Chapter 8 #3
Ciro went on, his voice calm but cutting.
“How badly you wanted your late girlfriend’s little sister to marry Vincenzo. To tie the families tighter.”
My fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.
“But it didn’t happen that way.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward me.
Then back to Renzo.
“And it isn’t Elena’s fault that Vincenzo changed his mind at the last second and chose her instead.”
“It’s Elena’s fault.” The words cut sharp, like teeth.
“Vincenzo hates her because she’s not... a proper woman.”
“I hate her too. Yet you... you seem to have a different interest.”
His gaze sharpened.
“I’ve noticed the way you watch her around the house—how your eyes linger a moment too long, how you follow her movements, how you catch her when she doesn’t realize, the way you notice the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile... Are you... nurturing feelings for the boss’s wife, Ciro?”
My breath hitched slightly.
“Careful with that accusation, Renzo. Just because I’m not bitter toward her doesn’t mean I... I—”
“Just stop!” Ciro snapped.
“Then stop defending her,” Renzo said, voice low, sharp. “Elena knew exactly the leverage she held the moment she stepped into that room. Don’t buy her lies about it being a coincidence. Storming into that cathedral’s dressing room? That wasn’t chance. She planned it.”
Ciro glanced at me then.
“Elena,” he said quietly, “you’ve made a powerful enemy in this house.”
A pause.
“And yet... I hope, somehow, he learns to tolerate you one day.”
I barely flinched.
Like I cared whether he tolerated me or not.
Renzo’s hatred didn’t intimidate me in the slightest.
I was Vincenzo’s wife—and by extension, his right hand in this house.
There wasn’t a single thing he could do that would shake me or make me show fear.
I shifted the conversation.
“Vincenzo left abruptly while we were both in the room after receiving a call. Do you know where he might have gone?” I kept my voice steady, forcing it even.
Ciro’s expression tightened slightly.
“Violet’s driver had a minor accident while taking her home after dinner. Scraped the guardrail—nothing serious.”
He paused, eyes flicking toward me. “Vincenzo went to make sure she was all right.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
He had forced me to my knees, and I had obeyed — trembling, humiliated, lips parted and ready to take him into my mouth.
But he had stopped.
Just like that.
He had pulled away abruptly, as if the entire moment meant nothing, and left me there on the floor like discarded trash.
Because he had gone to her.
Violet.
She was the one who truly mattered.
She always would.
I would never be more than a replacement — a temporary, unwanted wife.
He had already made that brutally clear.
Why did it hurt so much?
The pain came without warning.
It stole my breath, twisting viciously until my eyes burned with unshed tears.
I hated myself for feeling it.
I hated him even more for making me feel it.
My chest tightened.
I lowered my gaze to the floor, focusing on the glittering shards of glass scattered across the marble.
Refusing to let anyone see what it did to me.
Refusing to give them that.
I swallowed hard.
Forced my breathing steady.
I would not cry.
Not for him.
Not for this.
Not for anything.
Ciro cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“I have things to handle.”
Ciro turned his attention back to Renzo, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority.
“And you — don’t forget the sit-down with the Sicilians tonight.”
Renzo grunted in acknowledgment, his body still tight with barely contained anger.
“Take the third battalion,” Ciro continued. “Full show of force. No mistakes.”
Renzo’s jaw clenched visibly, but he gave a single, curt nod.
Ciro’s gaze shifted back to me.
This time—softer.
“Stay safe, Elena.”
Then he turned and walked away.
“Bitch!”
Renzo’s fist crashed against the table, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the surface.
He stood abruptly, circling the shattered bottle like a predator stalking prey, every movement taut with rage.
Like he was fighting the urge to explode.
“Thinks he can just order me around like I’m some fucking foot soldier.”
His voice rose, heat bleeding into every syllable.
“Ciro and I have been with Vincenzo since we were fifteen—fifteen—”
He jabbed a finger at the floor as if pointing to the past itself.
“—bleeding in the same gutters, burying the same bodies, watching each other’s backs when no one else would.”
His pacing quickened.
“Same streets. Same enemies. Same blood.”
A harsh breath escaped him.
“We built this empire brick by bloody brick.”
“And what does he do the second he plants his flag and calls himself boss?”
His jaw tightened.
His voice dropped—colder now.
“Hands that second-in-command title to Ciro.”
He spat the name like it tasted wrong.
“Ciro.”
A pause.
Then—
“The quiet one.”
“The one who never raises his voice.”
He stopped pacing abruptly. Shoulders tense.
