Page 38 of Power
She pulls back.
Something tightens in my chest, something ugly and unfamiliar.
“Don’t,” she breathes, shaking her head. “Just...don’t come near me.”
The words hit harder than any punch. I freeze as I’m standing just a few feet away from her. I didn’t expect gratitude, not after all this. Hell, I wasn’t looking for any. But to hear hersay it like that, to see the fear in her eyes... it messes with me in a way I can’t put into words.
I should leave. Should walk out and let her sit with what just happened. But instead, I step closer, watching the way her breathing stutters, the way she looks at me like she’s seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, voice rougher than I intended.
“I—” She pauses, her hands trembling at her sides. “You... killed him.”
“Yeah, I did,” I say, matter-of-fact. “He deserved it.”
“You don’t get to decide who deserves to die.”
I step even closer, and this time she doesn’t stop me. She just looks away, biting her lip like she’s holding back tears.
“No one gets to hurt you, Vittoria. No one gets away with it.”
She doesn’t respond, but I can see it—the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her shoulders slump as if this whole world I’ve pulled her into is too much.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says softly, barely above a whisper.
The words sting, but I don’t let it show.
“You do,” I reply. “And if you think otherwise, you’re wrong.”
Her eyes flash at me. I want to say something, maybe something comforting, but the truth is, I don’t know how. I’m not built for softness, not after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done.
I turn to leave, but before I reach the door, I look back.
“You better get used to this, Vittoria,” I tell her. “Because this? This is what happens to anyone who lays a fucking hand on you.”
She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t look away either.
She will learn.
She’s mine.
And I’ll kill every last motherfucker who forgets it.
Starting with her damn husband.
Chapter 11
Dario
She hasn’t forgotten what I did in her room three days ago. That much is obvious. The way she looks at me as though she’s still trying to reconcile the man she thought I was with the one she saw that night that tells me everything I need to know. She doesn’t speak about it, but even peace can be loud when someone is forcing themselves to accept an ugly truth.
Still, she comes to me.
“I need to run.”
It’s late, and she stands in my office doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is damp from a shower, the scent of something floral curling into the room.
I watch her for a moment. “You think running will fix what’s in your head?”
