Page 8

Chapter Eight

Romeo

The weight of Matteo’s words lingers as I sit in my office, staring at the stack of papers in front of me.

Antonio’s betrayal isn’t surprising—men like him always turn to the first hand that offers them an escape.

Knowing he’s reached out to Salvatore Mancini, however, makes my blood boil.

“He’s signed his death warrant,” I say coldly, pushing the folder across the desk. “Antonio dies. Soon.”

Matteo sits across from me, his expression measured, though I can see the tension in his posture. He’s been at my side long enough to know when I’ve made up my mind, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to reason with me.

“Killing Antonio now will disrupt everything we’ve set in motion,” he says carefully. “The bait is useless if the trap isn’t ready. You know that.”

I lean back in my chair, clasping my hands in front of me. “Salvatore is already circling. Antonio’s existence only gives him more leverage. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I’ve lost control. Plus, the fact that he’s saying that Salvatore can take Vivianna from me if he dispatches me is intolerable.”

Matteo exhales, shaking his head. “This is personal. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”

My eyes narrow, and I lean forward, my tone sharp. “Antonio betrayed me, Matteo. He’s responsible for my brother’s death. He’s the reason Salvatore even has a foothold to exploit. He’s trying to take Vivianna. If this is personal, it’s because it damn well should be.”

Matteo doesn’t flinch, though his gaze hardens. “And what about Viviana?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “She’s clouding your judgment. Your obsession with her—”

“She’s the only thing keeping me human,” I interrupt, my voice low, but filled with conviction.

Matteo blinks, clearly taken aback by my words.

“She’s the only reason I haven’t burned this city to the ground,” I continue, my tone softening. “Antonio made her collateral, but she’s more than that. She’s…I don’t know.”

Matteo studies me for a long moment, the silence heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, he leans back in his chair, nodding slowly. “If you want her to survive this, you need to tread carefully. Salvatore will use her the moment he sees an opening.”

“That’s why Antonio has to die,” I say firmly. “Salvatore won’t get that chance.”

Matteo stands, his expression resigned but respectful. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he says before leaving the room.

Alone, I lean back in my chair, the tension in my chest refusing to ease. My obsession with Viviana isn’t a weakness, no matter what Matteo thinks. It’s a reminder of what’s at stake, of what I refuse to lose again.

Antonio betrayed me. Salvatore threatens me.

Viviana? She’s the only thing in this godforsaken world that still feels real.

With that, I stand and make my way to dinner.

The dining room is quiet, and dinner is already waiting. So is Viviana.

I sit at the head of the long table, my glass of wine untouched as I study Viviana. She’s seated across from me, her eyes cast downward, her fork absently pushing food around her plate.

Something’s off.

Viviana is always sharp, quick with a retort or a glare, but tonight, there’s a hesitation in her movements, a fragility I’m not used to seeing in her. Her skin is pale, and though she’s trying to mask it, the way she shifts uncomfortably in her seat doesn’t escape me.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” I say, my voice calm but deliberate.

She stiffens, her fork pausing mid-motion. “Not hungry,” she replies, her tone clipped.

“That’s a shame,” I respond, gesturing to the perfectly prepared meal in front of us. “I had the chef make something I thought you’d enjoy.”

Viviana glances up at me, her expression guarded. “I’ll be sure to write him a thank you note.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, amused by her attempt at defiance, even now. Her voice is weaker than usual, and the slight tremor in her hand as she sets down her fork doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You’re not well,” I say, leaning forward slightly.

She tenses, her fingers curling into the edge of the table. “I’m fine.”

I tilt my head, my gaze unwavering. “You don’t look fine. You’re pale. Unsteady.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snaps, her voice louder now, though it cracks at the end.

Her reaction only deepens my suspicion. Viviana is many things, but fragile is not one of them. Whatever this is, she’s hiding it from me.

“If you say so,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “Humor me. Tell me about your day.”

She glares at me, her defiance flaring to life despite the weariness in her eyes.

“What’s the point? I’m trapped in this penthouse, only allowed outside with a bodyguard. I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to talk to but you. It’s hardly worth discussing.”

“Then talk to me,” I say simply, my voice low and deliberate. “You don’t strike me as the type to waste an opportunity to speak your mind.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face. “Why are you so interested?”

I take a sip of wine, my gaze never leaving hers. “I want to know you better. Is that so hard to believe?”

Viviana lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Yes, it is. You’re not exactly known for your compassion, Romeo.”

I don’t respond, letting the silence stretch between us. Her discomfort is palpable, and though she masks it with sarcasm, I can see the cracks forming.

She shifts again, her hand briefly pressing against her stomach, a subtle but telling gesture. I file it away, saying nothing.

I pick up my glass, letting the silence between us stretch. She’s not talking, and I can feel her irritation simmering beneath the surface.

“Risotto with saffron,” I say, breaking the stillness.

Her gaze flicks to me, wary. “What?”

“Your favorite food,” I clarify, swirling the wine in my glass. “I’ll have the chef make it tomorrow.”

