Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
RICCI
The moment she slams into me, everything else ceases to exist. My world shrinks to the exact point of impact—her slim body crashing against my chest, the exhale of startled surprise that rushes out of her, the instinctive way her fingers curl into the lapels of my suit jacket like she knows she has reached a safe harbor.
I catch her arms without thinking, my hands closing around the silk sleeves of her black dress.
I hold her steady, firm enough to keep her upright but careful, always careful with her.
Then I see the tears swimming in her eyes.
As I watch, they start spilling freely down her pale cheeks. Her green eyes are wide, glassy, rimmed with red, and the raw vulnerability in them hits me like a fist.
I’ve watched her for years—across crowded rooms at family gatherings, from the shadows of the estate’s gardens, during those rare moments when our paths crossed in the halls; she has always been icy.
Untouchable. Perfectly composed. That mask never slipped, not once.
Not when Salvatore barked orders at her in front of everyone, not when she stood alone at the edges of parties, not even when the rumors of her miscarriage circulated like poison through the clan. Nothing ever cracked her.
But right now, she’s shattering right in front of me. My heart actually stops beating for a long, agonizing second.
The ostentatious marble hallway around us, the imported crystal sconces throwing warm pools of light across the walls, the distant murmur of voices from the reception, fade until there’s only the sound of her uneven breathing and the thunder of my own pulse in my ears.
I’m not sure where I was going a minute ago. I just knew I saw her leave the main room with Mario trailing too close behind, his hand hovering near the small of her back like he already owned the right to touch her, and I lost my mind.
I know exactly what kind of beast he can be.
He kept the worst of it leashed while his father was alive, but now the old man is in the ground, he thinks Salvatore’s kingdom is now his playground.
He hasn’t understood that without his father, he has become nothing.
None of the other heads respects him. And I’m on to him.
He is an open book to me. I know what he’ll try.
But I’m ready for him. In fact, I’ve been waiting for him to make a move, watching for the moment he slips the leash.
I have an idea what form it will take, but I’m not going to risk my theories on her skin.
So, I followed, moving silent as a shadow through the corridors.
If he laid a finger on her, I’d end him.
No hesitation. No witnesses. Just clean.
A good kind of violence.
When he closed the door of Salvatore’s study, I wanted to barge in, but I clenched my teeth and held back. I knew then he was not going to do anything to her in the place where his father humiliated and berated him all his life.
But here she is minutes later, white as a ghost, trembling like a fucking leaf, and blind with tears.
An uncontrollable rage surges up from that black place inside me.
Everything becomes black, making my vision tunnel until all I see is the study door behind her.
I’m ready to kill. Right now. Right here in this hallway.
I can already feel my hands closing around Mario’s skinny throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge with shock and remorse for daring to make her cry just before his life drains out of him.
“What did he do to you?” The words come out quiet, cold and lethal—because that is the only way I can stop myself from roaring.
She tries to speak—her lips part, trembling violently, those green eyes widening with shock—but no sound comes out at first. Just a tiny, broken exhale that slices straight through me and confirms everything. My blood turns to ice.
“He hurt you?” I ask again, softer this time, but the fury is still vibrating through every syllable, making my jaw ache from how hard I’m clenching it. I’m already turning, shoulders coiling like a predator about to strike, ready to storm that study door and drag Mario out by his fucking neck.
But she snaps out of her terror suddenly, and lunges after me, her small hand catching my forearm.
But I’m like a freight train. The momentum is a done deal.
I don’t stop. I can’t. In a flash, she jumps in front of the door.
The girl can move fast; I’ll give her that.
She flattens herself against the heavy oak panel, and her hands slam over mine where my fingers are already closing around the brass knob. We both freeze.
Completely.
Our eyes lock.
The world tilts on its axis.
Her fingers are cool against my skin, trembling slightly, but they don’t let go.
The shock of contact with her sends a jolt straight through me—hot, electric, impossible to ignore.
Her breath catches audibly, and her chest rises and falls with every quick inhale.
For those suspended seconds there’s nothing else.
No Mario. No funeral. No empire waiting to swallow us both.
Just her green eyes on mine, enormous, and vulnerable, and so fucking beautiful it hurts to even look at.
My thoughts of revenge scatter like leaves in a storm.
All I can feel is the heat radiating from her body inches from mine, the faint scent of her perfume, the rapid flutter of her pulse where her skin meets mine.
“Don’t,” she whispers, voice shaky but urgent, barely above a breath. “He didn’t do anything. I’m just…It’s just a horrible time in general. It’ll be worse for me if you provoke him.”
I stare at her almost in amazement. The red rimmed, begging eyes; her flushed cheeks, her quivering bottom lip.
And my heart clenches so painfully I can’t draw a full breath.
I’ve never seen real emotion on her face before.
Not grief. Not fear. Not joy. Nothing. She’s always been a statue carved from ice. And now it’s all here—raw, real, messy.
A sick part of me wonders if this means she did love her husband.
The thought slices deep, sharper than any knife I’ve ever wielded.
I try to compose myself, jaw locked so tight my teeth ache, but inside I feel a surge of relief that Mario didn’t touch her, followed by a strange and unbearable sadness.
Disappointment as I have never known fills my soul.
As if something precious I’ve wanted for years just slipped through my fingers forever.
Suddenly, everything feels worthless. I have killed and fought and endured for nothing…
“Everyone dies,” I say finally, forcing the words out like they don’t taste like ash in my mouth. “There’s no need to feel too sad. You’ll be fine.”
I step back, ready to leave her to whatever private grief she may feel, my chest aching in a way I don’t want to name. But her hand shoots out again—fast, desperate—grabbing my forearm. My heart jumps—hard—like it’s trying to punch straight through my ribs and fall into her other open palm.
“Don’t go, please. I… I need your help,” she says.
The words hang between us, soft but desperate, trembling on the air like they might shatter if I breathe wrong.
I turn fully then, staring down at her—really looking—and a wave of pure, staggering relief crashes through me so strong it almost buckles my knees. She’s coming to me. Not to any of the other circling vultures. Not to her father. Not to Mario. To me.
After all these years of watching her from the shadows, pretending I didn’t want her with every ragged breath has paid off. She’s finally reaching for me.
And I’ll burn the whole fucking world down before I let her go.