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Chapter Thirteen

Viviana

The penthouse is unnervingly quiet as I slip down the hallway, my bare feet making no sound against the cold marble floors. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of the risk I’m taking.

I know Romeo’s men are stationed throughout the building, but their movements are predictable. I’ve watched them long enough to know when the shifts change, when the cameras swivel, and when I can move unseen.

I reach the door to Romeo’s private art collection, my fingers trembling as I grip the handle. It’s locked, of course, but I’d expected that. Earlier, I’d swiped a key from one of the guards’ jackets while they weren’t paying attention.

The lock clicks open, and I push the door ajar, slipping inside and closing it softly behind me.

The room is dimly lit, the walls lined with paintings and sculptures that exude wealth and history. It’s an overwhelming display of Renaissance art—pieces that feel almost out of place in a modern city penthouse.

I move carefully through the collection, my eyes scanning each painting and artifact.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for—something that will help me understand Romeo. Something I can use to help convince myself that he is the lesser of two evils for me now.

On one hand, my father and his cronies, and dubious freedom that can clearly be taken from me at any time, and on this hand the security, albeit enforced, of living with Romeo.

He keeps telling me that he’s trying to keep me safe, but he is holding the wedding he claims he’s due over my head and keeping me locked up here without any promise of ever letting me go.

I can’t understand why he is hesitating to marry me. Surely it would solidify his position, take me off the table for his enemies, and make his life easier in so many ways.

A part of me, though, thinks of the moments that he softens toward me, and is kind, and I think I might understand.

Could it be that Romeo, my terrifying and harsh kidnapper, actually loves me?

One painting catches my eye, and I stop in front of it, my breath hitching. It’s a portrait of two young men, their resemblance to Romeo unmistakable. One of them stands slightly taller, his expression stern and commanding. The other, younger and more carefree, has a smile that radiates warmth.

Romeo and his brother.

My stomach twists as I take in the detail, the obvious affection between them captured in the brushstrokes.

I’ve heard whispers about Romeo’s brother, about his death, but Romeo has never told me the story in its entirety of course. Seeing this painting here, hidden in his private collection, feels like uncovering a wound he’s tried to bandage or bury.

I step closer, my fingers hovering over the frame, when a voice slices through the silence.

“What are you doing here?”

I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat. Romeo stands in the doorway, his dark eyes blazing with fury, his presence filling the room like a storm.

“I…” I falter, my mind scrambling for an excuse. “I was curious.”

His expression hardens, and he steps inside, closing the door behind him. “This room is…private.”

His voice is quiet, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I refuse to back down.

“Who is he?” I ask, nodding toward the painting. It’s a distraction from the heat pooling in my core at the sight of him.

Romeo’s gaze flicks to the portrait, and for a moment, something shifts in his expression. The fury dims, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“My brother,” he says quietly, his voice rough.

“You miss him, don’t you,” I press, watching him carefully.

His jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Yes.”

The weight of the single word hangs between us, and I can see the pain it costs him to admit it.

“Is that why you’re doing all this?” I ask, my voice sharper now. “Using me as a pawn in your revenge? To make up for what you couldn’t do back then?”

His eyes snap back to mine, and the vulnerability vanishes, replaced by a sharp edge that I can’t associate with any given emotion. “Be careful, Viviana.”

“No,” I say, stepping closer, anger fueling my defiance. “You don’t get to deflect. You need to help me understand. You want me to trust you, to like my gilded cage, but you tell me nothing, share nothing with me about yourself. Why haven’t you married me? Why are you just holding onto me and claiming that you’re keeping me safe?”

His hands grip the edge of a nearby table, his knuckles white. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I counter. “I know what it’s like to lose someone, to feel powerless. You’re allowed to mourn him. You aren’t allowed to use his memory as an excuse to control everything around you.”

He steps forward suddenly, towering over me, his fury palpable. “You don’t know what I lost,” he growls, his voice shaking with barely restrained emotion. “You don’t know what it’s like to see someone you love taken from you and be powerless to stop it. You don’t know how we were treated.”

