always throbbed.
But I didn’t flinch.
I walked forward anyway, letting the hurt sit silent, and settled onto the small couch in the living room.
My hands rested on my knees, calm but tense.
“My reason for leaving my room,” I said evenly, deliberately ignoring the sting of his cruelty, “Matteo Alvarez sent a wedding gift. Peach liqueur. The one thing I’m allergic to. One whiff, one drop, and I stop breathing.”
I let the pause hang, heavy.
“So tell me,” I added, voice steady despite the edge, “how the hell did Violet’s father know I’m allergic to peach?”
Renzo’s smirk faltered.
For a single, fragile heartbeat, something unguarded flickered across his face.
He straightened slightly.
“You’re allergic to peaches?”
His voice lost its edge, replaced by something more cautious
Almost disbelieving.
“Yes,” I snapped, my voice cutting through the space like glass. “And I want to know how Matteo fucking Alvarez knows something only Vincenzo should know.”
His eyes narrowed.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped—stripped of its usual mockery, edged instead with something darker.
“On the wedding day. Right before the priest began the vows... I saw Matteo lean in and whisper to one of our servers. Quiet. Quick. Almost hidden.”
Renzo finally sank into the chair across from me, but his eyes didn’t leave me.
“That same server brought Vincenzo a glass a few minutes before he kissed you. He drank it without hesitation.”
He paused, jaw tightening. “And then...”
“I couldn’t catch everything,” he admitted, eyes narrowing as if replaying the moment frame by frame. “But Matteo’s lips... they formed one word. One single word.”
He spoke it slowly, like a gunshot cutting through the air: “‘Peach.’”
The word hit me like a bullet, sharp and cold.
My stomach dropped.
The room tilted beneath my feet.
No—
No, that couldn’t be—
The altar flashed behind my eyes.
The kiss.
Vincenzo’s lips on mine.
That strange, unfamiliar taste—
Followed by—tightness.
My throat closing. Air vanishing.
Panic.
Blackness swallowing everything whole.
I had convinced myself.
With absolute certainty. That Vincenzo had done it. That he had poisoned me.
That he had used that moment—our vows—as a demonstration of control.
A reminder of power.
A way to break me before I become his wife.
If Matteo was behind spiking Vincenzo’s glass with peach—trying to kill me—it made a twisted kind of sense.
After all, the Spanish rebels wanted me dead.
But the real question clawing at my mind was far darker: how did he know I was allergic to peach?
No one should have known.
Not here in Italy.
Not on our wedding day—the first time they even laid eyes on me.
It was impossible. And yet...
My breath came shallow.
Renzo exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Meanwhile, Vincenzo hates peaches.”
That pulled my attention back to him.
“What?”
Renzo leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, his focus sharpening.
“Always has.” His voice was quieter now.
He used to say—back when we were teenagers—that the only girl he’d never forget couldn’t stand the smell of it.”
My heart stuttered.
“He said it made her throat close up.”
“He swore off it after that.” Renzo tilted his head slightly. “Stopped eating it. Drinking it. Avoided anything with even a hint of it.”
A beat.
“That girl... that was you, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, voice barely more than air.
Honest. “Only he can answer that.”
My fingers curled around the armrest, knuckles whitening.
I always thought Vincenzo had forgotten me after he disappeared from that cave.
Who would have guessed he never stopped thinking about me?
That he carried every word I whispered back then, every confession, every fear.
That he even hates peaches now—because I told him I was allergic, in that damp, dark cave when we were children.
Ironically, the same man who remembers me, who remembers even my allergies, is the one who despises me—who wants to tear me down until nothing remains of me, until I am nothing at all.
“The Spanish want you dead,” Renzo said, his voice slicing through my thoughts. “That’s what this is.”
I rubbed my arms beneath the hoodie, suddenly aware of the chill crawling across my skin.
“Matteo Alvarez isn’t exactly subtle when he’s angry. He believes you stole Violet’s future.”
