Chapter 10 #3
The third battalion. His most loyal, his best-trained soldiers. Men who had lived and breathed for his command, who would have followed him into any fire, any war, without hesitation. All of them—gone.
I could only imagine the weight that pressed on him now.
The void left in his ranks, the roles that would go unfilled, the strategies undone, the lives he now had to compensate for.
Every loss a testament to my recklessness.
I should be in the dark cell beside Renzo.
Not here.
Not being treated like something worth saving.
Like something... valued.
Vincenzo rose to his full height.
He didn’t step back. Didn’t turn away immediately.
He just stood there.
Watching me.
His gaze was intense—sharp enough to feel like it pressed against my skin, yet something beneath it felt different.
He was seeing me.
Not as a liability. But as something else entirely.
Something he couldn’t quite name.
His chest rose and fell a fraction faster than normal.
The painkillers were finally beginning to take hold.
Not enough to erase the pain—but enough to dull its edges.
My body felt heavy.
My hands rested loosely in my lap.
My bare feet pressed against the cold, scuffed concrete.
I couldn’t make myself look up.
Couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
Not after the gentleness.
Not after the care.
Not after the way his hands had moved over my skin like I was something fragile—something worth protecting—instead of the problem he kept insisting I was.
I kept my head lowered.
Watching the faint lines in the floor.
For him to leave.
For the door to open.
For the silence to return.
But the sound I expected never came.
Instead—I heard movement.
Vincenzo walked across the room—not toward the door—but to the wall-mounted phone.
An old landline.
Hardwired.
Used only when discretion mattered more than traceability.
He lifted the receiver, pressed a short extension, and waited.
A few seconds of silence stretched between the clicks of the line.
Then his voice came, flat and controlled.
“Congratulations.”
He hung up before a response could even come through.
The receiver clicked back into place.
And then—he walked back toward me.
I tensed slightly without meaning to.
He moved past me—and sat.
Directly opposite.
In a leather armchair positioned with intention.
Facing me.
He leaned back slightly, legs spread, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Watching.
The silence stretched.
And stretched.
Until it wasn’t just quiet anymore—
it was pressure.
Heavy.
Like something physical pressing down on my chest, making it harder to breathe.
Then—
“Violet is pregnant.”
The words detonated. Like a shaped charge.
Everything inside me shifted at once.
My spine stiffened.
My balance—already fragile—tilted slightly even though I was sitting still.
My throat tightened instantly.
Saliva disappeared.
I tried to swallow. There was nothing there. Just dry air.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs—so forcefully I thought something might crack again.
For a moment—I couldn’t process the words.
Couldn’t attach meaning to them.
Then—slowly—they settled.
Violet.
Pregnant.
With his child.
The room felt smaller.
I lifted my head slightly.
Just enough.
“May I... speak?” My voice wavered, cautious.
Every instinct reminded me of the unspoken rule—no words unless spoken to—lest Ciro’s baton find its mark again.
He studied me for a long moment.
Then—a single nod.
My breath trembled slightly as I spoke.
“What about the promise you made—the vows of this marriage?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay steady.
“I understand that you hate me, want me isolated, want me never to be loved by anyone... but is it part of your punishment to betray me? To let another woman carry a child?”
Vincenzo leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his dark gaze fixed on me.
His voice was low, measured, and chillingly calm.
“First,” he said, each word deliberate, “I did not cheat on you. The child in Violet is not mine.”
“I have never—ever—touched her in that way. Not then, not now. The thought of it has always repelled me.”
I scoffed, the sound slicing through the thick silence.
“And you expect me to believe that?” I said, disbelief and anger threading my voice.
“You’ve spent your life loving her, protecting her, dropping everything the moment she needed you.
If that child is anyone’s, it’s yours. And even if it isn’t.
.. does that mean she’s been unfaithful?
You wouldn’t allow that, would you? So just say it, Vincenzo.
Speak the truth. Not like I could do a damn thing to stop you anyway. ”
Vincenzo didn’t flinch.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Vincenzo said coldly, “I’m not explaining myself to you. Who the fuck are you again?”
A bitter, mocking laugh escaped him.
“Oh, right. You’re the daughter of the man who violated me repeatedly and stole my innocence.”
His eyes burned with pure hatred as he stared at me.
“Believe me or don’t. It’s your problem, not mine. And just so we’re clear — that same father of yours was one of my father’s favorite clients. He paid good money to violate my sister too.”
His jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jump.
“You will be hated for the rest of your life.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something lethal.
“And when Violet has her child... you will raise it as your own.”
The air was ripped from my lungs.
It felt like a fist had punched straight through my chest, collapsing everything inward.
My ribs constricted around nothing, desperately trying to hold together something that had already shattered.
The room tilted violently.
For a few terrifying seconds, I couldn’t focus on anything except the roaring in my ears.
Vincenzo had a sister.
And my father — the man whose blood ran in my veins — had not only brutalized Vincenzo... he had violated his sister too.
The realization sliced through me like broken glass dragged across raw skin.
