Respect. Fear.
A grudging, disciplined devotion.
“I won’t take disrespect from her,” Renzo said, his voice tight.
“Excuse us,” Vincenzo said.
Polite. Almost gentle.
Yet the words carried a gravity that bent the air around them.
Renzo blinked once.
Stunned.
Then the shift happened.
He dipped his head once, a precise gesture acknowledging submission without words.
Then he shot me one last look—venomous, promising this wasn’t over—before pivoting sharply on his heel.
His boots struck the stone with a precise rhythm as he moved toward the Crimson Chamber doors.
The instant Renzo disappeared, the air changed.
Electric. Heavy.
Vincenzo moved.
He pulled his hands from his pockets and stepped forward.
Just one step—but it shifted everything in the space between us.
Up close, he was overwhelming.
The light caught the planes of his face.
Eyes that didn’t give anything away unless he allowed it.
I held his gaze.
Silent.
A single strand of black hair fell across his forehead, softening him in a way that felt almost alien against the rest of him.
He looked like something stolen from a Renaissance painting.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
And terrifying enough to make you hesitate before stepping too close.
“Hi,” I said, my voice small.
My hand rose in a hesitant, half-formed wave, a gesture awkward and unnecessary.
He didn’t smile.
