Valentina POV

The next morning, I walked down the long, dimly lit corridor of the private wing, my footfalls silenced by the thick runners on the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs from the memory of his trembling hands, but my mind was completely clear.

From the shadows of a marble pillar, a stiletto-heeled shoe shot out.

I tripped and crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, the impact sending a shock through my bones.

Pain shot up my knees.

Camilla stepped out of the shadows, a cruel smirk twisting her painted lips.

She looked down at me with pure venom in her eyes.

She pressed the sharp heel of her shoe directly onto the back of my hand.

I gasped as the metal tip dug into my skin, a pressure that threatened to pierce the vein below.

"Did you really think a cheap maid uniform would hide that corpulent body?" Camilla whispered, grinding her heel harder.

I grabbed her ankle with my free hand, ready to rip her leg out from under her.

"Low-level trash like you will never share the Don's bed," she hissed.

"Enough."

The Matriarch's voice echoed through the corridor like a gunshot.

Camilla froze and quickly pulled her foot back.

The Matriarch marched over and shoved Camilla hard by the shoulder, her authority needing no announcement.

"You dare disrespect my guest in the private wing?" the Matriarch snapped.

"She is just a rat from the streets," Camilla argued, her face turning red with a blotchy, indignant fury.

"Get out of my sight before I have my men remove your tongue," the older woman threatened, her tone deadly quiet.

Camilla glared at me and stormed down the hall, her heels striking the marble with furious clicks.

The Matriarch knelt beside me and examined my bleeding hand.

"Come with me," she said, pulling me into a nearby sitting room.

She opened a first-aid kit and began cleaning my wound with a practiced, almost dismissive efficiency.

"Why is he so terrified?" I asked, watching the blood soak into the cotton swab. "I saw his eyes. It wasn't just anger. It was pure panic."

The Matriarch sighed heavily, a sound that seemed to carry the sorrows of a generation.

"It is an Omertà secret," she said softly. "His last two wives did not just betray him. They were rival spies sent by the Russian syndicate. They had toxin capsules surgically implanted beneath their skin. One released the poison with a bite. The other had a timed subcutaneous release. They both died in his bed, their bodies convulsing as the toxins activated. Enzo barely survived. He woke up in a hospital bed, his nervous system half-destroyed, the images of their death throes burned into his mind. Now, he sees every woman who has been cut open as a potential delivery system for death." A sickening chill ran down my spine.

I looked down at my own lush chest, the pieces of his fractured mind suddenly arranging themselves into a coherent picture.

I understood now.

His lethal paranoia was not just cruelty. It was a desperate need to survive.

My determination solidified into something cold and hard within me.

"I am going to prove I am real," I told her.

The Matriarch smiled thinly and handed me a crystal tray with a bottle of aged whiskey and a single glass.

"He is in his study," she said. "Do not back down."

I took the tray and walked to the end of the hall, my purpose a straight, unwavering line.

The study door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

The room was filled with the rich, intoxicating smell of cigar smoke and old leather.

Enzo sat behind a massive mahogany desk, staring at syndicate maps, looking every inch the sovereign of this dark world.

He looked up, his jaw instantly tightening when he saw me.

"I told you to stay out of my sight," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I ignored his command.

I walked straight toward him, my eyes locked on his, determined he would see no fear in them.

I stepped around the desk.

Instead of setting the tray down, I intentionally caught the toe of my shoe on the thick Persian rug.

I stumbled forward.

The tray clattered to the floor, and I fell directly into his lap.

Enzo let out a sharp curse.

His large hands instinctively grabbed my waist to steady me.

His fingers burned through the thin fabric of my uniform, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

For one second, he held me tight, his chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.

Then the terror hit him again.

He tried to push me away, his hands shaking with a sudden, violent tremor.

I did not let him.

I grabbed his large, scarred hands with all my strength.

I slammed his palms directly onto my bare chest, right above the neckline of my apron.

"There is nothing but flesh and blood here," I declared, my voice steady and fierce.

Enzo froze.

His eyes widened as he felt the soft, heavy weight of me beneath his hands.

"There is nothing hidden inside me," I said, pressing his hands harder against my skin. "Nothing that will poison you."

His breathing turned ragged.

A dangerous heat flared in his slate-gray eyes, battling the ghosts of his past.

He stared at my lips, his thumb twitching against my collarbone.

But the phantom memory of convulsing bodies must have hit his brain, severing the connection between us.

His violent reflexes took over.

He shoved me hard.

I flew backward and crashed onto the Persian rug.

My elbows hit the floor with a sharp crack.

Enzo stood up, each heavy breath he took seeming to strain the buttons of his shirt.

He was fighting his own feral urges, and he was losing.

"Guards!" he roared.

Two soldiers rushed into the study, their sidearms already drawn.

"Take this woman to the basement interrogation rooms," Enzo commanded, refusing to look at me. "She will scrub the blood-stained floors until her hands bleed."

He paused, his jaw ticking with a tightly coiled fury.

"And put Camilla Vincenzo in charge of overseeing her punishment."

The soldiers grabbed my arms and pulled me to my feet.

I did not fight them this time.

I looked back at Enzo as they dragged me toward the door.

He was gripping the edge of his mahogany desk so hard his knuckles were white.

