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The room is silent except for Vincent's breathing. Giovanni raises his hands, smirking.

Both of Giovanni's guards step forward, guns aimed at Vincent. The threat is real. Giovanni laughs, not moving.

"Put the guns away," he says to his men, still looking at Vincent. "No one's dying tonight. We're leaving."

The guards lower their weapons, but don't look away. Giovanni fixes his jacket, then looks down at me with a slow smile. "Until next time, amore mio."

He glances once at Vincent, then walks out of the room with his men. The silence he leaves behind lingers.

Vincent lowers his gun. His hand is still shaking as he turns to me, eyes searching my face. He yanks me to my feet, his grip bruising around my arm. I barely have time to catch my breath. The club's noise blurs behind us as he drags me through the crowd, out past the velvet ropes, and straight into the freezing night. I try to twist away, confusion and panic tangling in my chest.

"Vincent, what—who was that? What just happened?" My voice shakes.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at me. The limo glides up to the curb, and he shoves me inside, following with a slam of the door that makes me jump. I shrink against the seat, trying to make myself small, but the space feels even tighter with him beside me, radiating fury.

The silence in the car is suffocating, broken only by the thud of my heartbeat and the harsh sound of his breathing. I can see his reflection in the tinted glass: jaw clenched, eyes cold, hands flexing open and shut on his knees. I want to disappear. I want to crawl out of my own skin.

I force myself to speak, even though my throat feels raw. "What happens now?" My voice is barely more than a whisper.

He snaps. One second he's staring forward, the next his hand is in my hair, yanking my head back so hard my scalp burns. My breath stutters in my chest.

His face is close—too close. I can smell the club on him, the whiskey, the sweat. "This is your fault," he growls, his voice a knife in my ear. "You think you don't know what you're doing? Sitting there, looking so inviting, so fucking delicious—of course they want a taste. Of course they do."

Panic floods me. "Vincent, please." But his grip tightens, and he slams my head into the window. Pain explodes behind my eyes, hot and bright. I gasp, tears streaming before I can stop them.

"Please—stop. Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" My words tumble out, hoarse and desperate. I try to twist away, but his hand is iron in my hair.

He leans in, voice dropping to a hiss, every word cold. "You have no idea what you've done. Now they'll come for you. Giovanni, his men, every one of those animals. And there's nothing I can do to stop it. Nothing."

Hopelessness crashes over me. My skull throbs where he hit me. I'm sobbing, begging, but he doesn't even blink. He lets go, and I crumple against the seat, clutching my knees to my chest, shrinking away from him as far as I can.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Why are these men so set out to have me? I'm nothing special, I never have been, and yet in their sick, twisted world, they all see me as a prize. I don't understand what I did to deserve it. Was Vincent right? Did I give him a look? Was my dress sitting too low on my breasts? I don't understand, and I don't think I ever will.

Vincent sits beside me, silent and seething, his rage pressing in on me like a weight I can't escape. I stare at the floor, biting my tongue to keep from sobbing louder. I don't know what will happen next. I only know I'm more alone than ever.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ace

My fingers tap against the steering wheel of the car, eyes fixed on the house in front of me. It's small, nothing fancy. Outside the front sits an old oak tree with a swing hanging from a branch. I try to swallow, but it doesn't help the dryness in my throat. I peer at the black bag full of tools to slaughter the woman inside the home, the home she made to raise a family, and for what? I don't even fucking know. I stare at the clock. 6:00 p.m. I've been sitting here for the last three hours, trying to find the courage to just do it, but still, it evades me. I sigh, tapping harder against the wheel. I could turn around, say she wasn't here, feed whatever bullshit lie I can think of to Vincent and pray he believes it, but then he'll only send Adrian, and fuck, he doesn't deserve this.

I shove the car door open, knowing this is my fault. This is what I asked for. I grab the bag, throwing it over my shoulder.

My boots thud against the pebbled pathway to the big white front door waiting ahead. I don't have a plan. I don't know if I can even do this, but still, I keep walking, knowing with every step, I'm breaking every single fucking rule Adrian taught me. Be prepared, he'd say. Know your exits before you even step inside. His voice repeats in my ears until I replace it with my knuckles rapping against the door.

I wait for it to open, my heart thudding in my chest with every second that ticks by. Don't be home. For your sake. Don't be home.

The door opens slowly, and a small woman answers, her hair tucked into a neat plait hanging down her back, wearing a knitted cardigan.

"Hello?" she asks, peering around the door.

"Hi, I'm doing maintenance work in the area. You're down for a window check?" I let the lie flow, each word leaving a sour taste behind.

"I don't…" She looks confused. She doesn't let me in—not right away, at least. She's cautious. Good. Hopefully she slams the door in my face.

"Maybe your husband arranged it?" I push, even though I hate it. Even though I want to save her, I want to save myself more.

"I'll have a look. Come in." She opens the door wide, and I step inside. The warmth hits me in the face, the smell of something baking flooding from the kitchen. I follow her through the hall. The family pictures all stare at me as I pass, but I ignore them.