Chapter twenty-eight
The tension is thick as I stand outside Vince's office, the shouting echoing through the thick wood.
Salvatore's voice is unmistakable, and though it's muffled, I can still hear Vincenzo's sharp retorts.
The two of them are at each other, their words biting and angry, and I catch my name thrown into the mix multiple times.
I hesitate for a moment, anxiety gripping me before I take a deep breath and knock lightly on the door. The sounds inside abruptly cease, leaving an unsettling silence hanging in the air. My fingers nervously twist my wedding band, a nervous habit I can't shake, as I wait.
The door swings open, and Angelo's tall figure looms in the doorway. He smiles down at me, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's something there, a flicker of fear, whether for me or someone else, I can't quite tell, but I know it's there.
"I'm sorry, but Vince told me to meet him here at six," I mutter, my voice wavering as I glance at Salvatore, whose gaze is as cold as ice.
"So your little bitch speaks without permission too." Salvatore's words are venomous.
"I understand exactly why you won't go through with the deal now." He sneers, his eyes scanning me with disdain, and I instinctively take a step back.
His gaze travels down my body, a look of disgust on his face as his eyes settle on the dress I'm wearing.
It's far too revealing, a choice not mine.
The neckline plunges into a deep V, and the bottom barely covers my hips, leaving little to the imagination.
I'd cinched a belt around my waist to try and lengthen it, hiding my body as best I could, but it wasn't enough.
I swallow hard, my body trembling as I wrap my arms around myself. Vince, who has been silent until now, stands up from his chair and strides over to me. Without a word, he kisses my cheek gently before turning back to his father.
"I'm sorry, padre," he says coldly, "but we have business to attend to at the club."
Salvatore frowns, his lips curling in frustration as he mutters something under his breath about me going on a business deal too, but Vince doesn't seem to care. He grabs my hand, pulling me out of the office, and I don't look back.
I can feel Salvatore's eyes on me, burning with contempt, but I can't make sense of it. He's the one who arranged this marriage. He seems to despise my very existence, yet he's the one who bound me to his son.Top of Form
Once outside, the cold Sicilian air hits me, sharp and bitter against my skin. Vince opens the door of the limo and gestures for me to slide in first. I do, quickly, sitting on the soft leather seat as he follows, climbing in behind me.
He glances at me for a brief moment, and I catch the glint of something in his eyes — an unreadable mix of intensity and something deeper, something that makes my pulse quicken.
The door clicks shut, and the limo begins to move, the quiet hum of the engine adding to the silence that wraps around us.
Vince's eyes never leave me, his gaze lingering longer than usual. He finally breaks the silence, his voice smooth and low, "Ignore him, guaio."
The nickname slips off his tongue like a secret just for me, a hint of something dangerous lurking underneath.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and lean back against the plush leather seat, trying to steady my breath. But every inch of my skin is aware of him, his presence filling the space between us.
He taps away on his phone for a moment, then looks up, the intensity in his gaze making my stomach flutter. He sets his phone down and reaches for me, pulling me onto his lap with such ease that it takes me by surprise. The sudden closeness, the heat radiating off his body, sends a jolt through me.
"You look good, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of admiration and something else — desire, maybe? His fingers trace the hem of my dress, tugging slightly, and I can't help but shiver under his touch.
I roll my eyes playfully and swat his hand away whilst attempting to wiggle off his lap, trying to keep some sense of control, but he just grabs my wrists with one hand and smirks.
"Where do you think you're going?" he teases, his lips curling in that smug way that drives me crazy.
"Maybe I'm just trying to escape," I reply, but the words come out more breathless than I intend. His chuckle is low and knowing.
"I don't think you want to escape, baby," he says, his voice sending a shiver through me as he pulls me even closer, his hands tightening around me. I bite my lip, trying to ignore the way my body betrays me.
"Don't you think I'd notice if you wanted to run?" Vince murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a wave of heat through my body. I lean into him instinctively, my heart racing.
Before I can respond, the limo jerks to a stop, and Vince's focus shifts. His arm stays wrapped around me, though, and I find myself drawn even closer.
The door opens, and I see a couple of men standing outside, their silhouettes framed by the dim city lights. Vince doesn't let me go, instead pulling me even tighter against him as his lips graze the side of my neck, his breath warm and teasing.
