Chapter Five #2
"No," Renzo whispered, his voice cracking, stripped of its usual authority. "Leave me, Casimir."
The enforcer turned and walked out, the oak doors clicking shut behind him, leaving Renzo alone in the suffocating ruins of his own arrogance.
For a long time, Renzo simply stood there, staring blindly at the leather folio on the desk.
Then, with a sudden, violent burst of movement, he swept his arm across the mahogany, sending the crystal scotch glass, a stack of ledgers, and a brass pen holder crashing to the floor.
The glass shattered, the amber liquid staining the priceless rug, but Renzo didn't care.
He braced his hands against the edge of the desk, dropping his head as a ragged, agonizing breath tore its way out of his throat.
He was a stupid, blind, arrogant fool.
How had this happened? How had he, Lorenzo Falco, a man whose entire empire was built on reading the microscopic shifts in human behavior, been played with such humiliating ease?
He controlled billions of euros. He orchestrated the rise and fall of politicians.
He held the power of life and death over thousands of men who trembled at the mere mention of his name.
And yet, in his own home, he had been reduced to a blunt instrument wielded by a manipulative, venomous woman wearing a silk dress.
He pushed away from the desk, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, his mind violently rewinding through years of history.
He remembered his mother, Ana, pulling him aside before a holiday dinner, her eyes pleading. "Lorenzo, please, look closer. The things Willa says about Roselia... they are not true. You must see that."
He had coldly told his mother to stay out of his relationship.
He remembered Marco, fresh-faced and angry, standing in this very study, shouting at him. "She’s a liar, Renzo! Willa is a lying snake and you’re too busy staring at her pretty face to see she’s torturing Ro!"
Renzo had thrown Marco against the wall, threatening to strip him of his rank if he ever spoke of his future wife that way again.
He remembered his grandmother, Valentina, sitting in the parlor just weeks ago, her sharp eyes dissecting his soul. "Dogs possess an instinct unclouded by ego... they know exactly who has a good heart, and who does not."
They all knew. His entire family, his staff, his enforcers, his damn dog. They all knew the truth. They all saw the radiant, fierce, profoundly loyal soul of Roselia Zanetti. And they all saw the hollow, calculating rot inside Willa Contarini.
Renzo was the only one who had been blind.
He stopped by the windows, staring out into the pitch-black night. What was it about Willa that had blinded him so deeply? Was it simply her beauty? No, Roselia was breathtaking—a wild, sharp, undeniable beauty that made Willa look like a pale imitation of life. Was it Willa's delicacy?
Renzo let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh that held no humor.
Yes. That was it. Willa had recognized the violent burden Renzo carried, and she had deliberately crafted herself into the one thing he felt he didn't have to fight.
She had presented herself as soft, helpless, and dependent on him.
She had stroked his ego, positioned herself as his safe harbor, and in return, he had handed her a loaded gun and let her point it directly at Roselia.
God, no wonder she never looks at me, Renzo thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a freight train.
Why would Roselia ever give him the time of day? Why would she ever respect him? To her, he wasn't the Don of the Falco syndicate. To her, he was just a spectacularly stupid, easily manipulated man who had repeatedly chosen a liar over a woman with a genuine soul.
He thought about the story Marco had told at the dinner table. Raphael Dante—a young, brilliant Capo—had walked right up to her at the docks. Dante had seen her worth instantly.
He had recognized in five minutes what Renzo had refused to see in years.
And right there at the dinner table, just from the memory of Dante's words, Roselia had blushed.
A sharp, agonizing spike of jealousy and loss pierced Renzo’s chest. He had lost his right to that blush. He had lost his right to stand beside her, to protect her, to even speak her name with the affection his brothers used.
He owed her an apology. The thought surfaced, clear and true.
It wouldn't be a simple, quiet conversation in the hallway.
It had to be a humiliating, soul-baring grovel.
He needed to fall to his knees, strip himself of his pride, his title, and his ego, and beg for her forgiveness.
He owed her a lifetime of apologies for every tear she had shed in silence, for every time she had been forced to hide in her own home, for every time she had held back a monster to protect the very woman who was destroying her.
But as Renzo stared at his own faint reflection in the dark glass of the window, a paralyzing thought gripped him.
Would she even care?
Roselia Zanetti was a survivor. She had built a fortress of indifference around her heart to survive him.
If he went to her now, if he laid his soul bare and admitted what a colossal, blind idiot he had been...
would she even blink? Would she simply look at him with those dark, unbothered eyes, offer a polite nod, and walk away to meet Raphael Dante for a glass of champagne?
Renzo pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes slipping shut as a crushing despair settled over his shoulders.
He was the most powerful man in Europe. He could have anything in the world with a snap of his fingers.
But as the first faint, grey light of dawn began to bleed across the horizon, Lorenzo Falco realized that the only thing he truly, desperately wanted was a chance to court a woman who had every right to hate him for the rest of her life.
And he had absolutely no idea how to make her stay.