CHAPTER ONE #5
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, frantic, vibrating with an edge of raw panic I had never heard from him in my entire life.
He gripped my upper arms, pushing me back just enough to scan my face.
His dark eyes searched mine, taking in the red-rimmed swelling, the hollow dark circles, the pale exhaustion I couldn't hide.
"Baby, what happened? Why are you in New York? How did you get here?"
"I flew in this morning," I stammered, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. "I—I couldn't stay there. I couldn't stay in Cleveland anymore. I know you told me never to come, I know you said your work was too complicated, but I didn't know where else to go. I needed you."
Vincent's jaw locked so hard the muscle ticked violently against his skin. His hands moved from my arms to cup my face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on my cheeks with surprising tenderness, but his eyes were turning black with an icy, terrifying fury.
"Who hurt you?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. "Guilietta. Tell me right now. Who touched you?"
I pulled back slightly, my voice trembling with a raw, wounded fury that had been building for hours—for years, if I was being honest with myself.
"Do you know I sat down here for four hours?
" The words came out sharp, accusatory, cutting through the lobby like broken glass.
"Four hours, Dad. On that stiff leather sofa over there.
Because these people—" I gestured wildly toward the blonde receptionist and the security guards, who were now studiously avoiding eye contact, "—they didn't believe I was your daughter.
They didn't even know you had a daughter.
They called security. They tried to manhandle me out onto the street like I was some vagrant off the subway. "
Vincent's face went pale, his grip on my face tightening fractionally.
"All because I'm some hidden secret," I continued, my voice breaking with the weight of years of unspoken hurt.
"I've always felt it, Dad. I've always known that you were ashamed of me, or that I didn't matter enough to acknowledge.
I tried not to believe it. I told myself you were just busy, that your work was complicated, that you loved me even if you were never there.
But sitting in that lobby, watching people look at me like I was lying about who I was...
I realized the truth. You've never cared.
Not really. You kept me locked away in Ohio like I was something to be hidden, something to be ashamed of. "
The words hung in the air between us, brutal and unforgiving. Beside us, the guy shifted slightly, his dark eyes moving between Vincent and me with an intensity that felt almost protective.
Vincent's jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. "Guilietta, that's not—"
"It's not what?" I demanded, tears streaming down my face now, but my voice steady with a terrible clarity. "Not true? Then why didn't anyone in this building know I existed? Why did I have to sit here for four hours like a beggar waiting for scraps?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to find words that would undo the damage of his own choices.
"Why, Dad?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again, his dark eyes—so like mine—glistening with unshed tears. "Because I loved you too much," he said, his voice raw and stripped of all pretense. "Too much to bring you into this world. Into my world."
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of such raw anguish that it momentarily pierced through my anger.
"New York is dangerous, Guilietta. My work is...
it's complicated. It's dark. The things I do, the people I deal with—they're not safe.
They're not something you should ever be near.
Do you understand? If people knew about you, if they knew you mattered to me, you would become a target. A liability."
His voice cracked on the last words.
"I kept you in Ohio because I wanted you to have a normal life.
A safe life. I wanted you to go to school and make friends and fall in love without looking over your shoulder, without being dragged into the mess that is my existence.
" He stepped closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching me, as if he was afraid I would shatter.
"That was love, Guilietta. That was me trying to protect you. "
Devastation in his voice was absolute. "I know I was wrong.
I should have been more present. I should have found a way to be in your life, even if I couldn't be with you everyday.
I failed you in that way. But I will not fail you by bringing you here, by letting you stay in New York where danger is breathing down my neck every single day. "
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening with resolve even as his eyes pleaded with me. "You have to leave. You have to go back to Ohio, back to your mother, back to the life I built for you away from all of this. That's the only way I can keep you safe. That's the only way I can live with myself."
"So you want me gone," I said quietly, the words falling like stones between us. "Out of sight. Out of mind. Is that it? So you don't have to think about the daughter you're ashamed of."
"No—" he started, but I cut him off.
"No, what?" I demanded, my voice rising again. "Not true? Then why are you trying to send me away? Why can't I stay? Why can't you just let me be part of your life?"
Vincent's face crumpled, but his resolve didn't waver. "Because I love you too much to risk you. And if you stay here, if you stay near me, that's exactly what will happen. You will be at risk. Every single day. I won't have that on my conscience, Guilietta. I won't."
The finality in his voice was like a door slamming shut.
"Vincent."
The low, velvet voice cut through the air like a blade.
I startled, suddenly remembering that we were not alone.
The tall, devastating stranger had stepped up beside my father.
He stood only two feet away, looking down at me with an intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Up close, his dark eyes weren't just observant—they were consuming.
They took in every inch of me: the messy strands of hair clinging to my damp cheeks, my oversized knit sweater, my trembling frame, and the rare green of my eyes.
There was no pity in his face. There was only an electric, predatory focus that made my pulse race wildly against my ribs.
"Guilietta," he said. The way my name rolled off his tongue, rich and dark with an unmistakable Italian cadence, sounded less like a greeting and more like an ancient vow.
I swallowed hard, my voice breathless and small. "Hi. I'm sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt your meeting."
"You didn't interrupt anything," he replied smoothly, his gaze never wavering from mine. He took half a step closer, enveloping me in the scent of crisp autumn air, expensive amber, and something raw and dangerous underneath. "I'm Giuseppe. Giuseppe Silvestri."
"Nice to meet you," I whispered, feeling an inexplicable pull toward him that made my skin tingle.
Before Giuseppe could say another word, my father’s phone vibrated violently in his breast pocket. The sharp ringtone shattered the moment.
Vincent pulled the device out, glanced at the illuminated screen, and cursed under his breath. "It's your mother. She's called me six times in the last hour."
He swiped the screen and brought it to his ear. "Jiana—"
"Vincent!" My mother’s voice erupted through the speaker, so high-pitched and hysterical with terror that even Giuseppe could hear every frantic word.
"She's gone! Guilietta is gone! Her car is still in the driveway, but her bags from the guest room are missing, her clothes are gone, and she won't answer her phone!
I called the police, I went to that wretched apartment, and Maggie had the nerve to tell me Guilietta ran away like a coward! "
"Jiana, calm down—"
"I can't calm down!" Jiana wailed, hyperventilating on the other end of the line. "Joshua was outside our gate an hour ago screaming her name! What if he did something to her? What if someone took her? Oh God, Vincent, what if someone found out who you are? What if our baby is—"