Chapter 10 #2
I clenched my jaw, fighting it.
“I’m too weak...”
“Do not speak unless spoken to.” Ciro stepped forward immediately, baton raised, ready to strike again.
Before it could land, Vincenzo’s voice cut through the air, his eyes locked on Ciro.
“Enough.”
Ciro froze, every muscle tensing, then relaxed only at Vincenzo’s command.
Vincenzo stepped forward instead.
He bent slightly, and before I could protest, he hooked an arm under mine and lifted me himself.
The movement surprised me.
Not because of the strength—but because of the control.
He didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.
He adjusted my weight carefully, steadying me just enough to keep me upright.
Still—his grip burned.
Every touch seemed to press into the bruises already forming beneath my skin, igniting fresh waves of pain that forced me to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.
“You don’t go anywhere without my explicit permission. Not a meeting. Not a walk. Not a single breath of fresh air unless I know exactly where you are.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper meant for me alone.
“Next time you pull something like this... I won’t let Ciro stop at one strike. I’ll chain you to this villa myself.”
The words sank deep, leaving no room for doubt.
His eyes flicked to Ciro.
“I know how we discipline soldiers who step out of line. But this... this is my wife.”
“I know the rules. But you will not treat her like one of your recruits. Not now. Not ever. Do not—ever—strike her again.”
Ciro simply nodded.
Without a word, he lowered his weapon and stepped back three measured paces, creating distance between us.
I froze, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion.
Vincenzo was giving orders to his second in command—never to touch me again, never to treat me like one of his recruits.
I didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Confusion? Awe? All of it at once.
Renzo remained on his knees where he was, head bowed, shoulders still.
He hadn’t spoken since Vincenzo dragged me in. Not once.
And now I understood why.
He wasn’t silent out of fear alone.
He knew the rules—words were not to be spoken unless expressly permitted.
Vincenzo turned back to me, his gaze unflinching, carrying the weight of authority and intent.
“Lock Renzo in the dark cell for seven days,” he said without looking away from me.
“Seven days?” Ciro confirmed.
“Seven days. No light. No distinction between day and night.”
A pause.
“No food.”
Ciro nodded once.
“Let his stomach remind him,” Vincenzo continued, “what happens when he lets personal feelings override orders on a mission.”
“Understood.”
Ciro moved.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and hauled Renzo to his feet by the elbow with firm, controlled force.
Renzo didn’t resist.
Didn’t struggle.
Didn’t even lift his head.
And—he didn’t look at me.
Not once.
As they passed, as he was dragged toward the door, he remained silent.
Composed.
The door closed behind them with a heavy, echoing clang that seemed to settle into the bones of the room.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And then—guilt hit.
Hard.
It crashed over me like a wave, stealing what little air I had left.
I’d begged to go.
Insisted. Pushed. Pressed.
And now—
Renzo was being punished.
Not just punished—isolated.
Starved.
Locked away in darkness for seven days because I couldn’t stand being left behind.
My chest tightened painfully.
Vincenzo stepped closer again.
I tensed instantly when his hand lifted toward me.
Instinct screamed.
Bracing for pain.
But instead—his fingers slid gently behind my neck.
Careful.
He pressed lightly against the fresh welt at the base of my skull, and I couldn’t stop the sharp hiss that escaped me at the contact.
His touch stilled.
For a second.
Then softened.
“Sit on the chair,” he ordered.
Quieter now. But still firm.
I forced myself to move.
Every muscle protested.
Every step sent sharp, biting pain through my back and ribs.
My knee wobbled, threatening to give out again, and I had to grip the edge of the chair to steady myself before lowering down.
I sank into it slowly.
Then folded in on myself.
Knees drawn to my chest.
Arms wrapped tightly around my body as if I could physically hold the pieces together.
“Stay here,” Vincenzo said.
Then his footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.
The room fell into total silence, heavy and absolute.
Barely two minutes later, footsteps returned.
I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Vincenzo approached with a first aid kit, every step measured.
He crouched in front of my chair and opened it with quiet precision, the soft click of the latches breaking the tense stillness.
I tensed, disbelief coiling in my chest.
There was no way—the cold, ruthless Vincenzo, the man who hated me with a passion that could burn cities—was here to patch up my wounds?
No.
That wouldn’t even happen in hell.
He reached for my legs.
