Chapter 47 Vin
Vin
Istare at the lease agreement, my signature still wet on the bottom line. Five years. Sixty fucking months of rent paid in full for a restaurant I’ll never walk into, for a woman I’ll never touch again.
The realtor is still talking, but I’m not listening. I’m looking at the building Sophie liked, the one with the apartment upstairs. The compromise we found together. Before I destroyed everything.
“Mr. Demonio?” The realtor shifts her weight. “Will Ms. Bellamorte be signing as well, or—”
“No.” The word comes out harder than I intend. “She doesn’t know about this yet. Send all future correspondence directly to her. I’m just handling the financials.”
Her eyebrows rise, but she’s smart enough not to ask questions. Smart enough to take my money and shut the fuck up about it.
When she leaves, I pull out my phone and start making calls.
The kitchen appliance supplier on the other end is happy to hear from me at least. Good. I want this done fast.
“Everything top of the line: commercial-grade stove with eight burners, double oven, walk-in refrigerator and freezer. Prep stations, storage, shelving.” I’m pacing my office, mentally walking through Sophie’s kitchen at The Arsenal, remembering every surface I fucked her against. “I’ll send you the specs. ”
“Budget?”
“No budget. Just get the best.”
There’s a pause. “The best can get expensive, Mr. Demonio.”
“Did I fucking not speak English?”
Another pause. “I’ll prepare a proposal.”
“I don’t need a proposal. I need it ordered and installed within two weeks. Can you do that or should I call someone else?”
“Two weeks. Absolutely. I’ll need the delivery address and—”
“I’ll send everything over. One more thing.” I stop pacing, my jaw tight. “The owner is Sophie Bellamorte. Sophia. She makes all decisions going forward. Equipment, maintenance, everything. You answer to her, not me. I’m paying the bill and that’s it. Clear?”
“Crystal clear, Mr. Demonio.”
I hang up and immediately dial the next number. Linen service. Then cleaning service. Then a company that does regular maintenance and repairs. Then the bank. Each time, I make it clear: Sophie is in charge. I’m just the wallet.
By the time I call Matti, my head is pounding and I’ve been on the phone for three hours straight.
“You sound like shit,” he says by way of greeting.
“I need the name of your furniture suppliers. The ones you use for the hotel.”
Silence. Then, “For what?”
“Does it fucking matter?”
“It does if you’re fucking with Sophie again after you shit on her in front of everyone at my wife’s birthday party.” His voice is cold. “Siena is still pissed at you. So am I, for the record.”
I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know.”
“Do you? Because you grabbed Sophie by the throat, Vin. You called her—” He stops himself. “I’ve known you a long time. I’ve seen you do terrible things to women. But that? That was beyond fucking cruel. And to the person who deserves it least in the world.”
“I know,” I repeat, the words scraping my throat raw.
“Then why—”
“Just give me the fucking supplier name, Matti.”
Another pause. When he speaks again, his voice is less angry. “You’re setting her up in her new restaurant.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah.”
“Because you’re in love with her.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “Because I owe her.”
“Bullshit. You’re in love with her and you’re too much of a coward to admit it.”
“There’s nothing to admit!” The words explode out of me. “And it wouldn’t fucking matter anyway. I have to marry an alliance for the family.”
“Fuck an alliance.”
“If I don’t marry an alliance, it’s going to fuck up all the work we’ve done. We’ll lose the ports. We’ll lose everything.” I exhale hard. Shit, I haven’t told Matti and Tommy yet about the contract with the Irish for my marriage to Ashlyn.
“Wait what? What are you talking about?”
“Just give me the fucking supplier.”
Matti is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t want to watch you destroy your life and do anything you don’t want to do. If you want Sophie—”
“I’m not destroying my life. I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“By pushing away the only woman who’s ever made you happy?”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right, and we both know it.
He sighs. “I’ll text you the supplier info. But Vin? This doesn’t fix what you did to her. Money doesn’t fix that kind of humiliation.”
“I know,” I say again, and hang up before he can say anything else.
**
The furniture supplier arrives at the building the next day to take measurements. I’m there, waiting, Sophie’s picture pulled up on my phone.
