Page 10

Chapter Ten

Romeo

Viviana's hair spills over the pillow in dark waves. Her lips are slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep.

She looks almost peaceful next to me, a sharp contrast to the fire and fury she usually wields against me.

I watch her for a moment longer than I should, my hand resting lightly on the curve of her hip. Last night lingers in my mind—a haze of heat, anger, and desire that still burns beneath my skin.

My grip tightens on her for just a moment, reluctant to let go, before I slide out of bed as quietly as I can.

She stirs anyway, her lashes fluttering as her eyes blink open. For a brief second, they soften in the haze of waking, but then reality sets in, and the defiance I’ve come to expect hardens her features.

“You’re leaving already?” she asks, her voice raspy with sleep.

“I have business to handle,” I reply.

She sits up, pulling the sheets around her, a shield between us. “Of course you do,” she says quietly, the edge in her tone barely masked.

Her gaze follows me as I grab my jacket, but there’s something different about her this morning. She’s quieter, more withdrawn. Her usual sharpness is muted, replaced by a guarded distance I can’t quite place.

“Eat something,” I tell her, pausing by the door.

She doesn’t respond as I leave the room.

The moment I step into my office, the weight of the day settles over me. Matteo is already there, waiting with a stack of reports and an unlit cigar between his fingers.

“Salvatore is on the move,” he says without preamble, sliding the folder across the desk. “Our informants say he’s growing restless. He’s desperate for leverage, and Antonio is the perfect bait.”

I sit down, flipping through the reports as I listen. “Good. Let him take the bait. He’s predictable when he’s desperate.”

Matteo leans back, studying me carefully. “Antonio?”

“Let him play his part,” I say coldly, closing the folder. “I haven’t decided what to do with him yet.”

There’s no hesitation in my words, no room for doubt. Antonio sealed his fate the moment he betrayed my family, and now he’ll pay the price.

Matteo nods, but his gaze lingers. “Right, and Viviana?” he asks cautiously.

I look up, my expression hardening. “What about her?”

“She’s quieter lately,” he says, his tone careful. “Withdrawn. It could be resentment. Or something else.”

“She’s fine,” I snap, though the words feel hollow even to me.

Matteo doesn’t press further, and I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.

Alone in my office now, I pour myself a drink and sink into the chair by the window, staring out at the city below. My thoughts drift back to Viviana, as they so often do, despite my best efforts to focus on the business at hand.

She’s not just a distraction anymore. She’s a constant presence, lingering in every corner of my mind. Her fire, her defiance, the quiet moments when she thinks no one is watching—it all consumes me in a way I can’t escape.

The idea of losing her is unthinkable.

I don’t just want her as a possession, as a trophy of my victory. I want her as mine in every way—as my wife, my partner, my queen.

I could force her to marry me, but she would hate me.

The thought is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. Viviana is not a woman who will bend easily, who will fall into line without a fight. But I don’t want her obedience. I want her fire, her strength, her spirit—everything that makes her who she is.

The glass in my hand feels heavy, the amber liquid catching the light as I swirl it absently. If she knew how deep my obsession ran, would she fight me harder? Or would she finally surrender?

The glow of the surveillance screens bathes the room in a dim light as I settle back into my chair. With a flick of the controls, I switch the feed to Viviana’s room. As always, the sight of her draws my attention immediately.

She’s lying on the bed, a book in her hands, her legs curled beneath her. The faint furrow in her brow tells me she’s absorbed in the story, though she occasionally glances toward the window or the closed door, a reflexive check for freedom she knows isn’t there.

I’ve given her entertainment—a modest library of books, classic films, even art supplies. She needs something to occupy her time, after all, but I made sure to eliminate anything that might give her a connection to the outside world.

No internet. No uncensored communication. Her phone, the disposable one I provided, only accepts my calls.

She hasn’t even realized I’m always watching.

Every movement she makes, every flicker of emotion that crosses her face, is recorded here, stored on my personal hard drive. It’s a level of control I can’t bring myself to relinquish.

The cameras don’t extend to the bathroom—not out of decency, but practicality. I considered it, of course, but even I have limits. A man can only watch so much without becoming a monster in every sense of the word.

