Chapter 5

Rosa’s POV

The silence in Vincenzo’s penthouse is unbearable.

I sit on the edge of a velvet chaise, my fingers curling into the fabric as I stare at the dimly lit skyline beyond the glass walls. The city stretches before me, bright, endless, full of possibilities.

And yet, I am trapped.

I don’t know how much time has passed since he brought me here. Minutes? Hours? Time loses meaning in this place, in his presence.

Vincenzo hasn’t spoken to me since we arrived. He moves around the penthouse as if I don’t exist, pouring himself a drink, loosening the top buttons of his black shirt, his sleeves still rolled up from earlier. The tattoos on his forearms shift when he flexes his fingers around the glass, bringing the whiskey to his lips.

He has always been beautiful.

It’s the cruelest thing about him.

The first time I saw him, I was seventeen. A girl with too many dreams and not enough sense, waiting tables at a tiny café. He had walked in with his dark suit and untouchable arrogance, leaning against the counter like the world belonged to him.

Maybe, even then, it did.

Back then, he wasn’t a mafia boss. He wasn’t the cold, ruthless king of the underworld. He was just Vincenzo. And for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Now, as I sit in his penthouse, as his presence coils around me like an unbreakable chain, I realize something terrifying.

He’s not the only one who changed.

So have I.

The tension thickens between us, stretching unbearably until it snaps.

“I want a room of my own.” My voice is cold, steady.

Vincenzo doesn’t even look at me. He strides across the room, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That won’t be necessary.”

I clench my fists. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, he turns, his dark eyes settling on me with a mix of amusement and something sharper. Something lethal.

He takes his time studying me, his gaze dragging over my body, lingering on the torn hem of my dress, the bruises on my wrists from where the men at the club grabbed me.

“You misunderstand, dolcezza.” His voice is calm, controlled. “You’re not here to negotiate.”

Anger flares in my chest, white-hot and blinding. “You can’t just keep me here, Vincenzo. I am not yours.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Something dark.

“You were supposed to be my wife.” His voice drops lower, laced with bitterness. “Or have you forgotten?”

The air leaves my lungs.

No. I haven’t forgotten.

I remember everything.

The way he had kissed me beneath the orange trees in his family’s estate. The whispered promises. The love that had once burned between us, fierce and reckless.

And I remember the day I left.

The church. The flowers. The way his hands had trembled as he reached for me, not realizing I was already slipping away.

“I had no choice,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His expression hardens. “There’s always a choice, Rosa. You just didn’t choose me.”

His words cut deeper than I want to admit.

The room suddenly feels smaller, suffocating. The memories, the tension, him—it’s too much.

I snap.

“You think you’re the only one who was hurt? That day ruined me too, Vincenzo! But you don’t care, do you? All you care about is punishing me for leaving, not why I left.”

His jaw tightens. “Then tell me why.”

I freeze.

His stare burns into me, demanding the truth. I open my mouth, but the words die before they can escape.

I can’t tell him.

I won’t.

Instead, I lift my chin, forcing my expression into something cold, unreadable. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. Then, before I can react, he moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

He’s in front of me in seconds, gripping my chin, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “It matters to me.”

His voice is low, almost a growl, vibrating through my skin.

I hate that my body still responds to him.

Hate that the heat of his touch sends shivers down my spine.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip, slow and deliberate. “Do you remember, dolcezza?” His voice drops, silky and dangerous. “The way you used to fall apart beneath me? How wet you’d get the moment I touched you?”

My breath catches.

No.

Not this.

I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. If anything, it only makes him press closer, his lips ghosting over my jaw, my throat, teasing the spot that once drove me insane.

“You still tremble for me.” His smirk is against my skin now, his breath warm, his beard scraping lightly as he kisses his way down to my collarbone.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to resist.

But then his hands slide down, gripping my hips, his fingers digging in just enough to make my breath hitch. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over the curve of my breast.

I should. I have to.

But the word doesn’t come.

His mouth finds my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress, sucking hard enough to make me gasp.

Heat rushes through me, pooling between my thighs. I hate him. I hate him.

But my body remembers him too well.

Vincenzo pulls the dress down, exposing me completely. He groans, his tongue flicking over my nipple before sucking again, harder this time, his hand sliding between my thighs.

I moan before I can stop it.

His chuckle is low, sinful. “Still pretending, amore mio?”

I want to slap him.

I want to pull him closer.

And then.

A knock.

It crashes through the room like a gunshot.

Vincenzo stiffens, his grip tightening on my thighs before he lets go. I barely have time to grab my dress, pulling it over my exposed skin as he strides toward the door, muttering a low curse under his breath.

I’m still catching my breath, still trembling, when he swings the door open.

And then I see her.

I freeze.

The woman at the door is stunning, tall, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, red lips curved into something unreadable.

But that’s not what makes my heart stop.

I know her.

And from the way her eyes widen when they land on me, she knows me too.