Page 2

Chapter Two

Romeo

The view from the penthouse stretches across Milan, a sea of lights glittering in the dark.

It’s a city I own in all but name—a city that bends to my will.

Yet, tonight, the sight offers me no solace. I sip my whiskey, the sharp burn a faint distraction, as Matteo paces the room behind me.

“You’re sure it was him?” Matteo asks, his tone measured but with an edge that betrays his frustration. “Antonio Rossi is a slippery bastard. He’s eluded smarter folks than us.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, my voice cold, detached. “The money trail leads back to him. He sold us out to Salvatore, handed over intel he had no right to touch.”

Matteo stops pacing, crossing his arms as he leans against the edge of my desk. “He won’t make it easy. You know he’s probably already planning his escape.”

I finally turn to face him, setting my glass down with deliberate precision. I push my sleeves up, revealing the slithering, twisting ink that covers my arms.

The tattoos tell their own stories about my life, reminders to myself to make sure I don’t forget who I am. What I am. I might have been forged in a fire not of my choosing, but I will never forget what made me The Revenant. My story gives me strength as much as it also causes me pain.

“Antonio’s plans are irrelevant. His time is up. He can run, but he won’t get far.”

Matteo’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knows me too well, knows there’s more to this than revenge for the millions Antonio cost me—or even for my brother.

“The girl?” Matteo presses, his voice careful now, probing.

I allow a small smile to curve my lips, though there’s no humor in it. “Viviana Rossi is the key. Antonio’s leverage means nothing if I have her.”

Matteo exhales sharply, his skepticism clear. “You think she’s going to give you Antonio?”

“I don’t need her to give me anything,” I reply, my tone hardening. “She’s a pawn in a game she doesn’t even realize she’s playing.”

The truth, of course, is more complicated than I’m willing to admit aloud. Viviana is more than just a means to an end.

I’ve been watching her for years, her resilience and fire impossible to ignore. She’s nothing like her father—strong where he is weak, sharp where he is dull.

She has no place in Antonio’s world of schemes and betrayals, and yet she’s tethered to it by blood.

“She’s innocent in this,” Matteo says, reading me better than most. “You’re not exactly the type to spare innocence, though, are you?”

I let his words hang in the air, picking up my glass again. I suddenly want another cigarette. I had quit, but seeing her tonight, being unable to satisfy my hunger for her, had made it necessary to give in to other cravings.

“Innocence doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s mine. She was always supposed to have been mine. He owes her to me.”

The declaration is final, irrefutable. Matteo shakes his head slightly but says nothing more. He knows better than to argue when my mind is made up.

I turn back to the window, the glass cool against my fingertips as I consider my next move. Antonio Rossi may have betrayed me, but he made one fatal mistake—he gave me a reason to take her by force.

Once I have Viviana, once I have tied her to me in marriage, there will be no escape. Not for her, and not for her father.

I knew her once, a long time ago. As I swirl the whisky in my glass, I wonder…does she remember me?

The glass feels cool beneath my fingers as I stare out at the city, but my mind is miles away, in a past I’ve tried to bury and yet cannot escape. The shadows hold memories—darker ones than even Milan’s underworld could conjure.

I was just sixteen the first time I saw her.

***

Fifteen Years Ago

Viviana Rossi is sitting on the steps outside her family’s modest home, her sketchpad balanced on her knees.

She’s younger than me, barely a teenager, but there’s something about her that’s sharp and untamed. While the rest of her world seems to be crumbling under the weight of her father’s failures, she sits there, calm and focused, her pencil moving with determination.

I wasn’t supposed to notice her. I’m here with my father, a man who rules with iron fists and cruelty, dragging Antonio Rossi back into the fold after one of his many screw-ups.

The deal was messy, my father’s temper is explosive, and Antonio grovels like the snake he’s always been. None of it matters to me. My focus has shifted entirely to the girl on the steps, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her home.

I know she’s different. Not just beautiful, though there was no denying that—but fierce. Resilient. The way her brows furrow in concentration, the stubborn tilt of her chin as she ignores the shouting voices from inside the house—they strike me harder than I expected them to.