She turns a page, the movement slow and deliberate, and I let myself wonder what she’s thinking. Her silence lately has been unnerving, her mental walls higher than ever. I should be annoyed, but instead, I find myself drawn to her even more.

I make my decision quickly, rising from the chair and straightening my sleeves. Watching her isn’t enough tonight. I want to see her up close.

I enter her room without knocking, the door swinging open to reveal her startled expression. She looks up from her book, her lips parting slightly before she snaps them shut and sits upright.

“Do you ever knock?” she snaps, her tone sharp.

“This is my house,” I reply smoothly, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. “Why would I knock on my own door?”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t respond, crossing her arms instead.

“You said you had business,” she says to me snappishly.

“I sent Matteo to take care of it for me,” I reply.

She makes an expression that indicates distaste, but I don’t know if it’s in response to Matteo, me, or my mention of business.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, my voice calm as I move closer. “You’ve been wearing those same clothes for far too long. It’s time you had something proper. Tailored, of course.”

She blinks, caught off guard by the shift in topic. “What?”

“I’m bringing in a tailor,” I explain. “They’ll take your measurements, design something appropriate. Do you have a preference?”

Her arms tighten across her chest, her gaze hardening. “I don’t care.”

“Surely you care about something,” I press, watching her closely. “Colors, fabrics, cuts—you’ll need to give them some direction.”

“I said I don’t care,” she snaps, her voice sharper now. “Why does it even matter to you?”

I step closer, the tension in the room palpable as I tower over her. “I want you to look and feel good,” I say, my voice low. “You may not like your situation, but you’re here, and I won’t have you looking like a prisoner.”

Her glare sharpens, but I can see the flicker of something else in her expression—frustration, perhaps, or resignation.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, looking away.

I tilt her chin up with my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Indulge me, Viviana. It’s a small request.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t pull away. “Fine. Casual, comfy. No yellow. I hate yellow. That’s all.”

“Good girl,” I murmur, letting my hand drop.

Her eyes flash at the words, a small flare of heat at my praise.

I smirk, taking a step back. “The tailor will be here tomorrow. I’ll expect you to cooperate with them.”

***

The next morning, the penthouse hums with quiet activity as my personal tailor, Enzo, arrives.

Enzo is the best in Milan, accustomed to crafting pieces for people like me—men who command respect and demand perfection. He’s waiting in the living room now, accompanied by Matteo.

Matteo nods at me as I pass through, his sharp eyes watching every corner of the room.

“Wait here,” I instruct Enzo, my tone curt but polite. “I’ll bring her.”

“Of course, Mr. Valenti,” Enzo says, inclining his head.

I make my way to Viviana’s room, anticipation coursing through me. Her reactions to moments like these—where she has no control, where she’s forced to cooperate—are always fascinating. She’s fire and defiance wrapped in a body that tempts me more than I’d like to admit.

The door to her room is ajar, and I push it open without knocking.

She’s standing in front of the mirror, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at her reflection as though it’s offended her. Her tank top clings to her figure, and the soft curve of her hips catches my attention.

She’s put on a little weight since arriving here—not much, but enough to make her look fuller, healthier. It suits her.

The freckles on her shoulders catch the morning light, and my gaze trails over her bare legs, the way her body moves even in stillness. She’s stunning, even when she’s angry. Especially when she’s angry.

“What do you want now?” she snaps, turning abruptly to face me. Her eyes blaze with irritation, her hands planted on her hips.

I smirk, leaning against the doorframe. “The tailor is here.”

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “Tell him to leave.”

“Not an option,” I reply smoothly. “You’ll come with me. Now.”

Her glare sharpens, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

I step closer, towering over her, my voice low and firm. “Oh, but I do. You’ll cooperate. Unless you’d like me to dress you myself?”

Her cheeks flush, whether from anger or embarrassment, I can’t tell. “I’m getting…fat,” she says hesitantly. “We should wait to get me new clothes until I lose weight again.”

“You aren’t getting fat,” I say to her. “You look stunning.”

She glances at me sidelong, a question in her eyes. “I do?”

I nod. I step closer and reach out a hand to cup her cheek, forcing her to look at me. “You are the sexiest woman I have ever seen. You deserve beautiful clothing to hug every inch of your perfection. Let me spoil you, please.”

