5 – The blood spilled

Vittoria struggled to break free, but Vincenzo’s fingers clamped around her arm like shackles. Her feet stumbled over her gown, forced to keep pace with the relentless pace he set.

In a final surge of desperation, she glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of Giuliano drawing his gun, his eyes ablaze.

Further back, her father did the same, striding through the garden with a gaze locked on them, each step a silent warning that blood could spill at any moment.

“Let me go,” Vittoria demanded, her voice low but laced with steel. She yanked her arm with force, making Vincenzo pause. “At least let me say goodbye to my famiglia.”

“You’ll see them tomorrow,” Vincenzo replied curtly, reasserting control with a tight grip on her arm, as if the matter were closed.

“Please, Vincenzo,” Vittoria pleaded, her voice breaking as she was dragged through the garden. “Let me do this, just this.” She persisted, turning instinctively, her eyes meeting those of her father and brother, now just a few steps away, advancing.

“Make it quick,” Vincenzo ordered, halting abruptly. “But listen well: if either of them so much as breathes too close to me, I’ll turn this garden into a graveyard. And I promise you, cara mia, the blood spilled won’t be mine.” He released her with a rough gesture, his eyes flashing with irritation.

Vittoria stumbled back, the weight of his threat still thrumming through her skin. Without thinking, she moved toward her father and brother.

“For the love of all that’s holy, don’t do this,” Vittoria begged, her voice trembling as she threw herself between them, her body shaking. “If you react, he’ll shoot,” she whispered, fighting to hold herself together.

“He won’t pull a damn trigger, ragazza,” Alfonso declared, wrapping his daughter in a fierce embrace while glaring at Vincenzo with a menacing stare. “That figlio di puttana is just bluffing, trying to play the big man at our expense.”

“And what does he plan to do with you?” Giuliano asked, his voice low and heavy with guilt, suffused with a choking sense of powerlessness.

“What do you think a man does with his wife, caro?” Vincenzo taunted, moving slowly toward Giuliano, a caustic smile curling the corner of his lips. “Relax, Don Alfonso. I promise to take such good care of your principessa that she’ll never forget my name.”

“If you dare touch a single hair on her head…”

“Don Alfonso, accept the inevitable. She’s my wife now,” Vincenzo interrupted, tilting his head slightly, as if doing Alfonso a favor by stating the obvious. “And as you well know, in the mafia, we take our vows seriously: till death do us part.” He paused, a cold smile curling his lips. “I assume you have no interest in receiving her back, do you? Because in that case, she’d return in a coffin.”

“Just one word, Don Alfonso,” Giuliano snapped, his eyes locked, jaw clenched, gripping his pistol tightly. “Say it, and I’ll end this now.”

“Tempting, Giuliano,” Vincenzo remarked, resting his hand on Vittoria’s back with the calm assurance of a man in complete control. “But sadly, Papà would disapprove. Not here. It’d be uncouth to stain the garden, especially in front of the guests.” His voice dropped, impassive. “Rats, as you know, prefer to skulk in the shadows.” He paused briefly, savoring his sarcasm. “Your time’s up. Andiamo.” He concluded, taking Vittoria’s hand and turning his back, closing the conversation like a door he had no intention of reopening.

“Don Alfonso?” Giuliano pressed, his voice taut, eyes fixed on Vincenzo as he walked away with his sister.

“This isn’t how you win a war, Giuliano,” Alfonso replied through gritted teeth, his gaze boring into Vincenzo’s retreating figure.

The urge to draw his gun and blow that bastard’s brains out pulsed through his veins, but he held back.

He knew wars weren’t won with rage but with cold blood and strategy.

As they crossed the gates to the street, a black car waited. The driver, spotting them, hurried to open the door.

With a courteous gesture, Vincenzo extended his hand to help Vittoria, but as expected, she refused.

Vittoria steadied herself against the doorframe and climbed into the car alone, clinging to the last scraps of her pride.

“As you wish, cara mia,” Vincenzo murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he rounded the vehicle and took his place beside her.

The car rolled forward, and Vittoria’s eyes tracked the vehicles escorting them ahead and behind, a moving fortress.

She stayed silent, her face turned toward the window, refusing any eye contact.

Now alone, far from the last shred of safety she knew, she felt the weight of the silence between them.

Vittoria didn’t know what to say or how to act. Everything around her felt alien, and he, even more unpredictable.

After long minutes on the road, the car passed through the gates of a sprawling private estate.

Armed men patrolled the grounds, stationed at every strategic point like pieces in a dark chess game.

The vehicle glided silently down a tree-lined avenue, meticulously trimmed, before stopping in front of an imposing mansion.

Before the engine fully stilled, the driver was already outside, hurrying to open her door with an almost rehearsed formality.

Vincenzo stepped out with unhurried ease and, for a moment, stood still, watching her back in silence, like a predator studying its prey.

In a sudden, firm motion, he closed the distance and swept her into his arms without warning.

A cry escaped Vittoria’s lips, startled and laced with the sting of humiliation as her sense of control was abruptly violated.

“Put me down!” she demanded, her voice thick with anger and shame, thrashing in his grip.

Her hands pushed against him, her feet kicked at the air, but Vincenzo didn’t yield for a second.

He strode toward the door with resolute steps, indifferent to her rebellion, as if carrying his unwilling wife was merely part of the ritual.

“Benvenuta, Signora Lucchese,” Vincenzo murmured, his voice slow and dripping with sarcasm, completely ignoring her protests.

The door swung open before them, and he crossed the threshold of the mansion like a man claiming what was his, unhurried, unrepentant, as if the world outside no longer mattered.

“Why are you doing this?” Vittoria asked, her voice taut, still struggling to break free from his hold.

But no answer came. Vincenzo continued walking in silence, climbing the stairs with steady steps, as if she hadn’t spoken a word.

The bedroom doors opened, and the moment her feet touched the floor, Vittoria instinctively backed away, taking several steps to distance herself.

With infuriating calm, Vincenzo reached inside his jacket, his eyes never leaving her for a single moment.

When he drew a knife, the glint of the blade sliced through the air between them, and Vittoria’s heart raced, as if she sensed nothing was under her control.

“Let’s start the fun,” Vincenzo murmured, his voice low, almost a husky whisper, as he advanced toward her with deliberate slowness.

Vittoria backed away instinctively, her chest heaving with quickened breaths.

When her heels hit the edge of the bed, she lost her balance and fell back onto the mattress, her hair spilling across it like an unintended invitation.

Vincenzo leaned over her with calculated ease. The smile that curled his lips was more dangerous than any weapon.

“You’re trembling, principessa, and I’ve barely begun,” he said, his voice grazing her ear, warm as his breath itself.

With an almost cruel calm, Vincenzo slid the knife along her cheek—not touching, but close enough for her to feel the cold metal and the weight of his control with every inch it traced.

The blade glided downward, carving a suggestive path along her neck until it reached the bodice of her dress.

Then, in one precise motion, the fabric tore under the cut, his eyes never leaving hers—steady, provocative, undeniable.

“I want to hear more than protests tonight, especially when I make you moan,” he whispered, his voice rough and languid, like a dangerous promise that sank straight into her skin.