His hands were warm as they settled around my shins, gently guiding my legs outward from where I had curled them in tight.
The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me—not pain this time, but something almost unfamiliar.
Something that didn’t hurt.
He moved with precision, unfolding me slowly, one leg at a time, adjusting my position so I was no longer twisted into a tight, protective curl.
He lifted a clean handkerchief from the kit and pressed it to my cheek.
The cloth came away almost immediately damp with tears I hadn’t even realized were falling—tears born of Renzo’s condemnation to that dark cell, of the searing pain from the bomb explosion, of Ciro’s baton striking my upper back with such force I could feel the bone beneath protest.
I couldn’t tell which agony had drawn them out, only that they were mine, unexpected and unstoppable.
Vincenzo didn’t react.
Just a quiet, measured pause before he set it aside, reached for another handkerchief, and continued with slow, deliberate care.
His hand moved with precision across my face—temples first, then under my eyes, tracing along my jaw.
Each motion was almost clinical, but the gentleness beneath it was impossible to miss.
Careful. Attentive.
Like he was handling something fragile—something that might break if he pressed too hard.
My breathing hitched once.
Then again.
But slowly, under the rhythm of his touch, the sobs began to ease.
Not because the pain was gone—it wasn’t.
But because something in the way he moved quieted it.
Calmed it.
By the time he finished, my face felt clean, the coolness of the cloth lingering against my skin, my breathing uneven but no longer spiraling.
“Lie down on the floor,” he said softly.
A pause.
“On your stomach.”
I hesitated. Just for a second.
Then obeyed.
Slowly lowering myself from the chair to the cold concrete, every movement sending a sharp protest through my ribs.
I bit back a wince, but it still slipped out as a quiet hiss when my weight shifted.
The floor was hard.
But stable.
Vincenzo moved beside me, kneeling with quiet efficiency.
His presence felt different now—less like a threat, more like a controlled force operating within boundaries only he understood.
His fingers reached for the hem of my torn top.
“Lift your arms if you can.”
I did.
Carefully.
He peeled the fabric up and over my head with infinite care, as though the smallest mistake might cause pain I wasn’t ready to endure.
The cool air brushed across my skin immediately.
Exposed. Sensitive.
And then—the full damage was revealed.
A thick, angry welts ran across my back—deep, purpling bruises where the baton had struck.
The skin around them was already swollen, darkening into colors that promised worse pain tomorrow.
Vincenzo inhaled sharply under his breath.
Antiseptic wipes came first.
The moment the disinfectant touched my skin, I flinched—muscles tightening instinctively as the sting cut through the raw welts.
He didn’t press harder.
He just adjusted his pace—slow, careful.
Then—the arnica gel.
Cool at first, then soothing as it spread beneath his fingertips.
He applied it with light, circular motions—barely touching, yet somehow reaching deeper than the antiseptic ever could.
The burn softened under his touch, not gone, but less sharp.
When the gel absorbed, his hands shifted.
This time—massage.
Slow. Deep.
His thumbs worked along the edges of my shoulder blades, carefully navigating around the welts, never pressing directly on the bruised areas, but easing the surrounding tension.
Muscles that had been locked tight began to loosen under his touch.
Heat spread through my back.
Not the burning kind.
Something else.
Warm.
Almost... grounding.
My breath caught again.
This wasn’t punishment.
This was care.
From the same man who had ordered me to kneel just moments ago—who had allowed his enforcer to strike me when I hesitated, when I broke one of their codes.
He shouldn’t be tending to me.
He should be punishing me for going to that meeting with Renzo.
Renzo and I should face the same measure of retribution.
So why was he caring?
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
The contradiction settled in my chest, heavy and disorienting.
I felt like I was caught in something I didn’t fully understand.
Or deserve.
When he finished, he slid one hand under my elbow and another beneath my arm, guiding me carefully back into a sitting position.
I followed, moving slowly, my body still tender, still aching—but no longer overwhelmed.
He reached into the kit and pulled out a blister pack.
Shook two white tablets into his palm.
“These will help,” he said quietly.
He held out a bottle of water.
I hesitated for just a second before taking both.
The pills.
Then the water.
I swallowed them with a small sip, careful not to look at him.
Careful not to let myself linger on this version of him.
Because it didn’t make sense.
None of it did.
I had caused irreparable damage.