Posture unchanged.
Face unreadable.
No warning.
No intervention.
No flicker of concern as Renzo leaned closer, like he wanted to tear me down in front of Vincenzo.
For a moment, a cold, sinking clarity hit me.
I didn’t matter an inch to him.
I was invisible in that space, likely nothing more than a vessel carrying my father’s sins.
My muscles taut, and I forced my pulse to remain steady.
Renzo’s presence pressed closer.
His eyes burned with something too close to fury, black fire beneath the swelling and bandages.
“Are you proud of yourself?” he snapped, voice honed to a razor edge.
“Happy to ruin another woman’s wedding? To steal her groom in front of her entire family, to humiliate generations of honor in a single day?”
I shifted my weight.
He lunged. Fast.
I pivoted.
Ducked under the swing, letting the momentum of his strike pass just inches above my shoulder, and drove backward three precise steps, opening space between us.
My pulse remained steady and focused.
He came at me again immediately, rage stripping away any restraint, any technique he had left.
There was no skill in it now—only pure emotion.
That was his mistake.
“Renzo.”
The word cut.
Clean. Like dry ice snapping against steel.
Renzo froze mid-stride.
His chest heaved, muscles locked as though the command had physically seized him.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Then his body followed.
His gaze landed on Vincenzo.
Fury still burned there, but beneath it, something else emerged.
