Vincenzo Vinny Santorini นิยาย & เรื่องราว

He said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Price?” The voice asked and walked towards the stage where the stripper had been. The light on the strange illuminated his features perfectly and Vincent couldn't keep his eyes from widening. He recognised that man from anywhere — the prime suspect for a murder case, the case which he'd adjourned after telling them to gather more evidence, a well-known billionaire whose face had appeared on the dark web countless time for being the current leader of the underworld in the U.S. Black tousled hair, black eyes that look like an endless abyss, that tattooed chest that gives off a bad ominous vibe — Dimitri Santini, the prime suspect of Ava's death.

A man in a crisp black affluent suit stood above me, with a business smile hanging on his otherwise crafty face. Vincenzo Volonte. The Big V. “This is Vincenzo Volonte, Mr. Giannini’s Personal Assistant. You must be Ms. Astor.” The prominent Italian accent and piercing-eagle inspection still me in front of his extended hand. Personal Assistant, huh?

I've never betrayed my family. "It's not what you think, Vincenzo," I tell him before a loud crack makes us turn our heads to the side. Santo has dropped his glass, and the object has shattered on the floor. He starts laughing again and doesn't look at me. He leans back comfortably on the sofa and pulls out a cigar, lighting it before taking a deep puff. "Tell me, Vincenzo. How much do you pay for exclusivity with Didi?" he asks.

Dante said calmly “I believe that we have organized it well enough for you to be satisfied alongside the other partners, shareholders, and ‘friends’. Don’t worry, we won’t have a sniper pointed at you, by the way” Giovanni clenched his fist, but said nothing as he took a step back, followed by another man, and judging by Leo and Aunt Gabriella’s glares, I could tell that it was Mattia. The men walked toward a table, and nodding at the bartender, the man brought them two glasses.

Vincent said with a soft smile, lifting his glass of wine for another sip, looking entirely too calm while I was having a borderline spiritual experience with my food. He had ordered for both of us without even asking what I wanted. Normally, I’d have rolled my eyes at that kind of alpha behavior, but whatever this dish was some creamy, perfectly spiced dream, I was too impressed to complain. “I don’t even know what I’m eating, but it’s divine,” I said between mouthfuls. Vincent raised a brow, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s a traditional Santorini dish. Figured you’d appreciate something local.”