Chapter 22
ELENA
Vincenzo stood near the tall mahogany bookcase, the warm glow of the desk lamp catching along the polished wood and throwing soft shadows across the room.
The space smelled faintly of leather and cedar.
He was in the middle of removing his suit jacket, movements unhurried.
He hung it on the brass coat stand beside his desk with the same care he gave everything else in his life, smoothing the lapel once before letting it fall into place.
Beneath it, he wore only a crisp white dress shirt.
The sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, exposing strong, corded forearms.
His collar was open, the top two buttons undone, revealing just enough of his throat to make something tighten low in my chest.
A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, softening the sharpness of his face in a way that made him look more dangerous, not less.
For a second, I just stood there, framed by the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place I looked in comparison.
He turned.
Fully.
His attention snapped to me in an instant—complete, undivided.
The kind of focus that made everything else in the room feel irrelevant.
“Hi,” I said.
The word came out smaller than I intended.
Thinner.
Like it didn’t belong in a room like this—or with a man like him.
His gaze moved over me slowly.
Not possessive, not consuming—but still thorough.
Assessing.
He took in the stiffness in the way I held myself.
The careful distribution of my weight, the way I favored one side without meaning to.
Nothing escaped him.
When his eyes finally settled on my face, something unreadable flickered in them.
“It’s your first time coming into my study uninvited,” he said.
His voice was low.
But there was a current beneath it.
“What’s troubling you?”
No softness. No pretense.
Straight to the point.
That was him.
And for once—I matched it.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t ease into it.
Didn’t dress it up or soften the edges.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words landed between us like a gunshot.
Silence followed.
He stilled completely.
It was subtle if you didn’t know him—but I did.
Every line of his body locked into place.
His shoulders went rigid.
His hand, hanging loosely at his side a second ago, curled slowly into a fist.
Tighter.
Tighter.
Until his knuckles blanched white beneath the strain.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
“Matteo deserves death.”
Each word was lethal.
Laced with something far more dangerous than shouting.
“I spared him—for Violet’s sake,” he continued, jaw tightening. “But now...” His eyes darkened, something violent surfacing beneath the control. “Now I’ll let him taste hell before I end him.”
The shift was instant.
Like a storm breaking without warning.
“Why?” I asked.
The single word cut through his momentum.
His head snapped slightly, his eyes locking onto mine in incredulity.
“Are you seriously asking me why?” His voice rose, not loud, but edged with fury now.
“He touched you.” A step toward me. “He got you pregnant.”
Another step. “He dared to put his hands on what is mine—”
“That’s not what happened.”
He didn’t hear me.
“I won’t stop at killing him,” he went on, the words coming faster now, darker. “I’ll wipe out his entire bloodline. His brothers. Their wives. Their grand—”
“Vincenzo.”
My voice cut through his like a blade.
Sharp enough to stop him.
I stepped closer.
Close enough now that I could smell him clearly.
“I know we haven’t talked about what happened during the four weeks I spent in captivity,” I said, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse raced. “Not properly. Not really.”
His breathing was still uneven—controlled, but barely.
“But you need to listen to me now.”
His eyes stayed locked on mine.
Waiting.
Tense.
Ready to explode again if I said the wrong thing.
“The only pain I endured,” I continued, “was being confined to that room.”
A flicker of confusion broke through the anger.
Small—but there.
“No one violated me,” I said clearly. “No one touched me.”
His expression shifted again—rage faltering, something uncertain pushing through.
“I wasn’t beaten,” I added. “Not once. They didn’t get the chance.”
My hands trembled slightly, but I held his gaze.
Held it.
Didn’t let him look away.
“This pregnancy...” My voice softened just a fraction. “It isn’t Matteo’s.”
Silence fell again.
He didn’t move.
“It’s yours,” I said.
The words felt heavier this time.
More real.
“I conceived the night I gave you my virginity.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
Everything narrowed down to the space between us.
He stared at me.
Not like before—not assessing, not controlled.
Searching.
His eyes moved over my face, slower this time.
As if he were looking for something—any crack, any hesitation, any sign that this was a lie he could tear apart.
I didn’t give him one.
I couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely there.
“Mine?”
It wasn’t a question filled with anger.
It was something else entirely.
Disbelief.
I nodded.
