4 – On quite a show

Vincenzo’s words sliced through the air like whispered venom. A chill coursed through Vittoria, icy and involuntary.

Every fiber of her screamed to flee, but she stood tall, silent, clinging to the last threads of her dignity beneath her prickling skin.

Because if there were one thing she wouldn’t allow, it was letting him see her tremble.

“Where is he?” Vittoria asked, her voice so soft it barely rose above a whisper.

“No need to rush, cara moglie,” Vincenzo replied with a calm, almost cynical smile, taking her hand and leading her down the altar. “All in good time.”

“Where is he, Vincenzo?” she pressed, her voice steadier now, though still weighted with a tremor that clung to every word.

“He’s alive,” he answered bluntly, with the cold detachment of stating a fact, not offering comfort.

As he guided her through the crowd, the smiles around them were mere masks—forced, tense, as false as the fragile peace of the night.

“And he’ll stay that way, as long as you remember your role, moglie.”

“So, all this…”

“Is a trade,” Vincenzo cut in, leaving no room for objections. “You give me your loyalty, and I keep your brother whole. It’s not a request, Vittoria. It’s the only deal that can still save someone.”

“And if I don’t comply?”

“Then I’ll have to send a box,” he replied with a chilling nonchalance, as if discussing logistics rather than flesh and blood.

“With what?” Vittoria asked, almost without thinking, her voice quieter than she intended.

Regret hit her instantly as she saw the smile curl his lips—not an ordinary smile, but the slow, shadowed kind that fed on fear.

“Still so innocent,” Vincenzo murmured, brushing his fingers across her face with a gentleness that felt almost profane.

The touch was soft but laced with menace. Vittoria recoiled instantly, her body rejecting it as if it were poison.

“We’ll start with the hands,” he continued, his voice low and calculated. “They’re symbolic. Useful. And above all, it hurts more to take what still serves a purpose…”

“You’re sick.”

“I am exactly what you all shaped me to be,” he declared, his voice sharp and unhurried, cutting like a blade.

Vincenzo continued leading Vittoria through the garden, as if dragging the past into the present without guilt, without remorse, without haste.

“And now, you’ll have to live with the monster you created,” he said.

He gave a subtle nod to one of his soldiers, discreet but laden with intent.

Then, stepping away from Vittoria, he strode with measured calm toward a man whose presence hushed the whispers around them—the president of the Council.

“You’ve put on quite a show, boy,” Giovanni remarked, extending his hand with the cold elegance of one who knew how to measure power in silence. His voice was courteous, but his eyes assessed, weighed, and held questions yet to be asked.

“You could have stopped it, Signor Scarpati, but you chose not to,” Vincenzo replied, gripping his hand firmly. “And since we won’t have a honeymoon, for obvious reasons, how about we make it official tomorrow? The announcement of the new Don Lucchese.”

“You’re bold,” Giovanni said, a faint smile touching his lips but not his eyes. “But boldness alone doesn’t sustain a legacy.”

“Don’t worry, Signor Scarpati. I have far more than boldness,” Vincenzo declared, his voice low and assured.

“You bastard!” Giuliano’s voice thundered through the garden, brimming with fury.

Without hesitation, Giuliano charged toward Vincenzo, crossing the garden with clenched fists and eyes blazing with hatred.

“Giuliano!” Vittoria cried, rushing forward without thinking. Before he could reach Vincenzo, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly against her. “Dio mio, you’re alright…” she whispered, her voice trembling with relief, as if only now her heart dared to beat again.

For a moment, Giuliano resisted the embrace, his shoulders taut, his gaze locked on Vincenzo as if nothing else existed.

But her touch, her voice—real, alive—shattered the wall his anger had built. Slowly, his arms wrapped around her in return.

“He said he’d hurt you,” Giuliano muttered, breathless, his voice hoarse with barely contained rage. “He said…”

“I’m here,” Vittoria interrupted, trying to soothe him, though her own body trembled. “We’re together now.”

“Family, such a touching thing, isn’t it?” Vincenzo remarked, one eyebrow arched, his tone dripping with mock admiration. “Just threaten to tear one apart, and suddenly everyone’s all sentimental. It’d almost be poetic if it weren’t so pathetic.”

Some guests exchanged uneasy glances, as if searching for an invisible escape.

The air grew thick, charged with a tension on the verge of snapping, as if the fuse were already lit and only needed a stray spark to ignite.

“Don’t touch her again,” Giuliano snarled, pulling away from Vittoria and taking a step forward. “I swear to God, Lucchese, I’ll kill you.”

“And I swear you’ll get your chance to try. But not today. Tonight’s a celebration,” Vincenzo replied, stepping closer and taking Vittoria’s hand with a theatrical flourish. “We’ve just been married, caro. It’d be rude to bleed in front of my wife.”

“What?” Giuliano asked, incredulously, his eyes sweeping the garden for an explanation his mind refused to grasp.

His gaze landed on his father, standing beside Enzo and Cesare. Their rigid expressions, carved in barely contained rage, said it all. There was no doubt, no refuge in that trio of broken alliances.

“Giuliano, please, calm down…” Vittoria pleaded, her voice choked, barely a whisper between fear and urgency. “I’ll explain everything…”

“Another time, bella,” Vincenzo cut in, his voice lower, a dark edge in his gaze. “As symbolic as this wedding was, I’m still in mourning. Burying my father and brother…” He paused, his eyes darkening, as if pain pierced him for a fleeting moment. “Takes a bit of the festive spirit out of me, you know?”

Then, as if flipping a switch, Vincenzo’s demeanor shifted. The smile returned—slow, sardonic, brimming with unsubtle intent.

“But I can still unwind,” he said, leaning in slightly, his eyes locked on hers, his voice a rough whisper. “Keep being sweetly obedient. Use that pretty mouth to make me forget, even if just for a few minutes, that I buried my entire family days ago—because of yours. It’d be a gesture of goodwill, don’t you think?”

“I’d rather die than let you touch me,” Vittoria shot back, her voice steady despite the tremor threatening to betray her. “I’d choose the grave over your hands.”

“Then you’ll learn the hard way that even hell has a master,” Vincenzo whispered, his shadowed gaze boring into hers. “And in this hell, I make the rules.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gripped her firmly and began leading her through the garden, under the silent stares of the crowd.