His breathing was ragged, and his fists were trembling.

I smirked in the shadows of the hallway.

He was breaking. And I would make sure the next time he touched me, he would never let go.

Valentina POV

The basement interrogation rooms smelled of bleach and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat.

The concrete floor was stained with dark patches that I knew from street-lore were dried blood.

I knelt on the cold ground, my fingers clenched around the damp wood of a heavy scrub brush.

I dipped it into a bucket of soapy water and scrubbed hard, the repetitive motion a strange comfort.

My muscles ached with a deep, persistent burn, but I did not stop.

Right across the hall was a massive gym enclosed in bulletproof glass, a transparent cage for the beast within.

Enzo was inside, running on a treadmill, his massive chest slick with sweat.

He was trying to run from his own mind, a race he could not win.

I purposefully shifted my position, leaning forward and allowing my soaked shirt to cling tightly to my heavy curves.

I arched my back, making sure the deep neckline of my uniform dipped even lower, exposing the swell of my cleavage.

I glanced up, and in the reflection on the glass, I saw him.

Enzo had stopped running.

He was standing on the treadmill, gripping the handrails so hard his knuckles were bone-white.

His slate-gray eyes were bloodshot and locked onto my every movement, burning with a heat that defied the frigid room.

Each breath he took was a violent suppression of some dark, territorial urge, the muscles in his jaw ticking wildly.

He looked like a starving wolf chained to a wall, straining to break free and devour.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over me, eclipsing the harsh fluorescent light.

Camilla stood above me holding a dirty mop bucket, her lips curled into a cruel smile.

"You missed a spot, whore," she sneered.

She swung the bucket and threw the filthy, gray water directly over my head.

The freezing water soaked my hair and my uniform, plastering the cheap fabric to my skin.

I gasped at the shock of the cold, my lungs seizing.

Camilla dropped the bucket and slapped me hard across the face, the sharp sting echoing in the empty basement.

My survival instinct snapped, erasing any trace of submission.

The icy water struck my eyelashes and ran into my eyes, the sting blurring my vision for a moment. A ringing in my ears drowned out Camilla's triumphant sneer, but I bit down on the soft flesh inside my cheek until I tasted blood, using the pain to straighten my spine.

Operating on pure Vendetta instinct, I stood up, and with a vicious arc of my arm, I backhanded Camilla across the jaw.

The impact was loud and brutal, a sickening crack of bone on flesh.

Camilla screamed and crashed hard onto the wet concrete floor, her limbs flailing.

She scrambled backward, holding her face in shock, her cruel smirk replaced by sheer terror.

Through the transparent walls of his cage, Enzo had witnessed the entire exchange. I saw his bloodshot eyes track the splash of the dirty water, and then the vicious arc of my retaliatory strike. The sight of the violence seemed to snap his restraint.

Enzo burst out of the glass gym.

He ripped the door open so hard the hinges groaned in protest.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, his voice echoing like thunder through the underground corridor.

Camilla immediately started wailing, curling into a pathetic ball and pointing a shaking finger at me.

"She attacked me," Camilla sobbed, playing the perfect victim. "I was just telling her to clean the corner, and she hit me for no reason. Please, Don Salvatore, protect me from this animal."

Enzo looked down at Camilla, then slowly turned his incinerating gaze to me.

I stood tall, refusing to break eye contact.

My soaked uniform clung to every inch of my lush figure, the wet fabric leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Enzo stared at my chest, the raw hunger in his eyes impossible to mask.

His Adam's apple bobbed sharply in his throat.

He swallowed hard, fighting a losing battle against his possessive hunger, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

But he was the Don, and before his men, he had to maintain syndicate order.

He could not take the side of a servant over a Capo's daughter, not with his soldiers watching.

"Lock her in the underground holding cells," Enzo ordered his soldiers, his voice tight and strained with a fury I knew was not directed at me.

Two armed guards stepped forward and grabbed my wet arms, their grips unforgiving.

I did not resist, letting my body go limp.

As they dragged me down the dark corridor toward the cells, I was secretly thrilled, a wicked sense of triumph blooming in my chest.

This isolation was exactly the calculated opening I needed.

They threw me into a small, dark cell and locked the heavy iron door, plunging me into shadows.

I sat on the cold cot and waited, counting the seconds.

Ten minutes later, I heard a soft tapping sound from the ventilation shaft.

I walked over to the grate near the floor, my fingers finding the loose screws.

I pulled the metal cover off, setting it quietly aside.

Inside the dusty shaft was a black package hidden by the Matriarch, right where she promised it would be.

I pulled it out and opened it, the crinkle of wrapping paper the only sound.

Inside was a VIP access card to the Famiglia's illicit casino yacht, gleaming in the low light.

Beneath the card was a highly provocative black bunny outfit, fashioned from tight leather, with a corset that pushed up the breasts and sheer tights.

I held the leather corset up in the dim light, tracing the intricate stitching.

I smirked in the dark cell, my pulse racing with anticipation.

Enzo thought he could lock me away to protect his sanity, but he was grievously mistaken.

I swore to make the Dark Don completely lose his ironclad control in front of the entire New York underworld tonight. And when I was done, there would be no cage strong enough to keep him from me.