Page 6

Chapter Six

Romeo

The heavy oak doors of my office close with a deliberate thud as Matteo steps inside.

He’s carrying a folder—another stack of intelligence reports, no doubt—his expression grim. I watch him cross the room, his footsteps muted against the plush carpet, before he takes a seat across from me.

“We have a problem,” Matteo says without preamble, setting the folder on the desk between us.

“I’m listening.” I lean back in my chair, keeping my expression neutral even as the tension in my chest coils tighter. Problems are nothing new, but when Salvatore Mancini is involved, they’re rarely minor.

Matteo opens the folder, flipping through the documents with practiced precision. “Salvatore’s been busy. He’s spreading rumors—saying your grip on the city is slipping. He’s calling you distracted, claiming you’re too preoccupied with...other matters.”

I catch the edge in his voice and arch a brow. “Other matters?”

“Viviana,” he says plainly, meeting my gaze.

The sound of her name sharpens my focus. Matteo doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady as he continues. “He knows you’ve taken her. He’s not subtle about his interest, Romeo. He sees her as leverage—an opportunity to hit you where it hurts.”

My jaw tightens, a slow burn of fury igniting in my chest. “Salvatore doesn’t have the reach to touch her.”

“Not yet,” Matteo concedes, leaning back in his chair. “He’s building alliances, testing your defenses. If he sees an opening, he’ll take it.”

I don’t need Matteo to tell me that. The thought of Salvatore—or anyone—thinking they could use Viviana against me is enough to stoke my rage.

“She’s untouchable,” I say, my voice low and final.

Matteo’s brow furrows slightly. “They don’t know that. Use her as bait. Draw Salvatore out where we can control the situation.”

“No.” The word is immediate, my tone brooking no argument.

Matteo studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re being unusually protective, Romeo. You’ve never hesitated to use leverage when it’s needed in the past. What makes her different?”

I don’t answer right away, letting the question hang in the air. Matteo knows me well, but not well enough to pry further when I’ve made up my mind.

“She’s off-limits,” I repeat, my voice quieter but no less firm.

Matteo nods, though the flicker of surprise in his expression doesn’t escape me. He leans forward, closing the folder and sliding it across the desk. “Then we need to tighten security around her. If Salvatore thinks she’s a weakness, he’ll keep pushing.”

“Do it,” I say, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of my hand.

Matteo stands, his posture still tense as he prepares to leave. “And Salvatore?”

“I’ll handle him,” I reply, my voice colder now.

As the door closes behind Matteo, I reach for the glass of whiskey on my desk, but I don’t drink. My thoughts are already elsewhere, tangled in the mess Viviana has created in my mind.

She wasn’t supposed to be part of all of this.

From the moment I decided to take her, she was meant to be a pawn, a means to an end, but my wife first and foremost. Except she’s become something far more dangerous—something I can’t ignore.

I can still see her face from earlier, flushed with anger and confusion, her lips swollen from my kisses. The memory stirs something in me, something primal and consuming.

Viviana fights me at every turn, defiant and fiery in a way that should infuriate me. Instead, it only fuels the obsession growing inside me.

She’s not just leverage anymore. She’s mine and I want her to want me as much as I want her.

This isn’t about collecting a beautiful specimen, adding a butterfly to my collection of pinned insects, hanging a new painting on the wall.

No, this is about something that I don’t have a name for, but which curls and twists in my chest. I think it’s need, and I don’t know how to live with the fact that I need someone…anyone…on this earth.

I got done actually needing people when my father proved that love was for fools. I had loved him, worshipped him, and he had shown me nothing but derision for his whole life.

Who needed love when love was the fuel to make you give up your own self for the sake of someone else?

Keeping her isn’t just about possession now—it was also about protecting what’s mine. Salvatore’s interest in her has made that clear. I can’t use her as leverage because I absolutely will never allow her to end up in his hands.

I pick up the phone and issue a string of orders to my men. Security around the penthouse will be doubled, every detail of the activity around our holdings will be scrutinized. Salvatore won’t get close to her. No one will.

The line goes quiet, but the storm inside me doesn’t settle. I set the phone down and lean back, staring at the ceiling as my mind churns.

I shouldn’t want her like this. I shouldn’t crave the way she looks at me, even when her gaze is filled with hatred. I shouldn’t be consumed by the thought of her lips, her body, her defiance.

Yet I do want her. And not just her body. I want her to look at me…to see me.

I will burn anyone down who tries to take her from me.

I glance at the surveillance monitor on the wall, the feed showing her pacing my art gallery, which is a few doors down from her room. Her movements are restless, her fire undimmed despite everything.

I don’t know whether to be furious or enthralled.

One thing is certain—Viviana Rossi isn’t just another piece in this game. She’s the only one that matters. She’s the queen, and I can’t let anyone take her off the board.

Whether she fights me or not, she will stay by my side.

Forever.

***

The penthouse is unusually quiet as I make my way through the halls, my footsteps muted against the marble floors. I know exactly where she is before I even open the door. Viviana’s curiosity is as predictable as it is compelling.

Inside my private art gallery, the lighting is dim, carefully adjusted to highlight the pieces I’ve collected over the years.

