Chapter 3 Three

Lucia's breath caught in her throat as the door clicked shut behind Lorenzo.

Vincenzo didn't move.

He stood just inside the room, his shoulder against the wall like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed, gaze heavy. That look-quiet and unreadable-made her skin feel too tight.

She stepped back slowly. "Why is my brother here?"

"You already asked that," he said, calm as stone.

"And you didn't answer."

He pushed off the wall, walking toward her in measured steps. "I told you. In time."

"You had no right-" she began, voice shaking, "-to let me believe he was in danger. You used him."

"I used your love for him," Vincenzo corrected. "And it worked."

Lucia's face flushed with heat. "You're disgusting."

He stopped a few feet from her, hands still relaxed at his sides. "That may be. But I'm also honest."

"No," she spat, "you're calculated."

He tilted his head slightly. "Is there a difference?"

Lucia looked away. Her pulse was hammering in her throat. She could still hear the echoes of Lorenzo's voice, the guilt, the cowardice. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, and she curled them into fists.

"I would've done anything to keep him safe," she said softly. "And you knew that. You knew exactly how to twist it."

"Don't act like you didn't benefit too," Vincenzo said.

She stared at him. "Benefit?"

"You're here now," he said, gesturing faintly to the room, to the house. "You're no longer a pawn in your father's game. You're in mine."

Her lips parted, the rage building again, sharp and wild. "So I'm what, a promotion?"

"No," he said, stepping closer now, his voice lowering. "You're a possession. One I intend to keep."

Lucia swallowed hard.

His words didn't shout-but they hit like a gunshot.

Vincenzo took another step. Now they were just a breath apart.

Her back stiffened as his hand reached out, slow, deliberate, resting on her waist. She flinched at the contact-but he didn't grip her. He simply stayed there, hand warm over silk.

"I know what you think of me," he said. "You hate me for what I've done. For what I am."

"I don't hate you," she whispered. "I fear you."

"Good," he murmured. "Fear is more loyal than love."

She turned her head to the side, away from his face. Her veil had been removed, but her hair was still pinned up from the wedding. She felt the weight of it, and the ache of every hour that passed like she was someone else entirely.

Vincenzo's head dipped forward.

His mouth came close-closer-and she froze as she felt him press it against the curve of her neck. Not a kiss. Just a presence. A breath. A warning.

"You smell like roses," he said against her skin. "But I know better than to believe you're soft."

Lucia's body tensed. "Don't mistake my silence for surrender."

"I don't," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm waiting to see how far you'll run before I catch you."

His hand slid up from her waist to the side of her ribs, not groping, not teasing-just there. Planted. Marking.

She turned back slowly, meeting his eyes. Their faces were so close she could see the slight scar just below his left eye. Not deep. Barely visible. But it made him real in a way his coldness never did.

"What happens next?" she asked, her voice steady now. "Do you expect me to play house?"

"I expect you to eat dinner," he said, stepping back. "And wear what's laid out for you."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"There's a dress in your closet," he said, walking toward the door like they hadn't just stood on the edge of something dangerous. "You'll wear it. You'll sit at my table. You'll smile when I speak to you."

"Or what?"

He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Or I'll make you."

Lucia's heart leapt. "Make me?"

He turned his head slightly. "Do you want to find out what that means tonight?"

She said nothing.

He didn't wait.

The door shut behind him.

Lucia stood alone again, the silence crashing down like thunder. She exhaled shakily, wiping her hands on her skirt even though there was no sweat-just that shaking in her bones that wouldn't go away.

She found the dress exactly where he said it would be-laid on a velvet hanger inside a grand, ivory-colored wardrobe.

It was red.

Not soft red. Not romantic.

Blood red.

The fabric shimmered slightly, silky and smooth. It wasn't revealing, but it was clearly tailored to cling. It spoke of elegance, control, and power.

Lucia stared at it for a long moment.

Then she changed.

Her hair was still done up, though a few strands had loosened. She left it that way. She didn't wear the heels they'd given her-just the flats. She didn't want to hear herself walk down his halls like some obedient doll.

The house was quiet when she stepped out.

The long corridor led to a staircase lined with gold fixtures. Everything here was too perfect. Too polished. It didn't feel lived in. It felt staged.

At the bottom of the stairs, a man stood waiting.

One of Vincenzo's men-tall, broad-shouldered, built like a wall. He didn't speak. Just nodded and turned to lead her.

She followed him into a dining room that could have fed twenty.

But only one seat was occupied.

Vincenzo sat at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. His jacket was gone. His white shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins running up his forearms. One arm rested on the table-tattoo ink peeking through his skin, like a secret begging to be read.

He looked up when she entered.

His eyes dragged over the dress, the way it fit, the way it moved as she walked. He didn't hide the look. He didn't hide what it did to him.

"You clean up well," he said.

Lucia kept her chin high. "You dress me like a doll and expect me to thank you?"

"No," he said, sipping his wine. "I expect you to sit."

She didn't want to.

But she did.

He poured her a glass.

"Eat," he said, gesturing to the plate the chef had just brought in-seared duck, wine sauce, and roasted vegetables so perfectly arranged they looked unreal.

She picked up her fork.

"This isn't dinner," she said as she cut into the food. "This is theater."

"And you," Vincenzo said with a smile, "are finally on stage."