I falter, his words hitting harder than I expected. For a moment, I see him—not the cold, calculating man who holds me captive, but someone haunted by loss, by grief he can’t escape.

My determination doesn’t fade entirely. “What about me?” I ask, my voice quieter but no less sharp. “This revenge is hurting everyone who is involved in it. Not just Salvatore.”

His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something, to argue, to fight. Instead, he turns abruptly and storms toward the door.

“Stay out of this room,” he says coldly before disappearing into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him.

I stand there, the echo of his anger lingering in the air, my heart racing. Part of me wants to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the unfairness of it all. But another part of me feels…conflicted.

I saw something in him tonight—something I didn’t expect. Grief. Pain. Vulnerability.

I hate this. I hate what he’s done to me, the way he’s torn my life apart. I also can’t help but feel a flicker of something else. I roll the word over in my brain, wishing it weren’t what I feel for him now. Finally, I admit it to myself.

What I feel is empathy.

***

The weight of the night presses heavily on me as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

My mind races with the events of the day—Romeo’s fury, the pain that flashed in his eyes when I pressed him about his brother, and the way his voice broke when he spoke of the loss.

I hate being here with him. I’ve told myself this over and over again, and I believe it. However, something about the vulnerability I saw in him tonight makes it harder to hold onto the pure, unfiltered anger that has kept me grounded.

For the first time, I wonder if there’s more to Romeo Valenti than the ruthless, calculating man who’s made my life a living hell.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it finally does, it’s restless and filled with fragments of images and sensations I can’t shake.

In the dream, I’m running. The corridors of the penthouse stretch endlessly, the marble floors gleaming under dim lights. I can hear footsteps behind me—slow, deliberate, a predator stalking its prey.

I glance back, my heart racing, and see Romeo. His dark eyes burn with an intensity that pins me in place even as I try to keep moving. There’s something terrifying and magnetic in his gaze, a force that pulls me toward him despite the danger.

“Viviana,” he calls, his voice low and commanding, reverberating through the empty halls.

I stop, my breath hitching as he closes the distance between us. His hand reaches out, gripping my wrist firmly but not painfully. His touch is warm, and it sends a jolt through me that’s equal parts fear and longing.

“You can’t run from me,” he says, his tone softer now, almost tender.

“I’m not yours,” I whisper, but even in the dream, my voice wavers, the words lacking conviction.

He steps closer, his hand sliding up to cup my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “You’ve always been mine,” he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can feel his breath.

I hate how my body reacts, leaning into his touch, my heart pounding for reasons I can’t explain. His gaze darkens, and before I can protest, his lips capture mine.

The kiss is overwhelming, a storm of heat and intensity that consumes me completely. My hands press against his chest, not to push him away, but to ground myself, to keep from falling. The dream shifts, the edges blurring as the fear fades, replaced by something deeper, something raw.

I wake with a start, my chest heaving, my skin damp with sweat. The room is dark, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound. For a moment, I think I’m alone, that the dream is all that’s left of him.

Then I see him.

Romeo is standing in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the faint light from the hall. His dark eyes watch me, unreadable and intense, just as they had in the dream.

My breath catches, and I sit up slowly, my heart pounding. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He simply watches, his presence filling the room with an energy that’s impossible to ignore.

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the silence stretching taut between us. Then, without fully understanding why, I reach out toward him.

“Romeo,” I say softly, my voice trembling.

He stiffens slightly, his gaze flickering to the hand I’ve extended toward him. For a brief second, I think he’ll step forward, that he’ll cross the threshold and close the distance between us.

Instead, he turns abruptly and walks away, the door clicking shut behind him.

The air feels heavier in his absence, the room colder. I pull the blanket tighter around me, my hand dropping back to my lap as I stare at the closed door.

The dream lingers, the memory of his touch and the fire in his gaze haunting me. I don’t know what’s worse—that he left without a word or that part of me wanted him to stay.