"Relax, Alexa", he whispers, his voice dark and playful, "I'm not done with you yet".
I shiver, biting my lip as I try to hide the excitement coursing through me. This man has a way of making everything feel so intense, so electrifying- and no matter how hard I try to fight it, I know I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and deep-down I don't want to, despite the men outside.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, but the act only seems to amuse him.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction.
Before I can react, Vince suddenly pivots, twisting our bodies until my back slams against the locked limo door.
The impact steals the breath from my lungs, and I let out a startled gasp.
He doesn't hesitate. His lips descend upon my neck, trailing heated kisses along my skin.
A shiver wracks through me as I instinctively squeeze my legs together, desperate for some form of relief.
If Vince notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.
He simply continues his assault, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive spot where his lips press, lick, and tease.
My fingers ache to run through his hair—to tug at the strands slicked back with gel—but his iron grip around my wrists keeps me firmly in place.
The restriction only heightens my awareness of him, of his body pressing insistently against mine.
Through the expensive fabric of his suit, I can feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal.
Heat pools in my stomach as I arch closer, unable to suppress the soft moan that escapes my lips when his mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot.
He sucks at my skin, the sharp contrast of his lips and teeth making me shudder.
I know without a doubt that he's leaving a mark, branding me in the way only he can.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he pulls back to admire his handiwork, his thumb grazing over the fresh bruise.
The sensation is almost too much, and I wince. His smirk deepens.
"Now no one will dare try anything with you," he murmurs, his voice rich with possession.
I scoff, attempting to mask the effect he has on me.
"Of course, you had an ulterior motive. You weren't doing this to show your wife that you lov—" I catch myself just in time, correcting hurriedly, "—like her. You just wanted to stake your claim." My words come out in a huff, but my heart pounds in my chest at the near slip.
I pray he doesn't notice. I'm not foolish or naive, as some might assume. I know Vince doesn't love me. Maybe he's attracted to me, maybe he enjoys indulging in this twisted game of control, but love? No, that isn't in his nature.
He doesn't correct me. He only chuckles darkly, his grip on me loosening as the limo jolts to a stop. The abrupt motion signals our arrival. Outside, the neon lights of the club flicker in the night, a stark contrast to the world I now find myself entangled in.
The new driver—I don't know what happened to Alceu—quickly exits the front seat and strides over, pulling open the door.
Vince is the first to step out, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings with the precision of a predator assessing his territory.
Satisfied, he extends a hand, guiding me out with a firm grip before wrapping his arm tightly around my waist. The gesture is possessive, shielding me from unseen threats as he leads me toward a discreet entrance at the back of the building.
On the surface, this club appears no different from any other—a pulsing haven of music and revelry. But as soon as we cross the threshold into the private back room, the illusion shatters.
Dim lighting casts long, shifting shadows along the walls, while red-tinted lights bathe the space in an almost sinister glow.
Sleek, metallic poles rise from the floor, strategically placed throughout the room, with one taking centre stage on a raised platform.
The air is thick with a mixture of perfume, alcohol, and something else—something heady and forbidden.
This isn't just a club. This is something much more.
The club hums with an undercurrent of desire and danger.
Women and girls weave through the room, their barely-there outfits shimmering under the dim red lights.
Their smiles are practiced, their movements deliberate, but I can't shake the nagging thought—did they choose this?
Or were they trapped in a life that wasn't theirs to control?
Vince's warning rings in my head. Don't speak unless spoken to. A rule meant to keep me safe, but if I saw something that wasn't consensual, I wouldn't stand idly by.
A memory surfaces, sharp and unbidden. I was thirteen when my mother sat me down for the talk—not the birds and the bees.
That lesson had come when I was ten. No, this was different.
This was about my mother's past, my aunts' past, the suffering they endured at the hands of men who saw them as objects rather than people.
She had cried that day. My mother, the strongest woman I knew, had let tears slip down her face. It terrified me. I had never seen her cry before, and it was then I realized how cruel the world could be.
That was the moment I knew I wanted to help people. I wasn't like my mother, my aunts, or my cousins. I wasn't a fighter. I wasn't someone who could take down an opponent with ease. But I could heal. That's why I went into medicine.
