Page 71 of Venomous Throne

Relief swept through me.

“Please, take a moment, and then sort this out,” I breathed.

“Let me check again,” Fergus moaned. He tugged, and Vincenzo loosened his hold. Cradling his damaged hand to his chest, Fergus tapped on his keyboard. “My mistake, Mrs. Moretti. I see the policies to protect these properties. The fire damage is covered,” Fergus continued and tapped some more.

“You should really get your hand checked.” Vincenzo leaned down. Fergus winced at the proximity. “Remember to tell the ER staff that you caught them in the door of a car. I really do hate coming downtown, and I would be annoyed to return if the ER staff don’t believe you.”

“A car! Yes, that’s what happened,” Fergus sobbed.

Vincenzo straightened and flashed me a smile. It was ruthless. The instinct about this lad was spot on—the perfect enforcer.

My gut churned, and I wasn’t able to return the smile. But I managed to keep my discomfort off my face.

***

My damn hands still shook as I poured the rest of the pink wine into the glass. I set the bottle down a little too hard.

“Merda,” I cursed.

Vincenzo looked up from where he stirred the pot of ragu sauce for dinner. “Everything alright, donna?”

“Yep,” I gulped, then took a long drink of the wine.

It was the same answer I gave him earlier this morning, again this afternoon, and then again as I uncorked the bottle not ten minutes ago.

“You’re doing such an amazing job with the community. Your people are lucky to have you,” he remarked, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

The unexpected praise from Vincenzo caught me off guard. The sincerity in his words was a jolt to my system, so much so that I nearly lost my grip on the delicate glass of wine I was holding. Hastily, I secured it with both hands, steadying myself as I took a moment to survey the room.

In the expansive open-concept space that served as our makeshift headquarters, soldiers sprawled across couches and makeshift beds, catching up on much-needed rest after theexhausting day. Those who weren’t asleep were out in the field, immersed in a myriad of duties meant to uplift and rebuild our beleaguered community. Their presence was a reminder of the unity and resilience that had formed amidst chaos.

Vincenzo gently placed the wooden spoon beside the simmering pot of ragu sauce on the stove, his movements deliberate and careful.

“I hate to say it,” he began with a heavy sigh, eyes clouded with foresight, “but there will be more pain and suffering before it is over.”

His words hung in the air like a prophecy we both dreaded yet accepted.

A groan escaped my lips, mingling with the simmering sounds of dinner preparations.

“I wasn’t built for this,” I confessed, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down upon me like never before.

The role of a ruthless leader did not sit comfortably upon my shoulders.

Vincenzo scratched his chin thoughtfully. “We don’t know what we’re built for,” he mused, offering wisdom beyond his years, “because if we knew how the story would be written, we wouldn’t accept the script. Someone said that we are all merely actors and portrayers; it’s in a song, I think.”

It was a truth I couldn’t deny—one that resonated beneath my defenses—but still, I snorted, dismissing it with an exaggerated roll of my eyes.

The wine’s soothing warmth trickled through me, spreading a blissful haze that dulled the sharper edges of doubt and weariness.

“I can’t promise it will be easy,” Vincenzo continued, his voice steady and unwavering amidst my internal storm, “but it will turn out right in the end.”

Skepticism tinged my reply as I countered his optimism with pragmatism. “How can you possibly know that?”

My protest held an edge of challenge.

Yet Vincenzo met it calmly with assurance forged from faith in something greater than either of us alone.

“Because you won’t accept anything less, Donna Isabella,” he answered simply.