“This is the owner,” I tell him, showing him the photo. It’s one I took without her knowing: Sophie at the stove, her hair in that messy bun, a soft smile on her face as she tasted something from a wooden spoon. So fucking beautiful.
The supplier studies it. “Pretty lady. She have good taste?”
“The best.” My voice is rough. “Elegant but warm. Nothing too flashy. She’ll want her customers comfortable, like they’re eating in someone’s home. But classy. Upscale.”
He nods, making notes. “I can work with that. When can I meet with her to discuss—”
“You can’t. You’re finalizing with me. Any updates send to her after I’ve paid the bill. If she wants to change anything, let her and bill me.”
“You’re paying, but she’s in charge of the restaurant?”
“That’s right.”
He gives me a look I can’t quite read. “That’s… unusual.”
“Yeah, well. She’s unusual.”
His expression softens. “Lucky woman.”
“No.” I pocket my phone, that image of Sophie still burned into my mind. “I’m the lucky one.”
By the end of the week, I’ve set up everything.
Bank account with enough to cover salaries for a full staff for five years.
Stocked emergency fund. Accountants. Utilities paid in advance.
New car registered in her name, something reliable and safe, not flashy.
Insurance. Permits. Licenses. Everything she needs to make her dreams come true.
Everything except me.
I’m sitting in my car outside her new restaurant when my phone rings. It’s the kitchen equipment supplier.
“All set, Mr. Demonio. Installation complete. Ms. Bellamorte should be able to start cooking immediately.”
“Good. Send the final invoice to my office.”
“Already done. Oh, and Mr. Demonio? I told her about the equipment when she stopped by earlier. She seemed confused. Asked who authorized the order.”
My stomach drops. She stopped by already? So the realtor contacted her. “What did you tell her?”
“That I couldn’t discuss client information. But she’s smart. She’ll figure it out if she hasn’t already.”
I end the call and stare up at the dark windows of the apartment above the restaurant.
Is she up there now? Is she standing in that kitchen, running her hands over the new stove, trying to piece together what I’ve done?
Does she hate me for it?
She should. I fucking wish I hadn’t done that.
I wish I was strong enough to sit down and explain things to her and hold her while she works to understand.
And she would understand. She’d sacrifice herself for anyone.
But I’m a fucking coward, and I had to get drunk to do it.
And when I’m drunk, I’m the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.
My phone buzzes with a text from the linen service supplier.
Ms. Bellamorte called
asking about the
account. Very
insistent about
speaking to
whoever set it
up. What should
I tell her?
I type back quickly:
Tell her nothing.
All inquiries go
through my office.
Another buzz. This time it’s the furniture supplier.
She was here looking
at the proposals.
Wanted to know
who’s paying.
She’s not happy.
Good. Let her be unhappy. Let her be furious. Anything is better than the look in her eyes when I told her I didn’t want her.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer anyway.
“Vincenzo.” Her voice hits me like a bucket of ice.
“Sophie.”
“What did you do?” She sounds breathless, like she’s been running. “The restaurant, the kitchen, everything, what did you do?”
“I paid for some things. Consider it a thank you for—”
“A thank you? Vin, you paid five years of rent! You bought tens of thousands of dollars of equipment! You set up accounts and services and—” She breaks off. “Why?”
Because I love you. Because I want to take care of you. Because I said I’d protect you. Because I’m sorry.
“I owe you,” I say instead. “You kept me safe. Fed me. This is me settling the debt.”
“I don’t want your debt settled. I want—” She stops herself. “I want you to take it all back.”
“Can’t do that. It’s done.”
“Then I won’t use any of it.”
“Yes, you will.” I grip the steering wheel with my free hand.
“You’ll use every fucking cent of it because you deserve it.
Because you’re talented and brilliant and you should have the best kitchen in the city to cook in.
You’re going to open this restaurant and you’re going to be successful and you’re going to—”
“Stop.” Her voice breaks. “Just… stop.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and painful.
“Where are you?” she asks finally.
“Why?”
“Because I’m looking out the window of my new apartment, and I see a black SUV across the street that’s been there for 20 minutes.”
Fuck. I could go up there right now, tell her everything, do this the right way. But I don’t trust myself to do what I have to do if I’m near her, if I can touch her, kiss her, fuck her. Keep her.
“Vin?”
I hang up the phone and drive away.