“I believed it too,” Renzo added coldly.
His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with clear disgust. “You showed up on her wedding day, fully aware of the history between you and Vincenzo. You stole her man and ruined what should have been the best day of her life.”
His voice dropped into something venomous. “No matter how I look at it... you’re just a heartless, evil woman.”
The words landed like a slap.
I met his glare head-on, my own voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.
“Renzo,” I snapped. “I know you hate me.”
“You hate me because I beat you bloody just minutes before I walked down that aisle.”
“You hate me because you made a promise to your dead girlfriend — Violet’s sister — to protect her.”
I took a slow breath. “But let me say this one last time: I didn’t know there was a wedding happening.
I ran into that cathedral because it looked like the safest place to hide.
I had no idea Vincenzo was in that dressing room.
I didn’t even know it was his wedding. You were there.
Did I look like someone trying to steal another woman’s man? ”
My voice cracked slightly, raw with exhaustion.
“He made me an offer. I took it. Anyone in my position would have. Ruslan Baranov’s men were hunting me. Vincenzo offered protection. Hate me all you want, but that is the truth.”
Renzo opened his mouth to reply, but a calm, composed voice cut through the tension.
“Well, I believe her.”
Both Renzo and I turned sharply.
Ciro stood in the arched doorway.
The set of his jaw.
The quiet authority in his stance.
Every inch of him radiated control.
He stepped further into the room, eyes scanning us.
“How long will you keep hating on the boss’s wife, Renzo?”
There was no raised voice, yet the words carried unmistakable weight.
A quiet threat.
“You know that’s dangerously close to rebellion,” he added.
His gaze sharpened. “And you know the consequences.”
Renzo bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
It was sharper.
“Threatening me now, Ciro?” Renzo shot back,
His voice rose, thick with restrained aggression.
“Just because Vincenzo pinned that second-in-command badge on your chest doesn’t mean you get to forget where you came from. You and I used to be equals. Friends. On the same fucking level.”
His gaze flicked over to me, dripping with open contempt.
“There are no soldiers here who can enforce your authority, Ciro, so let me give you some advice: don’t play king in a room that isn’t yours. Stay out of business that doesn’t concern you.”
His gaze drilled into Ciro’s.
“Mind your fucking words... or I’ll be happy to remind you exactly where you stand.”
The air thickened, heavy with unspoken challenge.
“It’s not my fault Vincenzo made me his enforcer. Not my fault I outrank you in this family. Take your grudge to Vin,”
Ciro murmured, calm, almost teasing.
Without hesitation, he crossed the room in three easy strides and dropped onto the sofa beside Renzo—close enough that their thighs brushed.
Deliberate.
Renzo went still.
Tension snapping through him like a live wire.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Renzo demanded, voice low and dangerous.
Ciro leaned in.
Close enough that there was no room for doubt.
And then—he pressed a quick, mocking kiss to Renzo’s cheek.
Renzo froze for half a second.
Then exploded.
“What the actual fuck!”
He shot to his feet, fury igniting instantly.
In the same motion, he grabbed a bottle from the table—no hesitation—and hurled it across the room.
“Renzo—”
Too late.
The crystal bottle flew.
Sliced through the air.
Ciro barely moved—just enough to step aside.
It smashed against the far wall in a violent burst of glass and liquid.
Amber shards scattered.
Ciro exhaled a soft laugh.
Unbothered.
He retreated a few steps, positioning himself behind the opposite couch, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened.
“Easy, Renzo,” he said lightly. “Temper.”
Renzo stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went pale.
Then, slowly—he sat back down.
“That’s not fucking funny.” Renzo’s voice was quieter now.
Ciro’s expression shifted.
The humor faded. In its place—something more authoritative.
“You’re right,” he said evenly. “It isn’t.”
A beat.
“And hating Elena isn’t either.”
Renzo scoffed under his breath.
“We all know how much effort you put into that wedding,”