She bites her lip and the sight makes me cock leap to life. I will it to bow out of the conversation, but with little success.

“See?” I say, drawing my eyes down to my crotch. “You’re sexy.”

She tries to fight the smile that I can see growing in her eyes and loses the battle. “You know how to make me do what you want, don’t you?”

I grin. “Perhaps.”

She sighs and turns back to look at the mirror, then meets my gaze. That same question is in her eyes. I wonder what it means as I hold out my hand to her.

“Come with me?” I invite her, wiggling my fingers. “Please?”

She sighs and nods, taking my hand with her slim fingers.

I feel triumph shoot through me at her touch. This might be the first time that she has willingly touched me without anger, without lust. It feels good.

In the living room, Enzo waits patiently, his tools neatly arranged on the table. Matteo stands nearby, his arms crossed, his expression impassive as I lead Viviana into the room.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath as I guide her to stand in front of Enzo. “I don’t need a whole new wardrobe. I’ve been putting on weight.”

“Good morning, signorina,” Enzo says warmly, as though he doesn’t notice her reluctance. “I’ll need just a few minutes of your time to take measurements.”

Viviana looks at Enzo. She knows who he is, of course. Everyone knows who he is. “I don’t think you should make all the things he will request,” she whispers to Enzo. “I’ll only lose weight, and then they won’t fit anymore.”

Enzo, ever professional, gestures to the stool in front of him. “If you’ll step here, please, I’ll be as quick as possible.”

Viviana doesn’t move. Her reluctance and worry are palpable, radiating off her in waves.

“Viviana,” I say quietly, my tone laced with warning. “Step up.”

She lets me help her up onto the stool, looking at me with concern once she is standing before me. “Why are you doing this, really?” she asks me in a small voice as Enzo starts to take her measurements.

“I want to look at you,” I say simply. “I like beautiful things. Like my art.”

Her cheeks flush again, and I can see the internal war raging in her eyes. Finally, she sighs and turns herself over to Enzo.

Enzo works quickly, his hands efficient and professional as he measures her waist, hips, and shoulders.

“Relax,” I say softly, watching her with amusement.

“Go to hell,” she bites out, her voice low enough that Enzo pretends not to hear.

I chuckle, leaning back against the wall as I watch her. Even when she’s annoyed at me, she’s captivating.

Enzo finishes the measurements, jotting down notes before looking up. “Thank you, signorina. I’ll prepare several options for you.”

“She prefers simple,” I interject before Viviana can snap at him again. “Blacks and neutral tones. Maybe some red. Nothing overly complicated.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Valenti,” Enzo says with a polite nod before packing up his tools.

As he and Matteo leave the room, I step closer to Viviana, who’s already moving to step off the stool.

“Don’t think this means I’m playing along,” she mutters, refusing to look at me.

“Oh, you’re playing with me, Viviana,” I reply, my voice low as I lean in. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

She shoots me a sharp look. “Why can’t you just be nice to me for once?” she asks me.

I blink at her. “I’m buying you a whole new wardrobe. If that’s not nice, I don’t know what is.”

She rolls her eyes and takes a step toward me.

“That’s not nice. That’s just money,” she says with a flick of her hand. “I mean be nice to me…just because you like me. Like when we were kids and you used to look at me like I was too good to be real. Like that.”

I feel choked by her description of how I felt about her as a kid. It’s so accurate. I know now that she saw through me, even then. And I also know that she didn’t forget me.

I feel triumph surge through my veins for a moment.

“Romeo?” she says to me, her voice tentative. “Do you know how to be kind to anyone anymore?”

I look at her for a long moment, turning her words over in my mind. And I realize that I have an answer for her that she won’t like.

“I’m broken, Vivianna,” I tell her. “My father made sure of that. I want you to want me, to desire me, to enjoy living with me. I can give you that much. Don’t ask for what you cannot have.”

She frowns, a look of pain flitting across her face, and then she turns and walks from the room.

I watch her go, feeling a shadow of regret curling through me. She’s asking for the one thing that I cannot give her. Hopefully, she will come to accept that there are some gifts I cannot offer to her, no matter how much I wish I could.