Page 77 of Their Reckless Thief (The Below #1)

VINCENZO

Having dinner on the terrace felt like a gamble after I’d cut off a man’s finger in front of Celeste.

The memory clung to me like the faint iron scent of blood that never quite left my senses, a reminder of what I was and the lines I didn’t hesitate to cross.

She hadn’t flinched at the sight—hadn’t screamed, hadn’t run.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t disgusted.

I had thrown caution to the wind when I invited her to dine with me, expecting rejection, a scoff, maybe even a well-aimed insult.

Instead, she’d surprised me. She said yes.

The staff had outdone themselves, though I suspected their efforts had more to do with fear of disappointing me than any sense of hospitality.

The table was draped in crisp white linen that made even the smallest stain a statement.

Crystal goblets reflected the flicker of low candlelight, and the aroma of roasted herbs and wine-soaked sauces filled the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

It was an intimate setting, deliberate in its design, though part of me still wondered if the effort was wasted on someone as sharp as Celeste.

She wasn’t the type to be seduced by ambiance, and yet here she was, seated next to me, her gaze as steady and cutting as ever.

A soft hum of music drifted through the air, violins and piano weaving together in a melody meant to calm.

It failed miserably—at least for me. The steady ache of her presence was enough to fray my nerves in ways a blade never could.

I picked up my goblet, swirling the viscous, dark liquid.

The blood caught the candlelight, gleaming like molten rubies as it coated the glass.

I took a slow sip, letting the metallic tang settle on my tongue.

The familiar taste set me at ease, much like an anchor in a moment that felt dangerously unsteady.

Her warmth brushed against me beneath the table, subtle but enough to send a ripple of awareness through my skin.

How could she sit so close, so casual, as if the tension between us wasn’t thick enough to choke?

I set the goblet down and turned my gaze on her. She looked stunning, though that word felt inadequate. Celeste wasn’t beautiful in the way mortals used the term—she was something else entirely. Her beauty was sharp-edged, a weapon she wielded with precision.

Her presence was intoxicating in a way I hadn’t expected, and I fucking despised how easily it unbalanced me.

Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “You don’t seem like the type to have romantic dinners.”

I smirked. “And you don’t seem like the type to accept an invitation from a man who makes a spectacle of dismemberment.”

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “You’re not wrong.” She glanced at her wine, swirling it absently before taking a sip. “But here I am.”

“Here you are,” I echoed. It felt like a small victory, the way she stayed, the way she met my gaze without flinching or retreating.

Her presence was a contradiction—calming and electric, soothing and maddening. It unsettled me how much I wanted to sit in this tension, to let it stretch between us until something broke. I leaned back in my chair, tracing the rim of my goblet.

“You’re an enigma, Vincenzo,” she said, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. “One moment, you’re cutting off fingers without blinking, and the next, you’re orchestrating a dinner like this.” Her eyes flicked to mine, searching. “Why?”

The question hung between us, cutting through the music and candlelight. Why? It was a simple word, but it carried the weight of everything I wasn’t ready to admit.

Because you calm the chaos in my head. Because you see the monster and stay anyway. Because I don’t deserve this, but I want it all the same.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I picked up my goblet and took another slow sip. “Why not?”

It was a coward’s answer, and I hated myself for it. If she saw the truth—the need and the ache buried beneath centuries of control—she might realize how dangerous it was to stay.

And yet, as she smiled faintly and leaned back in her chair, I couldn’t bring myself to regret the gamble.

“Tell me about your family, your parents,” she said. “I know so little about your life.”

I froze, my goblet hovering mid-air. Of all the things I’d anticipated from her, it hadn’t been this. My past wasn’t something I liked to revisit, let alone share. It was a cesspool of memories I’d spent centuries burying, and now she was digging them up with a single, innocent question.

“There’s really nothing to tell,” I said, tracing the ornate curves on my goblet. “I never knew my mother. She was, more than likely, just another whore my father chose to claim for one night and kick out the next.”

