Beki-Tales Series: Cindy Wella

Lake Como smelled like money—oak-aged wine, fresh perfume, and a gold-leaf ceiling that had never once heard the word no. Five hundred guests glittered beneath the chandeliers, their jewels scattering light like weapons. Laughter rose too brightly, too brittle, as if sheer volume could disguise that this wasn’t about love.

It was about survival. About blood.

At the center of it all stood Ana Maria De Luca—the youngest of the De Luca clan, luminous in lace and silk, walking down the aisle toward her groom. A bride born into bloodlines, her vows less about romance than empire.

The groom—Roberto Salvatore—was Tyra’s cousin. His smile looked sincere enough, and maybe it was. Ana Maria and Roberto had managed affection in the middle of this mess, but no one was naïve. This marriage wasn’t a fairy tale. It was a contract carved in marble, meant to silence decades of vendetta.

From the last row, Vincenzo De Luca watched with the patience of a man awaiting execution. His black suit was cut like sin, collar open in deliberate defiance of formality. One ankle rested lazily over his opposite knee, but the pose was a lie. His stillness was the stillness of a blade before it struck.

Shadow traced the sharp line of his jaw. Olive skin gleamed warm beneath marble light. His slicked-back hair only sharpened the impossible symmetry of his face. He looked like something carved by gods and corrupted by men—and he knew it.

He wasn’t here to celebrate. He was here because his family demanded it—because his baby sister was the price of peace.

Two guards flanked him, hands clasped, eyes sweeping the crowd. Men who didn’t need tuxedos to remind anyone they were armed.

On the opposite side of the aisle, Tyra Salvatore adjusted her serving tray. Her family had the front row, but she wasn’t seated with them. She was working. Her small catering company had won the bid for the wedding meal—though she suspected Roberto had leaned on the planners to ensure it.

That suited her. Better to serve than to plaster on a false smile. Watching her cousin marry a De Luca felt like watching a lamb walk into a viper’s den. A truce, they called it.

An end to bloodshed.

Sensible, maybe. But Tyra didn’t trust vipers to change their nature.

Her curls bounced as she moved—wild, untamed, mocking the marble perfection around her. Bronze skin glowed beneath the crystal light, sea-glass eyes sharp enough to cut through diamonds. People said she had her father’s fire and her mother’s trouble. Both had kept her alive.

And then she felt it.

His eyes.

Vincenzo De Luca.

He was watching her. Not casually, not the way men looked at women across crowded rooms. His gaze was slow, appraising, predatory. It stripped, measured, decided.

Almost lazily, he lifted a hand and crooked a finger. One of his guards bent down, listened, and nodded. Tyra caught the way the man’s eyes flicked toward her before he slipped out.

Her skin prickled. She didn’t see when the guard returned, but she knew—knew—what Vincenzo had asked. He wanted to know who she was.

Her chin lifted in defiance. Let him. She was a Salvatore, not some nameless girl to toy with and discard. Her family was not weak. She would not be unraveled easily.

When she looked back, Vincenzo was still watching. And this time, he didn’t bother to pretend otherwise.

The ceremony dragged. Vows exchanged. Applause rang hollow. Toast rehearsed.

Tyra slipped into a service corridor to breathe; pulse still unsteady from that silent exchange. She barely made it three steps before she froze.

He was already there.

Vincenzo leaned against the wall like the corridor belonged to him, his suit a black shadow in the dim light.

“Looking for me?” His voice was velvet—low, smooth—curling down her spine until her skin prickled.

Tyra tightened her grip on the tray. “Hardly. I was looking for the fire escape. You’re blocking it.”

His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately. “Fiery,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “I like that.”

“You don’t even know me.”

He pushed off the wall, closing the space as though he’d been born to claim it. “Not yet.”

The air snapped, electric. Tyra’s heartbeat stumbled, and for once she didn’t want to run. She wanted to burn.

The kiss was reckless. Her tray clattered to marble as she fisted his shirt and dragged him down. His mouth crashed into hers—rough, hungry—tasting of whiskey and danger.

His hands gripped her waist, pinning her hard to the wall. She gasped as his mouth trailed fire down her throat.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled, voice ragged with restraint.

Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare.”

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. The storeroom two doors down was dark, lined with linens, private enough. Vincenzo shoved the door closed with his shoulder. His jacket hit the floor as her dress came undone beneath his hands.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, like the word cost him.

Her laugh came breathless. “Do you say that to all the servers?”

His eyes burned into hers. “Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”

And then his mouth was on hers again fierce, demanding. His hands claimed her like he had the right. She arched into him, heat flooding her veins.

When he finally pushed into her, she broke—breath catching on a desperate moan, body yielding to him.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice low, gravel edged with hunger.

Her lips parted, but only gasps spilled out.

“Say it,” he growled again, thrust sharper.

“Please—” her voice cracked on a moan. “Please don’t stop.”

His hand clamped her hip, driving harder.

“More,” he pressed, mouth hot at her ear. “Say it.”

“Fuck me harder,” she begged, raw, nails raking his back. “Please, Vincenzo—don’t stop.”

The sound of his name on her lips broke what little restraint he had left. His pace brutalized the silence, every thrust a claim. Her cries tangled in the linens as he pushed her higher, deeper, until her pleas fractured into sobs of pleasure.

“Good girl,” he rasped. The words made her clench tighter, made her gasp his name again like a prayer.

When it was over, she lay sprawled across tangled linens like a sacrifice—curls damp, chest heaving. Vincenzo hovered above her, eyes still dark with hunger, as if even now he hadn’t had enough.

Tyra dragged her nails down his back, smirking through the tremor still in her body. “You’re trouble.”

His laugh was low, dangerous, a promise disguised as amusement. He kissed her again slowly, deep, lingering.

And in that kiss, Tyra knew the truth neither of them wanted to admit.

This was only the beginning.