Fists clenched so tightly the knuckles drained of color.
“Is it because I’m short?” he snapped, turning slightly. “Because I don’t smile pretty when I snap necks?”
The last words cracked—not from weakness, but from something deeper.
A frustration that had been sitting in his chest for years and finally found a way out.
Silence followed.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
His chest rose and fell unevenly as he stood there, caught between anger and something dangerously close to hurt.
Then, slowly—he straightened.
Rolled his shoulders.
Like he was putting the weight of the moment back where it belonged.
Burying it. Locking it away.
“Renzo.”
The name came from me.
He whipped around instantly.
“What!”
The word snapped through the room like a gunshot.
His anger redirected.
His dark eyes burned—sharp, daring me to flinch.
I didn’t.
I held his gaze.
“Can I come with you?”
Silence.
Then—a short laugh.
Completely devoid of humor.
“What the hell?” he said, incredulous. “You haven’t even finished your first year at the academy, and you think you can ride along on a sit-down with the Sicilians?”
I rose from the armchair slowly.
My movements calm.
I met his glare head-on.
“Don’t underestimate me.”
My voice was quiet but firm.
“I was a trained CIA operative for three years.”
That gave him pause.
“Black ops. Wet work. Infiltration. Extraction. I’ve walked into enemy territory where most soldiers wouldn’t last a day.”
I took a step forward.
“I’ve fought more wars, eliminated more targets, and survived more impossible missions than most of your men will ever see in their lifetimes.”
His eyes narrowed.
Studying me now.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I added, my tone sharpening slightly, “I’ll sit through every tedious lecture and sparring session your academy throws at me.”
A beat.
“But right now?”
I held his gaze. Unblinking.
“I’m more than capable.”
Another step.
“I’m useful.”
Renzo’s gaze dropped—just for a second.
Over my hoodie.
My stance. My bare feet.
When his eyes returned to mine, they were colder.
“Every meeting we walk into,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to something more measured, “every car we climb into, every room we step foot in—there’s a non-zero chance someone tries to put a bullet between our eyes.”
A pause.
“Or a knife in our ribs.”
“Or worse.”
His gaze locked onto mine.
“Do you understand that?”
I gave him a thin, knowing smile.
“I understand how the mafia works, Renzo.”
“I thought you wanted me dead.”
I tilted my head slightly
“So why warn me about the risks of sitting in on a meeting like that?”
My smile sharpened. “Well... this is your perfect opportunity.”
“Think about it. If something goes wrong... if a war breaks out in that room...” I held his gaze. “I’d be the first to die.”
A beat.
“Problem solved, isn’t it?”
His jaw tightened.
“No more resentment. No more bitterness over Vincenzo choosing me over your carefully planned wedding... over your precious Violet.”
My eyes didn’t leave his.
“She gets her man back.”
That landed.
His jaw worked.
Muscles tightening.
For a long second—I thought he might agree.
Not out of logic. But out of spite.
He stared at me.
Then—he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I’ll have to clear it with the boss.”
His tone shifted back to control.
“Don’t tell Vincenzo.”
Renzo’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t need his permission to prove I’m capable.”
Renzo’s expression shifted into something sharp and almost amused.
“You think he’ll let his fragile little paper wife tag along to a potential bloodbath?”
The words were meant to provoke.
To make me react.
“Well, Vincenzo isn’t even here,” I shot back, my voice cooling into something sharper, quieter.
“He’s too busy playing savior for Violet after her driver ‘accidentally’ scraped a guardrail.”
I paused, my jaw tightening slightly.
“This meeting won’t take long, will it? In and out.”
Renzo’s gaze flicked away from me for a second—toward the wall clock above the fireplace.
9:07 p.m.
The ticking filled the silence for a moment.
“We’ll be back before midnight,” he said at last, voice slower now, weighing the angles. “Assuming nothing goes sideways.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Sicilians are dramatic,” he added, “but they’re not suicidal.”
“Then let me come with you.”
I stepped forward, closing the distance just enough to make it clear I wasn’t asking.
“We’ll be back before he even notices I’m gone.”
That got his attention.
Renzo studied me like he was searching for something he could use later.
He found none.
Finally, he snorted.
“Fine.”
The word came out like a concession.
He jerked his chin toward the hallway.
“Go get dressed,” he ordered. “Something you can actually move in.”
A pause.
“No tight skirts. No heels.”
His gaze flicked briefly over me. “You need to be able to run.”
Another pause. “Or drop and roll.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Or climb a fucking wall if it comes to that.”
“If things go south, I’m not carrying you out.”