I felt his gaze on me—cold, sharp, full of fire. Vincenzo's hand still rested firmly on my waist, grounding me, claiming me. The man dragged himself toward us, shame and disbelief shadowing his face. Vincenzo turned to him, cold amusement flickering in his eyes. "Hope you understand now. Don't waste our time—show your apologies to my wife." The man snarled, his humiliation twisting into fury. "Why the hell would I apologize to a woman?! That was cheating!" Then Vincenzo stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him close. "You don't get to speak about her like that." His tone was velvet-draped steel—soft, but laced with violence.
"She didn't cheat. She conquered." But before He could say more, I touched his arm.
A silent command.
I looked at him, and in that moment, he knew exactly what I wanted. I took a steps back, and my breath caught. I looked at him—only him.
And he understood.
I ran toward him, fast and fearless. His arms opened instinctively, catching me without hesitation. He took me effortlessly, steady and strong. I twisted in the air with a feline grace—and then drove my foot straight into the bastard's face.
Crack.
He hit the ground hard, gasping like a fish ripped from water. The crowd exploded with noise—screams, shouts—Yet none of that fury ever found its way to me. Not when all that met my eyes was Vincenzo's fierce gaze and the storm roaring inside him.
He is mine.
But the fight wasn't over. The man roared, scrambling to his feet, fury twisting his face into something monstrous. He charged. Vincenzo stepped in front of me, a wall of steel and shadow. He would never let anyone touch me. The man swung wildly, desperate—but Vincenzo caught the fist. Not just caught—crushed. Then, with ruthless precision, Vincenzo unleashed a punch so brutal it echoed like thunder through the silence. The man dropped—for good. Vincenzo turned to me, his breath heavy, eyes burning with something fierce and tender all at once. "You didn't just win," he said, brushing a lock of hair from my face. "You burned everything that stood in your way." I smiled—slow, seductive, feeling the heat between us like wildfire. "We make one hell of a team, Mr. Husband." "No," he whispered, "We're an empire." Under the flashing lights and the chaos of the crowd, we stood—beautiful, dangerous, unstoppable—wrapped in each other like sin and salvation.
Then more of his men stormed in, fists flying, but they had no idea who they were facing. They didn't understand who we were. Who I was when Vincenzo was by my side. We moved as one, a deadly dance rehearsed in our dreams. My body flowed like water—sharp, unforgiving. Every kick was poetry dipped in venom. And Vincenzo?
He is the storm that followed—ruthless, cold, precise. Fists meeting flesh with brutal satisfaction. One by one, they fell. The night was filled with the sound of broken ribs, gasps, and the sharp scent of blood. We were surrounded. But untouchable.
For a heartbeat, my back brushed against Vincenzo's—warm, steady—and a thrill raced through me. "Two behind you," I whispered without turning. He smiled. And said, "Handled." Our fight was chemistry, couldn't fake—seductive, deadly, addictive. When the dust settled, silence fell like a shroud. And at my feet—
He was there. The man who dared. His face was a ruin—bloodied and broken, barely the arrogant bastard from minutes ago. He looked up at me, trembling, his pride shattered, and crawling away.
"Ma'am… I—I'm sorry! Please!" he begged, voice cracking like glass. "I realize my mistake! Have mercy!"
But Vincenzo wasn't satisfied. He stepped forward, grabbing the man by the throat, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. His feet dangled. His eyes bulged with fear.
"Mercy?" Vincenzo said, voice calm — too calm — the kind of calm before a storm. He leaned closer, grip tightening, letting the man feel the weight of his power. "You have no idea who we are…" His voice dropped, soft, intimate, terrifying. "We don't forgive. We don't let go." He pulled the man close, breath shallow against his cheek. "We erase people." The man choked, desperate to breathe. Vincenzo held him just long enough to make the lesson clear. "The only reason you're still breathing," he said, voice thick with venom,
"Is my wife."
Vincenzo's eyes slid to me.
Something primal stirred inside him—love, pride, protection—all burning inside me.
"She thinks this was a childish mistake," he said.
"So I'll let you live… this time."
