“You should never thank me for protecting you,” I say, fighting the thin thread of control I have left. My hand slips into the inside of my jacket, fingers closing around the one thing I can give her right now—my card. I pull it out and press it into her palm, firm enough that she feels the weight of the promise behind it. “Take this. If anything like this happens again—anything at all—I want you to call me immediately. I don’t care about the hour, the distance, or where the hell you are. I’ll come for you. Understand?”
Her breath stutters. “I… I know that he won’t do this again. Besides, I never should’ve let you dance with me.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I counter, the words low, resolute—but she’s already shaking her head, retreating behind guilt that doesn’t belong to her.
She tries to give the card back, holding it out with trembling fingers. “Here. I won’t need this.”
“I insist.”
It comes out harderthan I intend, rough enough that she freezes for a beat, the card still caught between us like a live wire.
She swallows, a tight, small sound, then finally closes her fingers around it.
She doesn’t say anything else. She simply nods and shoots me a tight-lipped smile.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,bella.” I am tempted to pull her into my chest and hide her from the harshness of this world she’s been plunged into. But I hold back.
I turn and leave her there, standing in silence with my number in her hand and too much pain behind her eyes.
I make my way back into the ballroom, and I see the stares and whispers have grown louder. Of course they would talk; I knew they would. I was selfish dancing with her like that. There was no need for me to prove a point.
“You okay?” Valerio comes to stand beside me. “You were gone, and Giacomo came back looking like he wanted to commit mass murder.”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
We stand in silence for a few minutes, observing the ballroom, and then she appears again. Her eyes are still dry, but she doesn’t look my way—even though I know she can feel me. Her body is tense, riddled with tension.
She walks up to Giacomo, and he takes her hand and leads them out of the party without a single look back. All eyes are on them the same way they were when they first entered.
“Do me a favor, Rio,” I say to my second at my side. “Keep an eye on Beatrice, but at a distance. I don’t trust Giacomo with her.”
If he so much as moves a single hair on her head, then I will bury him after I put a bullet in the middle of his skull.
10
BEATRICE
The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back into the hard wood. I tilt my head up and allow the last remaining tears to fall from my eyes. My purse falls to the floor, and I nearly go down with it, the weight in my chest too much to carry.
I had been holding all of this in the entire ride back home. The car had been filled with nothing but tension.
“Damn you, Giacomo.”
The man he was today; he’s nothing like the wounded boy I saw that day.
Silence swells like a wave, thick and cold as I breathe heavily, trying to control my heart. I don’t even bother to turn on the lights. The apartment glows faintly in the dark, city lights leaking in through the glass—fractured and hazy, much like the way I’m holding myself together.
The zipper of my gown bites into my spine with every breath, but I don’t move to change. My heels are still on, and my feet ache from the hours I’ve been in them. My earrings dangle from my ears and tap against my heated skin.
From the moment I put this outfit on, I didn’t feel like me. I felt like I was cosplaying someone else. His bride, his woman, the perfect doll that stood at his side obediently—until I didn’t.
I look down at my shaking hands. I ball them into fists, trying to steady myself, but they continue to tremble.
Never in my life has a man ever disrespected me the way Giacomo has. His condescending nature and the way he views me more like a trophy than an actual human being.
“Calm down, Bea. Calm down.” I try to soothe myself, but nothing seems to be working. I feel the toxic concoction of anger and grief mixing in the center of my chest. I’d never tolerate this… if it weren’t for my mother.
I walk into the kitchen, my heels clicking against the mahogany floors. I stop at the fridge and pull out a bottle of wine. My fingers tremble as I pour a glass. The bottle clinks too loudly against the marble countertop—so loud it makes me jump when I set it down. I chug the first sip like it’s water. Then the second. Then the rest.