She’s standing at the far end of the room, her back to me, her arms crossed as she studies a Renaissance painting that’s captivated her.

It’s a portrait of a woman, her expression serene yet powerful, her gaze direct and unyielding. The resemblance to Viviana is striking, though I doubt she realizes that’s why I brought it here in the first place.

“You have good taste,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence.

She stiffens but doesn’t turn right away. “I didn’t realize you’d be here,” she says coolly, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her posture.

“Thank you,” I reply, stepping closer.

When she finally turns to face me, her expression is guarded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Who is she?” she asks, nodding toward the painting.

“The subject is unknown,” I tell her, stopping just short of invading her space. “The artist captured something remarkable, don’t you think? Strength. Vulnerability. She reminds me of you.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face. “Don’t compare me to her. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think,” I counter, my tone softer now. “Art has a way of revealing what we try to hide. It connects us to something deeper, something we can’t escape.”

She looks away, her gaze drifting back to the painting. “Is that why you collect it? As an escape?”

“No.” I pause, letting the memory of my brother settle in the air between us. “I collect art because of a girl I met once, on her father’s front steps. She said she was going to be a famous artist someday.”

Viviana’s expression falters, a flicker of something—memory, perhaps—crossing her face. “Do you mean me?” she asks in a very small voice.

I smile a little at her, but then I think of something else. “My brother,” I say slowly, “he said that I was obsessed with you. That I needed to let my memories of you go. He said that you deserved better than an animal like me. I think he was probably right.”

“Your brother,” she says quietly. “The one my father...”

“Yes.” My voice hardens, but I force myself to stay calm. “Antonio’s betrayal took him from me. He was the only person who was loyal to me in my family.”

She studies me for a moment, her lips parting as if she’s about to say something, but then her brows knit together. “You use that loss as an excuse, don’t you? To justify everything you’ve done, all the people you’ve hurt.”

My patience thins as her words cut deeper than I’d like to admit. “Careful, Viviana,” I warn, my tone low and rough.

She steps closer, defiance blazing in her eyes. “You hide behind all this.” She gestures around the room. “Your wealth, your power. It’s all just a mask for the monster underneath. You said it yourself, I deserve better than this, than you.”

The words are a slap in the face, but the fire in her gaze stirs something primal in me. I don’t react—not at first—but when she raises her hand to strike me, I move.

My fingers close around her wrist, stopping her mid-swing. The air between us crackles with tension, her rapid breaths matching the pounding of my heart.

“You should know better than to try that,” I say, my voice rough as I pull her closer.

“Let me go,” she demands, though her voice wavers, her defiance faltering as my grip tightens just enough to keep her still.

“You don’t want that,” I murmur, leaning in until my lips are inches from hers.

Her gaze flickers to my mouth, and for a moment, the fight in her eyes is replaced by something else. “You’re delusional,” she whispers, but the words lack conviction.

My hand slides to her waist, pulling her against me with a force that leaves no room for doubt. “Am I?”

Her resistance melts into something else entirely—something raw and unrestrained. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer as her body arches into mine.

I press her tightly to me, my hands roaming her curves with a possessive hunger I can no longer contain. And in the hunger, is something else. I realize it’s desperation, and I feel a small shock of horror at the awareness of what she does to me. She makes me feel like I was…before I became The Revenant, the ghost that stalks through Milan, hunting for those who betray him.

She makes me remember so many things about the person I was back when we first met, when we were children. The little boy without dreams who saw all the goodness in her, even then.

Her breaths come in sharp gasps between our kisses, each one fueling the fire that burns between us.

“Say you don’t want this,” I growl against her lips, my voice thick with desire.

She doesn’t answer, her nails digging into my shoulders as she tilts her head back, giving me access to the soft curve of her neck. I take advantage, my mouth tracing a path along her skin, eliciting a soft, breathless sound that only drives me further.

Her hands find their way to my hair, tangling in the strands as she pulls me closer, her body responding to every touch, every kiss, every deliberate press of my fingers.

When I pull back to look at her, her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half-lidded with a mix of defiance and desire.

“You don’t hate me,” I say, my tone edged with a dark satisfaction.

“Yes, I do,” she breathes, but the word holds no conviction.

“I don’t think you do.”

Her response isn’t verbal, but the way she moves against me, the way her lips find mine again, tells me everything I need to know.

For a moment, there’s no room for anything else—no anger, no pain, no betrayal. Just us, locked in a battle neither of us is willing to lose.

When it’s over, she pulls away, her cheeks flushed and her breathing unsteady.

“I will always hate you,” she mutters, refusing to meet my gaze.

I smirk, stepping back just enough to give her space. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Her glare could set the room on fire, but it only amuses me now. She straightens her dress with shaky hands, her defiance returning as she storms toward the door.

Every movement screams of anger and frustration, but I can see the cracks in her armor—the way her shoulders tremble slightly, the way her breath comes just a little too fast.

She pauses in the doorway, her hand gripping the frame as if she’s debating whether to turn back and deliver another cutting remark.

She doesn’t. Instead, she walks out, her heels clicking against the marble floor with each determined step.