Vincenzo’s POV Last night, I sat alone in the VIP lounge, nursing a glass of whiskey that had long since lost its burn. Around me, were dancers, liars, whispers in silk and cologne. A hundred people and yet not a single soul I trusted. As the lights were dim, the waitress had brought me my drink, but my mood was already poisoned. And still, all I could think about was her. That girl from the parking lot. “Are you blind?” she’d spat at me — bold, unfiltered, and utterly unaware of who I was. The nerve. The sheer disrespect. No one talks to Vincenzo Bruno like that, not even God dares raise his voice at me. And yet... something about her haunted me. That fire, that fearlessness. The way her voice cracked with emotion but not weakness. I find all of these… fascinating. However, my thoughts fogged as my grip on the glass faltered. Suddenly, the room tilted, and I knew something was wrong. My fingers tingled, my vision blurred at the edges and my body grew heavy. “Sir? Are you alrigh
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