“Drawing?” I ask her, my voice cracking a little. I flush in shame at this clear sign of my body changing into that of a man’s, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

She lifts her clear, bright eyes to mine, blinking as if surfacing from underwater.

The force of her gaze locking with mine feels like a blow to my chest.

“Sketching,” she corrects me. “So I can paint something.”

“I’m not artistic,” I confess, then blush a little at my own awkward attempts to speak with her. What is wrong with me?

She smiles then, and I feel as if I have been warmed by the sun.

“It’s okay,” she says to me. “My father says my gift is sent by God. He says that everyone is shown their true talents if they are patient.”

I blink at her. The concept of my father having any such conversation with me is so foreign that I can’t even try to imagine it. My father only cares about what my brother and I can do for the family. He doesn’t care what we are good at or passionate about.

“Do you want to be an artist?” I ask her.

She nods enthusiastically. There’s a sudden crashing sound in the house and I see the small moment when her shoulders tense, but her smile never wavers. I see now that she wasn’t indifferent to the chaos around her. She has clearly had practice shutting it out so she can carry on. I wish I had this talent.

“I want to be a famous artist one day, with my own gallery,” she announces to me matter-of-factly.

“How will you afford that?” I ask her curiously.

She lifts a narrow shoulder negligently. “My father will make sure that I have one. He believes in me.”

I try to ignore the sour feeling in my stomach. How different our fathers must be. Her vision of her own father doesn’t align with the sniveling, whiny man that my father visits regularly to threaten and cajole.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asks me.

I blink. What do I want to be? No one has ever asked me that before. I realize with a sick shock that I don’t know what I want to me.

I open my mouth to answer her, when the door to her house is wrenched open and my father and his men storm out.

“Come with me, Romeo,” he snarls. “This bastard cannot help us further.”

I reluctantly turn toward my father’s waiting car, but I take a moment to glance back at the girl on the steps.

“Thank you for talking to me, Vivianna,” I say to her. I’m pleased that my voice doesn’t break this time.

She gives me a sweet smile. “I look forward to seeing you next time,” she says politely and then ducks her head to go back to her drawing.

I climb into the car behind my father, and I stare out the window as we drive away. My father is angrily ranting about how useless Antonio Rossi is, but I tune him out.

I stare at the beautiful, dark-haired girl on the porch, feeling as if the light of her presence had shown me just briefly, that there was another life out there, one I had never known existed.

***

My life left no room for distractions, no space for attachments.

My father had ensured that, grooming me to be his successor, shaping me into the weapon he needed. His lessons were brutal, each one carving away the boy I’d been until there was nothing left but the man who would one day take his place.

Then my brother died.

That moment shattered everything—the fragile balance I’d clung to, the illusions of control I’d built around myself.

The Revenant was born out of the ashes of my former life. All the pain and rage I had felt for the abuse I suffered, all my desires to one day leave my life as my father’s personal weapon behind, had died when my brother died.

Antonio had run to our old enemy. Salvatore Mancini and he were both behind it, though we could never prove it outright.

My father blamed me for not protecting my brother, the firstborn, his heir. He had blamed me for failing the family. The guilt became a weight I carried every second, driving me harder, making my days darker, until I finally stepped into the role my father had prepared me for.

I had unleashed a reign of terror that had left nothing but waste in its wake, and yet, both Antonio and Salvatore had escaped my wrath.

Since then, I had been tearing through Milan’s underworld with calculated precision, dismantling threats and consolidating power, but the guilt never left me. The anger never left me.

Seeing Vivianna again tonight had been like a breath of fresh air. She was…clean…unblemished, like a beautiful flower preserved in a vase. She smiled politely at me, shook my hand, and I felt my heart flip-flop in my chest.

I wasn’t sure if she felt it too, but her eyes widened as my fingers pressed against hers. Her lush lips parted, and I felt a crazy desire to yank her against my body and press my mouth to hers.

Maybe she could see that desire in my expression, because she extracted her hand from mine and walked away. I checked out her ass as she sauntered off and promised myself that I would have this girl as my wife one day.

Viviana, no longer the girl on the steps long ago, but a grown woman standing in a gallery, her fire still intact. She hadn’t been touched by the corruption around her, not like her father.

