Page 15 of Beneath the Shadows

“I’m hardly alone. There are guards everywhere,” I snap, though my frustration fades quickly.

Antonio sits beside me, his presence oddly comforting. “I know tonight wasn’t easy for you,” he says after a moment of silence.

“You have no idea,” I say, bitterness slipping into my voice.

He sighs and grips the back of his neck. “You’re strong, Alessia. You’ll get through this.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Strength has nothing to do with it. It’s about survival.”

He meets my gaze, his eyes filled with an intensity that catches me off guard. “Then survive. And don’t let him break you.”

We sit in silence under the night sky, scattered with stars, a witness to our conversation. His words linger in the air between us. “Why do you care?” I ask, searching his face for answers.

He hesitates, his expression conflicted. “Because you deserve better than this. Better than him.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle to keep my emotions in check. “I don’t need your pity,” I whisper.

“It’s not pity. It’s respect.” He stands, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment before he turns to leave. “You should go back inside. People will notice you’re missing.”

As I watch him leave, a familiar emptiness creeps in, reminding me of the last day I watched him walk away—just like this. I want to reach out and ask him to stay. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I bite my lip, forcing myself to remain still, watching him disappear like a shadow slipping back into the night, leaving me alone with the stars and the memory of what we used to be.

Antonio

“There you are, cousin,” Valentino slurs, his breath reeking of alcohol as he claps a hand on my shoulder. I catch him just as I’m passing the bar. His weight nearly knocks me off balance. “Have you tried the whiskey?”

“No, I haven’t,” I reply, masking my irritation with a polite smile. “Why aren’t you with your bride?”

“I have the rest of my life with her,” he says with a lazy wave. He turns to the bartender without missing a beat. “Pour my cousin a glass of Macallan.”

“How do you like it, sir?” the bartender asks.

“Neat, please,” I say, and watch as he pours the rich bronze liquor into a crystal tumbler.

“Thank you.” I lift the glass from the bar and take a sip, letting the complex flavors unfold on my tongue—tropical fruit, coffee, dark chocolate, with a subtle hint of orange.

“What do you think?” Valentino asks, his eyes gleaming with pride.

“It’s very good,” I respond, allowing a smile to play on my lips. The whiskey is excellent, but it doesn’t distract me from my growing frustration with him.

Valentino leans in, lowering his voice as if sharing a well-guarded secret. “I have my sights set on one of the elusive bottles from 1926,” he says, his tone dripping with ambition. “There were twelve bottles with labels painted by Valerio Adami, an Italian artist. One was reportedly destroyed in an earthquake, and another is rumored to have been opened. That leaves ten.”

“And you want one?”

“Of course, I do,” Valentino continues. “It’s a rare piece of history and will be a symbol of my reach—of my power.”

“I see,” I say, leaning my elbow on the bar. Movement from the back of the tent catches my attention. Alessia has returned. Her eyes catch mine for the briefest of moments before she looks away, her expression carefully neutral.

I nod slowly, suppressing the disgust rising in my chest. “Just like your wife?” I murmur, unable to resist the bitter jab.

Valentino laughs loudly, an obnoxious sound that cuts through the air. “Alessia? She’s nothing more than a pretty face. The Macallan, now that’s true value.”

Watching Val marry Alessia has stirred something darker than I expected, setting my nerves on edge. My hand tightens around the glass as anger builds inside me. If this were my wedding, the last place I’d be is at the bar, getting drunk. I’d be at Alessia’s side, making it clear to every man here that if they did so much as look at her, they’d all die. Not because she’s a shiny new possession, but because she’d be my wife—my partner.

“You’re a lucky man, Vigo,” I say, my voice tight.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he boasts, downing the rest of his drink in one long gulp. “It’s all about knowing how to play the game.” Raising his glass he offers a toast. “To power and control, cousin.”

“To power and control,” I echo, clinking my glass against his, though the words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

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