Slowly.
His fist loosened.
Gradually.
Like his body was catching up to something his mind hadn’t fully processed yet.
His fingers uncurled, tension bleeding out of them in small, uneven increments.
Then—
He moved.
Fast.
Three long strides closed the distance between us before I could react.
And then—
He pulled me into him.
Carefully.
Almost... reverently.
One arm wrapped around my back, the other bracing me in a way that avoided every injury without me having to guide him.
Like he’d memorized where I was hurt just from looking.
Like he’d been paying attention all along.
My breath caught.
His hold tightened.
For the first time—
He held me like I mattered.
Really mattered.
I could hear his heartbeat, strong and uneven against my ear. Faster than it should have been.
My hands hovered for a second before settling lightly against his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking.
When he finally spoke, his voice had quieted, the fury gone.
“You were never touched?” he asked again, disbelief lacing every word.
After all, the Spanish were notorious for acts like that.
I straightened slightly despite the ache in my ribs.
“Never,” I said.
Then, firmer—“Not once.”
The words didn’t waver this time.
I made sure they didn’t.
Silence stretched again.
Taut.
Then—
A sharp buzz cut through the room.
Once.
Twice.
Vincenzo’s head turned slightly toward the desk.
The phone.
For a fraction of a second, he didn’t move.
Then he walked back to it, each step just as controlled as before.
He glanced at the screen.
And just like that—
Something in his face changed.
It was subtle.
But I saw it.
The hard lines around his mouth softened.
The tension in his brow eased, just a fraction.
I didn’t need to see the name.
I already knew.
Violet.
He answered immediately.
“Violet,” he said.
And there it was.
That tone.
Careful in a way he had never once been with me.
“I’ll call you back,” he added, already shifting into something more controlled. “I’m in the middle of a discussion... but I’ll be with you soon.”
In the middle of a discussion?
He listened.
For a second.
Two.
Then his entire body went rigid again—but this time it wasn’t the same stillness as before.
This was different.
His free hand clenched at his side.
Hard.
So hard I heard the faint crack of his knuckles.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding visibly beneath the skin.
Whatever she was saying—
It was getting to him.
Deep.
“No—” he started, but stopped himself.
Listened again.
And then—
Something snapped.
The sound that tore out of him wasn’t quite human.
A strangled mix between a growl and something wounded.
Before I could react—
His hand closed tighter around the phone.
Too tight.
The device crunched audibly in his grip.
Plastic splintering.
Glass fracturing beneath pressure it was never meant to withstand.
He crushed it.
The screen shattered completely, spiderweb cracks bursting outward as the casing bent and broke in his palm.
Then he threw it.
Hard.
The ruined phone slammed into the far wall with a violent crack and exploded into fragments—shards of glass and plastic scattering across the polished floor like falling ice.
Silence followed.
Breathless. Charged.
He didn’t look at the mess.
Didn’t acknowledge it.
His chest rose and fell once—twice—before he turned back to me.
“You don’t have to lie to me, Elena.”
His voice was rough now.
Not loud. But stripped bare.
My chest tightened.
“What... what are you talking about? I’ve never lied to you.”
“My sister was violated,” he cut in.
The words hit harder than anything he’d said before.
“Repeatedly.” His jaw clenched. “By her own father. And by yours.”
I froze.
“She got pregnant because of it,” he continued, his voice dropping further, quieter—but heavier. “I know what that does to someone.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
Not accusing. Not entirely.
But searching.
“I lived through the aftermath with her,” he continued. “Through every fragment of the pain.”
A pause.
“I would have understood if you’d been in a similar situation. It wouldn’t have made me hate you any more.”
Something in my chest cracked at that.
“But why claim the child you’re carrying is mine?” he said, voice cutting sharp. “Why would you try to make me accept the child of someone who wronged you?”
My throat closed.
Air felt suddenly harder to pull in.
“You just held me like I matter, like you believe me and are ready to accept the pregnancy—despite saying before that you didn’t want me to carry your child.”
“What changed between a few seconds ago and now, after you took that call?”
“The only man I’ve ever been with is you, and this pregnancy is yours,” I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. “I have no reason to lie, but I’m still curious—why the sudden change?”
“Violet called.”
The name cut through everything again.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard like he was trying to ground himself.