The man's eyes widened in terror, nodding frantically, begging for mercy. But Vincenzo wasn't done. He slammed the man down hard, the crack echoing through the silence. Crouching, face inches from the man's, he whispered,
"But if you ever—" His voice dropped to a dark growl,
"Ever even try to look at her…"
The silence stretched—cold, heavy. Then Vincenzo smiled. No kindness in it. Only a quiet, deadly promise. "I swear… that will be your last day in this world." The man whimpered.
Vincenzo rose.
Behind him, I felt his heat—fierce, intoxicating. His hand slid onto my back, tracing the tension in my muscles.
"That's enough," I whispered, voice low, seductive. "I think he got the message."
Our eyes met. My heart hammered in my chest. We turned away from the chaos—our battlefield.
The world fell away.
Blood and noise faded. Only we remained. I reached for his hand. Warm. Steady. Mine. He leaned in, lips brushing against my ear. "Let's go home, my queen." His voice was soft—but ironclad. I nodded. My fingers curled tightly around his. Together, we walked into the night. Step by step.
No one dared follow.
No one dared breathe.
I am sure one truth will be burned in the minds of everyone who saw us disappear:
No one will dare to touch what belongs to Vincenzo.
Not even without paying in blood.
The moment the door closed behind us, the world outside melted into silence. Just the two of us now—breathing, pulsing, still burning from the chaos we had survived. Vincenzo didn't say a word. Without a word, he crossed the living room and vanished for a brief instant. When he returned, he had a first aid box in one hand and a towel in the other. His movements were quiet, controlled—nothing like the man who, minutes ago, had fought like a god of war. Now there was a softness in him, Gentler.
"Come here, sit."
His voice was low, but firm, full of that quiet authority he wore so well. I obeyed without hesitation, lowering myself onto the couch as if under a spell. My knees stung, but all I could focus on was the man before me. Vincenzo, the storm in a suit. The one who'd fought like a demon for me …now kneeling before me. He dipped the towel into warm water and gently pressed it against my knees, wiping away the dirt and blood with a touch so careful it sent a shiver down my spine. His touch was gentle. Too gentle for the man who'd broken jaws just minutes ago.
His eyes locked onto mine. And in that moment—it wasn't pain I felt. It was Fire. Not the burn of my wounds. But the fire in my stomach. The kind that comes when someone touches you like you're made of glass... and looks at you like they'd ruin anyone who dares to put a glance at you. He noticed me staring. His lips twitched into a smirk—playful, wicked.
"Don't look at me like that," he said in a playful tone, "or you'll fall in love with me."
I laughed softly, surprised. "Anything's possible," I murmured. Before he could respond, I caught his hand in mine. Warm. Solid. Strong.
"Enough of that. Sit down, Vincenzo.", I said. He raised an eyebrow but didn't fight me. I made him sit beside me, then looked at him. His lip was split. His knuckles were raw. There was blood on his shirt. And still… all he cared about was me. His gaze didn't leave mine. Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes, but his words were soft. "For me," he said slowly, you matter more than I do. I don't care if I bleed. I don't want a scratch on you when you're with me."
God.
My heart thudded.
Loud. Deep. Trembling.
I couldn't take it anymore. I snatched the first aid box from his hand. "Give me that," I said, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. He let me take it, still watching me with that maddening intensity.
We sat there—just the two of us—in our quiet, dimly lit living room, tending to each other's wounds like some strange, sensual ritual. I dabbed at the bruise forming on his cheekbone. He hissed slightly. I leaned in closer. "Sorry," I said softly, brushing my fingers down his jaw. He grabbed my wrist, halting me. His voice dropped, husky and slow. "I like it when you touch me like that." I held his gaze, refusing to look away. "Then stop letting yourself get hurt," I whispered, "and maybe I'll touch you more." That got him. His lips curved, sinful and slow. "Careful, sweetheart. That sounds like a promise." His fingers slipped under my chin, lifting it just slightly. The space between us was nonexistent now. The air was charged, laced with something electric. Dangerous. Magnetic. I could see the blood on his shirt. I could see the fire in his eyes. And yet—I felt safer than I'd ever felt before. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against mine.
"You scare me sometimes. Not because of the violence. But because of how safe I feel… when I'm with you.", I admitted.
He leaned in and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering along my jaw. "Good". His lips hovered so close, I could feel their heat ghosting over mine. "Because I want to be the only place you ever feel that way.", he spoke. In that moment, cloaked in shadows and silence, he didn't need to kiss me—he already owned me.
He already did...