And if any of these girls needed help tonight, I'd offer it. Even if it killed me.
Vince's firm grip on my waist brings me back to the present as he steers me toward a corner booth. A group of older men sit there, their expensive suits slightly rumpled, cigars smoldering in their hands. Nearly all of them have women draped over their laps, clad in delicate lingerie.
None of the women look distressed, but I know better than to take appearances at face value. How many of them are here willingly? And how many are simply playing the part to survive?
Vince settles into the plush seat, then effortlessly pulls me into his lap. I let myself relax against him, resting my head on his shoulder as the conversation shifts to business.
Drugs. Distribution. The usual.
Time drags. My patience wears thin. I glance toward the bar, craving a drink—anything to dull the discomfort of being here.
I lean in, my lips grazing Vince's ear, my teeth barely scraping his earlobe as I whisper, "Do you want me to get you a drink?"
His fingers brush against my thigh as he hands me his card. "Straight vodka."
Sliding off his lap, I weave my way toward the bar, scanning the room as I go. The club is busier now, the crowd denser. Men and women loiter near the edges, their conversations hushed.
Then I see them. Armed men, trying—and failing—to be discreet. Their eyes flick to Vince.
A cold unease settles in my stomach. They're moving closer.
Paranoia? Maybe. But something doesn't feel right.
I school my features into indifference and order the drink, keeping my movements casual as I return to Vince. Settling onto his lap once more, I hand him the glass.
He lifts it to his lips, but I subtly shake my head.
"The bartender put something in it. It's a trap," I murmur under my breath.
Gianluca Ricardi, the grey-haired man leading the conversation, narrows his eyes at us. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Lombardo?"
I force a smile, turning my gaze toward him. "No, everything's fine. I just have a migraine. We should get home."
He studies me for a second too long before nodding, standing to offer his hand. Vince shakes it, as do I, before he guides me swiftly toward the exit.
Then I hear it. The unmistakable click of guns being loaded.
We dive behind the bar as gunfire erupts. Bottles shatter above us, shards of glass raining down.
Vince reacts first, drawing his gun and shooting the bartender in the head before shoving the weapon into my hands.
I quickly flick the safety off. My aim isn't perfect, but I can still fight.
Crouching low, I peer around the bar's edge, spot a man taking aim, and squeeze the trigger. The dull thud of my gun firing barely registers before the man collapses, his scream cut short.
Another enemy moves to retaliate, but Vince is faster, putting a bullet between his eyes.
One by one, we take them down until only Gianluca and two of his men remain. The dancers are long gone, having fled the moment bullets started flying.
My gun clicks empty. Cursing, I scramble to grab spare rounds from a corpse beside me, too focused on reloading to notice the shadow creeping up behind me.
Vince does.
"No!"
He throws himself in front of me just as the gun goes off.
One.
Two.
Three bullets slam into him, his body shuddering with each impact.
A strangled cry rips from my throat as he collapses beside me.
Blind with rage and panic, I grab his gun and fire, hitting every remaining target in the head. Gianluca is gone, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except the man lying motionless beside me.
Dropping to my knees, I press my hands to his wounds, but there's so much blood.
His fingers, slick with crimson, find mine. He squeezes weakly, his face contorted in pain.
"Baby... please stop crying," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I want to see your beautiful face one last time. Just think... you can go home now."
My breath catches. "No. No. You've got to stay with me. Do you hear me? Stay awake. My home is with you." Tears blur my vision as sirens wail in the distance.
A sad smile tugs at his lips. "You are the best thing that happened to me," he breathes before coughing violently, blood staining his lips.
His body trembles once. Twice. Then goes still.
A scream rips from my throat as I clutch his shirt, shaking him desperately. "Wake up!"
Paramedics rush in, trying to pry me off him.
"He's still breathing," one of them says, "but it's weak. We need to move, now!"
They load him onto a stretcher, and I stand frozen, drenched in his blood, watching as they take him away from me.
This is my fault.
If I had noticed the trap sooner, if I had paid more attention—Vince would still be here.
He shouldn't have taken those bullets for me.
They were meant for me.
As the ambulance speeds away, taking my love with it, a single, harrowing thought takes root in my mind.
What if he never comes back?