Nora Bianchi POV
Eight years ago, he had pulled a righteous, invincible figure from a back-alley gunfight. Now, that image began to curl at the edges like a photograph held to a flame, the features blackening and turning to an unrecognizable ash.
I looked up at him from the tiles, my gaze falling on the hand that rested on Sophia's belly. It was the same hand that had once shielded me from a bullet, yet now it cradled her as if she were a prize of war. The man in the tailored suit was a stranger.
From the elevation of the sofa, Sophia looked down, the line of her nose tightening.
"Will a rat from the gutter ever learn its place at the Don's table?" she asked, her voice a silken thread laced with contempt.
Vincent did not reprimand her.
He returned to the sofa, his arm draping over Sophia's shoulders with a weight of ownership. A faint, cruel smile touched his lips. "Some creatures are meant for the floor."
My palms pressed flat against the slick, cooling broth, and I pushed myself to my feet.
My cheek throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse, but I held my spine as rigid as a rod of iron.
My eyelashes fluttered once, a small rebellion, before I forced my gaze to lock on the knot of his tie. I traced the silk upward, inch by inch, until my eyes met the cold, flat surfaces of his pupils. "I demand a severance of the marriage contract," I said, the words clear and without tremor.
The air in the room seemed to thicken, every trivial sound ceasing at once.
Along the walls, the chests of the armed men stilled.
A Syndicate marriage was for life. You only left in a body bag.
Years of blind obedience unspooled in my mind.
The terror I had swallowed when forced into his armored car during a crossfire, a test of my resolve not to flee. The weight of duffel bags filled with illicit cash, their canvas straps digging into my shoulder as I crossed state lines, a wife's share of the risk.
He had always threatened to return me to the rival Families should I ever question an order.
I looked at Sophia, sitting safe and comfortable in the VIP ward.
Vincent kept her hidden away from the violence.
He sent her encrypted messages to ensure she never saw the ugly side of his domain.
He protected her, all while he used me as a flesh-and-blood shield.
Vincent stared at me, his dark eyes narrowing to dark lines.
"Have you lost your senses?" he demanded. "You are an insolent, ungrateful burden."
My voice remained unnervingly level.
"I regret the day you pulled me from that alleyway."
"I wish I had met my end in that crossfire, rather than be shackled to you in debt."
Vincent surged from the sofa.
His presence seemed to expand, pressing the air from the room.
He crossed the distance between us in two strides and pointed a long finger that stopped an inch from my face.
"You dare defy the Don?" he growled, the sound vibrating in his throat.
I did not flinch.
I met his gaze. "I will no longer measure the color of a coat by the judgment in your eyes, nor hold my breath at the sound of your approaching footsteps."
The muscles in Vincent's jaw knotted so tightly I could hear the faint grind of his teeth.
He stepped closer, his chest almost touching mine.
"How does a woman with nothing expect to survive in this world without my name and my protection?" he sneered.
My gaze dropped to the broth congealing on my shoes-a pathetic residue of my servitude.
Then, I looked back up at his cold face.
"I would rather seek sanctuary with the devil himself than spend another night under your roof," I told him.
I turned on my heel and walked toward the heavy door. I did not look back.
The moment I was in the corridor, my hand retrieved my phone from a pocket.
I dialed Isabella's number. She answered on the first ring.
"I require a safe house in neutral territory," I told my most trusted ally, my hands trembling but my resolve a cold, hard stone in my chest.
"I am not returning to the Rossi estate." But the Rossi estate was not done with me yet. And neither was the life growing inside me—the heir Vincent had always wanted, but would never have.
