Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I turned to face him.
Vincenzo was massive, built like he had been specifically designed for violence—broad shoulders, thick chest, his arms straining against the fabric of a black button-down that cost more than most people’s rent.
He was tall, taller than me by at least two inches, at six-foot-five. And he carried every pound of his bulk like armor, like a weapon he was perpetually ready to deploy. His face was square-jawed and handsome despite the damage. He had the face that made anyone look twice, not because of its perfect symmetry but because of what had been done to it.
The scar dominated his left side. It ran from just below his temple, cutting diagonally across his cheekbone, through the corner of his mouth, and ending at the edge of his jaw.
The tissue was thick and raised, pale against his olive skin. The scar came from a blade wielded with intent—not a clean cut but a sawing, vicious drag meant to maim rather than kill. It pulled his left lip into a permanent half-sneer, giving him an expression that hovered between amusement and menace even when his face was at rest.
He wore it like a crown.
Like the scar was proof of his survival, of his toughness, of the fact that whatever had tried to destroy him had failed.
His dark eyes gleamed with the particular madness that had always lurked behind them, a flickering instability that made most men keep their distance and made Vincenzo himself believe he was untouchable.
No man was untouchable.
“What are you doing in Belgium, Vincenzo?” I asked, keeping my voice even.
He signaled for the bartender with two fingers and leaned back on the stool, his massive frame making the wood creak in protest. The scar pulled as his lips curved into a smirk.
“The same thing you’re doing, Salvatore.” He accepted the whiskey the bartender placed in front of him without looking, raising it in a mock toast before taking a long swallow. “Chasing after my wife.”
I stilled, my glass halfway to my lips, and stared at him. “You’re not married.”
I would have known if he was. Marriages in the famiglie were always grand affairs. Always political.
The smirk widened, the scar distorting further, making his face look almost grotesque in the dim light. “She doesn’t know she’s my wife,” he said, as if this were the most reasonable statement in the world. “Yet.”
I held his gaze for a long moment, looking at the certainty in his eyes, the absolute, unshakable conviction of a man who had decided on something and would not be dissuaded by anything else.
Vincenzo had always been a little bit on the insane side. It wasn’t calculated madness that some men in our world cultivated as intimidation.
This was genuine, the kind of instability that ran deep and dark, that made him unpredictable in ways that were dangerous not just to his enemies
It was why, when the time had come to arrange Giulia’s betrothal, my father had chosen the Bianchi family over the Castellanos.
Vincenzo’s instability was too great a risk.
The Bianchis were solid, predictable, safe.
Vincenzo Castellano was a lit match in a room full of gasoline.
And now he was here, in Belgium, chasing a woman who didn’t even know she was his target.
Well, fuck. Look at us.
I took a slow sip of my drink. “Does everyone know?”
Vincenzo raised an eyebrow. “Know what?”
“That my dear wife shot me.”
He took another drink, savoring it, drawing out the moment like a cat playing with a wounded mouse. “Word travels fast in our world, Adrian.” He set his glass down and turned to face me fully, his dark eyes gleaming. “But your father has done his best to keep it quiet. Damage control. Now, we can’t have a Salvatore wife shooting her husband and running off. It’s bad for business, bad for reputation.”
He tapped his temple with one thick finger. “I’m just good at gaining information. I hear a lot of whispers.” His grin was wide, almost feral. “I got little birds everywhere, and they tell me everything I need to know.”
Vincenzo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “So tell me, how does it feel? Knowing the woman you married put a bullet in your chest and disappeared?”
I didn’t answer; I didn’t need to.
The whiskey in my glass trembled slightly. Rage and betrayal lived beneath my skin—a living, breathing thing that pulsed through my veins like poison. I set the glass down carefully, controlling the tremor in my hand through sheer force of will.
Vincenzo watched me with keen interest, a predator studying wounded prey. His amusement was palpable, almost tangible in the narrow space between us.
I didn’t say anything, didn’t find the need to respond to his jab.
A moment of silence passed between us, and when he realized I wasn’t going to take the bait, he chuckled. A low, deep laugh that vibrated through his chest.