She stares at me for a moment, her expression veiled. “I don’t need you making me anything.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I reply smoothly, my tone calm but pointed. “I want you to feel comfortable here, Viviana. If there’s anything you need, all you have to do is tell me.”

Her lips press into a tight line, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t need anything from you.”

I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You’re so stubborn,” I remark, though there’s no malice in my voice. “If you insist on keeping up appearances, you should consider using the vanity in your room. I could have some makeup brought in.”

Her brows knit together, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “Makeup?”

“Yes,” I say simply. “I noticed you haven’t touched what’s already there. If you have preferences—brands, colors—you’ll need to tell me. I don’t like guessing.”

She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You really think some makeup will change how I feel about being here?”

“No,” I reply, meeting her gaze steadily. “It might make you feel more like yourself. You’ve been through a lot, Viviana. Small things can help.”

Her jaw tightens, and she looks away, her disinterest clear. “I don’t need makeup. Or anything else.”

I don’t press further, though her resistance only makes me more curious. She’s always defiant, but tonight there’s something heavier behind it, something she’s trying to bury.

“Suit yourself,” I say, letting the conversation shift. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

She doesn’t respond, her attention fixed on the plate in front of her, though she’s barely eaten a thing. The tension between us is palpable, but I’ve learned to let her silence speak for her.

As soon as she finishes, she pushes back her chair abruptly, the scrape of it echoing in the quiet room. “I’m done,” she says, her tone clipped.

“Leaving already?” I ask, my voice light but edged with curiosity.

She glares at me, her lips pressed into a tight line. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go back to my room.”

I gesture toward the door. “Of course.”

Without another word, she turns and strides out, her shoulders stiff, her pace quick.

I watch her go, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. Even in retreat, Viviana Rossi is a force to be reckoned with.

***

Later, alone in my study, I stare at the city lights through the tall windows, my hands clasped tightly in front of me.

The usual satisfaction I feel from a well-played evening—coaxing reactions from Viviana, learning something about her—is strangely absent tonight. Instead, unease settles in my chest like a weight I can’t dislodge.

I replay our dinner in my mind, dissecting every glance, every stiff response, every flicker of discomfort in her expression. She was pale, almost sickly, and her hands trembled when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

Something isn’t right, and it gnaws at me in a way I can’t explain.

My gaze shifts to the desk, where a half-completed report on Salvatore’s latest moves waits for my attention. It should command all my focus, but instead, my thoughts are consumed by Viviana. Her silence, her resistance, the fire that refuses to dim despite everything.

I rise from my chair, unable to stay still, and pace the room. My footsteps echo softly against the hardwood floors as I try to untangle the knot of emotions tightening inside me.

She’s more than a distraction now. She’s a constant, inescapable presence in my mind, her image burned into every thought.

The memory of her brushing her hand against her stomach during dinner resurfaces. It was subtle, but I saw it, the small gesture betraying a vulnerability she worked so hard to hide.

What’s she keeping from me? The possibility of illness—something serious—flares briefly in my mind, an unwelcome thought I immediately suppress.

I shouldn’t care this much. Viviana doesn’t like me, not really. And she is a pawn in a game that requires precision and control. But the truth I can’t deny is that she’s no longer just that to me. She never truly was.

I could argue all day to Matteo that I don’t care about her, that she’s just part of my plans. But I would be lying, and I think the only one who doesn’t realize that by now, is Vivianna herself.

My hands tighten into fists, and I force myself to stand still, staring out at the glittering city below. This weakness, this obsession—it’s dangerous. It threatens to unravel everything I’ve built, every plan I’ve meticulously crafted.

I care about her. Too much. She’s distracting me from my plans, keeping me awake at night.

Yet the idea of letting her go, of losing her fire, her defiance, her maddening strength, is unthinkable.

I drag in a deep breath, leaning against the edge of the desk. My cock is half-hard now, thinking about her. My hand dips down, and I suck in a breath as I take my thick cock in my palm.

I work myself as I think about Viviana. Her full lips, her expression twisted in anger. They’re such a striking, beautiful shade of blue-green. Like the ocean. Even when she’s glaring, she’s radiant.

My cock twitches. My hands clench. I lean over the desk, heat coursing through me as I imagine it’s her delicate hand around me. Her warm, smooth skin. Her own gasps mingling with mine.

“Fuck,” I mutter. I’m so close, breath coming in short gasps, but I can’t finish. Not without her here to do it for me.

Annoyance bubbles in my chest as I shove myself, still erect, back into my pants. There’s nothing worse than being all worked up, and not being able to do anything about it.

My phone buzzes on the desk, breaking the stillness. I’m relieved to have the distraction.

It’s one of my men with an update on security around the penthouse. I pick it up and answer, issuing curt instructions before hanging up.

As I set the phone down, my mind drifts back to Viviana. She’s defiant, yes, but there’s a vulnerability beneath the surface, one she’s desperate to hide.

I can’t decide which draws me more—the strength or the fragility. Either way, she’s mine. I’ll protect her, even from herself.

I push away from the desk, the decision solidifying in my mind.

I will figure out how to convince her to like being here with me. And when I do, she’ll finally understand there’s no escape—from me or the world I’ve pulled her into.