She was everything I could never be—innocent, defiant, unbroken.

I should have stayed away. Instead, I had watched, drawn to her light like a moth to a flame, knowing full well it would burn me.

“You’re taking a risk,” Matteo says finally, shaking me from my thoughts about the evening and the past before it. His tone is carefully measured.

“Going after Viviana could complicate things. Antonio may be spineless, but if he feels cornered, he might lash out. Or worse, he might run.”

I set my glass down on the edge of the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Antonio won’t run,” I say, my voice clipped. “He’s not brave enough for that. He’ll crawl into the nearest hole and hope I’m too distracted to find him.”

Matteo stops pacing and leans against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on me. “You’re assuming he won’t get desperate. What happens if he tries to make a deal with someone else? Someone like Salvatore?”

The mention of Salvatore’s name tightens something in my chest. My hand twitches toward my whiskey glass, but I don’t pick it up. Instead, I lean back in my chair, meeting Matteo’s eyes with the kind of calm that always unsettles him.

“If Salvatore thinks he can outmaneuver me, he’ll learn quickly how wrong he is,” I say, my tone ice-cold. “Antonio’s options are limited, and none of them end well for him.”

Matteo exhales slowly, shaking his head. “Dragging Viviana into this doesn’t just provoke Antonio; it risks bringing more attention to her. Do you really want to make her a target for Salvatore’s people?”

“She’s already a target,” I reply sharply. “Her father made sure of that the moment he crossed me. I didn’t put her in this position, but I’ll be the one to take her out of it.”

His skepticism is palpable. “She’s innocent, Romeo. You don’t usually involve people like her. Why now?”

I don’t answer right away, letting the weight of his question settle between us. The truth is, it isn’t just about her father. It hasn’t been for years. Viviana is more than leverage. She’s a fascination I’ve tried—and failed—to ignore.

“She’s the key,” I say finally, my voice steady. “Antonio’s betrayal can’t be undone, but Viviana gives me control over him that he can’t buy or manipulate. She’s leverage, Matteo. That’s all.”

Matteo’s jaw tightens, and he leans closer. “You sure that’s all she is?”

My lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile. “She will be mine,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Matteo mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t press further. He knows better than to challenge me when my mind is made up. I watch him leave, his disapproval evident from the tension in his shoulders, but I don’t care.

His doubts are irrelevant.

Once I’m alone, the silence of the penthouse envelops me like a shroud. I walk to the desk, my gaze falling on the stack of surveillance photos spread out across its surface.

The photos capture Viviana in stolen moments of her day—leaving the gallery, sipping coffee at a sidewalk café, walking home along Milan’s cobblestone streets. She moves through the world with a grace that’s at odds with the chaos her father has caused.

I pick up a photo, my thumb brushing over the glossy surface. In this one, she’s standing by her apartment window, her silhouette outlined against the soft glow of light from inside. Her expression is thoughtful, almost serene, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes, a quiet strength that refuses to be ignored.

Viviana Rossi doesn’t belong in Antonio’s world of lies and debts, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s part of it. And because of him, she’s part of mine.

I think of my collection of rare art. I started collecting it all because of a young girl on the cracked steps of her father’s house. I think of Vivianna herself like one of the pieces in my collection; rare, valuable, and mine.

“Soon, she’ll see there’s nowhere to run,” I murmur to myself, setting the photo back down.

My phone buzzes on the desk, breaking the quiet. It’s a message from one of my men stationed near her apartment.

She’s home. Alone.

A slow smile spreads across my face. Perfect.

I pick up another photo, this one taken earlier in the day. In it, Viviana walks along the street, her head held high despite the weight her father’s actions have placed on her shoulders.

There’s something magnetic about her—a combination of resilience and vulnerability that draws me in like nothing else ever has.

She doesn’t realize it yet, but her defiance will only make her eventual surrender all the sweeter.

For now, I let the silence of the penthouse settle around me again, my thoughts consumed by the woman who will soon be mine. My plans are already in motion, each piece falling into place with precision.

Viviana Rossi is mine. She has no choice.