I glanced at Celeste, expecting judgment or pity. Instead, her gaze was soft, unwavering, like she saw past the words to something I wasn’t ready to admit. That unsettled me more than her question.

I leaned back, trying to find refuge in the cold detachment that had served me so well for so long.

“Father was not a warm individual.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

I traced my fangs with the edge of my tongue, a nervous habit I hadn’t indulged in for centuries until she came into my life.

“His entire goal in life was to make me miserable.”

Her hand found mine. Warm, grounding. I should have pulled away, but I didn’t.

“You were abused?” she asked softly, her voice laced with a compassion that scraped against the walls I’d built around myself.

I laughed, though there was no humor in it. “That, dolcezza , would be putting it mildly.”

I should have stopped there. Should have moved the conversation to safer ground. But her thumb brushed my skin in slow, soothing circles, and gods, it was maddening and comforting all at once.

“Tell me,” she said after a moment, her voice a whisper threading through the chaos in my mind.

“He used to say I was a disappointment before I even had the chance to prove otherwise. When I was five, I dropped a goblet at the dining table. It shattered. He dragged me across the shards as punishment, then made me kneel on the glass while he finished his meal.”

Celeste inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around mine.

“That was a lesson in discipline,” I continued bitterly. “By the time I was ten, he’d graduated to more creative methods. Starvation, isolation, a switch dipped in holy water—he liked to ensure his lessons left a mark.” I looked at her then, my eyes narrowing. “You wanted to know. There it is.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she reached up and touched my jaw.

“You survived him.”

“Did I?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

I turned away, curling my free hand into a fist. “Every choice I make, every monster I’ve become.

.. it all traces back to him. He didn’t just beat me, Celeste.

He shaped me. Forged me into something as cold and ruthless as he was. And I fucking hate him for it.”

She didn’t push, didn’t press for more. She just held my hand, her presence a quiet rebellion against the darkness clawing inside me.

“I’ve tried to forget him. Tried to build an empire that would make him irrelevant.

But he’s there every time I look in the mirror.

In the way I punish disobedience. In the way I demand perfection.

I swore I’d never be him, but sometimes.

..” I swallowed hard, my throat constricting.

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s exactly what I’ve become. ”

Her fingers brushed against my knuckles again, pulling me back from the edge. “You’re not him, Vincenzo. You have his scars, but you’re not his shadow.”

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and my heart twisted. “You think I deserve that kind of grace?”

Her lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “No one deserves grace. It’s just given.”

The scent of her filled the space between us—soft, subtle, and maddeningly addictive. She felt like a flame I couldn’t escape, one I didn’t want to escape. I hated how much I wanted her in that moment, how much I needed her to believe in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

“You’re dangerous, dolcezza ,” I murmured, my voice rough.

She tilted her head, her smile widening just enough to tease. “Dangerous enough for you?”

Gods help me, but the answer was yes.

My gaze lingered over her bare legs in that tiny fucking skirt, tracing the delicate line from her knee to her thigh, almost as if I needed proof that she was here, choosing to be next to me.

I reached out, unable to resist, and brushed her thigh.

She tensed under the light touch. The thrill of it was instant, a flash of satisfaction that made me want more.

“Look at you,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice, rough with the intensity I felt for her.

She turned her head slightly, eyebrow arched in that way she did, as if daring me to push her a bit further.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” Her words were playful, laced with a lightness I envied, but I could hear the edge beneath her smile.

She wasn’t entirely sure of me, and maybe she shouldn’t be.

“Maybe,” I replied, not caring who might see, wanting her to understand just how little I cared when it came to her.

My fingers crept higher, and her breath stuttered.

That look on her face, that mixture of defiance and surrender, was so fucking addictive.

She was here, and it was by her own choice.

It was that choice, her will to stay, that unnerved me.

It scared me in ways I wouldn’t admit, not even to myself.