My heart felt torn open.
There was a sharp, physical pain behind my sternum that had nothing to do with the injuries already on my body.
Guilt surged immediately after.
I hadn’t known.
Couldn’t have known.
But that didn’t change the truth of it.
We shared the same blood.
The same name.
And Vincenzo—he had carried that pain for years.
Decades.
While I had lived with a name that, to him, meant nothing but destruction.
He shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with a calm, controlled ease that made the threat behind his words hit harder.
“As you know, Violet has a heart condition that makes her fragile. Now that she is pregnant, the risks are even higher—she is more delicate than you realize.”
“For the time being, I will not deny her request to visit me as often as she wishes. That means you may see her here more than you’d like.”
“During her visits, you will not confront her, you will not raise your voice, and you will not stress her or the child she carries.”
“I warn you, Elena: do not behave like those unstable wives who lash out in jealousy. There is no love in this marriage, and there will never be any. Jealousy has no place here.”
“Do I make myself clear?”
My breath hitched, but no words would come.
He watched me for a moment longer—then rose.
Slow.
Predatory in the way he unfolded from the chair, like every movement was calculated to remind me exactly who he was.
“And starting tonight,” he said, voice flat, “you sleep in my room.”
My stomach dropped.
“It’s about time you start fulfilling your... wife duties,” he added, each word measured.
Wife duties?
We’d shared separate rooms since the first day of our marriage—and part of me had preferred it that way.
Before I even realized, my head shook, a small, reflexive motion.
“No—”
The word came out sharper than intended.
“I’m not letting you have sex with me.”
“Not like this.”
My voice trembled, but I forced the words out anyway.
“Not while you keep treating me like—”
“You will be in my room before 10:00 p.m. every night,” he cut in.
The interruption was immediate.
“You will not leave until after 6:00 a.m.”
Each word landed like a command carved into stone.
“That’s a command. Not a request.”
He lifted his wrist slightly, glancing at the heavy steel watch there.
“It’s 9:45.”
Another beat.
“I suggest you eat something substantial. You’ll need strength—not just for tonight, but for every night that follows.”
The implication settled between us.
“And if I were you,” he added, his voice dropping to something quieter. “I wouldn’t be late.”
“Not even a second.”
He turned and walked away.
Leaving me there.
Sitting. Breathing.
Trying to process everything he had just said.
My gaze drifted unwillingly to the wall clock.
9:47.
The second hand ticked forward with mechanical indifference.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Each movement sounded louder than the last, as if time itself had slowed just to make sure I heard every passing second.
Thirteen minutes.
That was what I had left.
Thirteen minutes before I was expected to walk into his room.
Before whatever “wife duties” meant in his world became my reality.
My stomach tightened at the thought.
Eat, he had said.
Gain strength.
Strength for what?
My mind refused to fill in the blanks, but my body did anyway.
A low, cold dread settled in my gut, spreading slowly, wrapping around my ribs like something tightening its grip.
My gaze shifted slowly toward the staircase.
The one that led upward into the villa.
Toward the private wing. Toward his space.
His control. His bedroom.
I would never let Vincenzo be my first.
Never.
No matter what twisted thing he was implying, I refused to let him have that part of me.
A man like him could easily force it— I knew that.
I had dreaded it from the moment I understood what kind of monster I was married to.
But I swore to myself, right then and there, that I would never allow it to happen.
I could run.
The thought came suddenly.
I could stand up right now—move fast, slip through the halls, find a side exit, and disappear into the night.
Disappear before the clock struck ten.
Before he came looking.
Before he decided to enforce his command in a way I couldn’t escape.
But even as the thought formed—it unraveled just as quickly.
Because this place—this villa—was not like the others.
It wasn’t just a house. It was a fortress.
Even if I somehow managed to escape this fortress, then what?
My chest tightened at the thought.
Ruslan Baranov’s men were still hunting me across the globe.
And now I had made a new enemy in the Spanish rebels—if they caught me, I’d be as good as dead.
Running wasn’t an option.
Vincenzo’s fortress wasn’t safety—it was just another, far more controlled hell.
I checked the time—9:55 PM.
No time to eat.
I braced myself for whatever awaited, forcing my legs to move.
Step by step, I walked straight into the place I feared most: his bedroom.
Every movement pulled at muscles still sore from the explosion, still bruised from Ciro’s baton.
My body protested with every step, knees weak, ribs throbbing, shoulders tight.
Pain lanced through me, a dull, constant reminder that I had survived, but barely.
I climbed the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last, my footfalls echoing too loudly in the silence of the house.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
My hand brushed the railing—not for support, but to steady the trembling I refused to acknowledge.
My pulse thundered in my ears, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
At the top, the double doors of his bedroom loomed.
My chest tightened.
My throat felt raw.
My stomach churned. And yet, I forced myself forward.
I lifted my hand and knocked, slow and deliberate.
“Come in,” his voice answered—calm, measured, like he had been waiting.
I swallowed, my legs quivering beneath the ache, and pushed the doors open.