Chapter 91 CHAPTER 091

Chapter 91 CHAPTER 091
Anna and Jonathan turned at the same time—and there was Vincenzo, standing only a few feet away, his expression carved into a mask of stone-cold rage.

His hands were at his sides, his fingers curled into fists, while his dark, pitch-black eyes locked onto Jonathan’s hand still resting on her waist.

Jonathan released her immediately, lifting his hands in surrender. “Hey, man—there’s nothing going on. We were just talking.”

Vincenzo did not look at him.

His eyes were on Anna, and there was something in them that made her stomach drop.

"Come here," he growled.

Anna moved without thinking, her legs carrying her across the space between them.

She stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, to see his chest rise and fall with each controlled breath.

He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread, the violence just beneath the surface barely contained.

His gaze shifted to Jonathan, and when it landed, it felt like a blade sharp enough to cut straight through him.

Jonathan let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension in the air, and took a few steps closer to Vincenzo.

“Hey, man, relax. I’ll tell you the truth,” he said, hands still raised, his tone coated in forced ease. “She was the one who came onto me, trying to flirt with me.” He pointed at Anna.

Anna’s eyes widened, shock flashing across her face at the sudden accusation.

“I really didn’t do any—” Jonathan began, but Vincenzo's fist connected with his jaw before he could finish.

The sound—a wet crack of bone on bone—cut through the low murmur of the party like a gunshot.

Jonathan’s head snapped to the side, his legs buckling as he stumbled sideways.

Somewhere behind them, a woman gasped, a sharp intake of breath that seemed to suck the air out of the room.

Anna’s eyes widened further.

Her hands flew to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips as the blood drained from her face, leaving her skin cold and prickling.

Jonathan brought a hand to his cheek, fingers splayed across the reddening skin.

He worked his jaw from side to side, then spat.

A thick glob of blood and saliva hit the marble tile, dark against the pale surface.

Slowly, he wiped his mouth.

His knuckles came away smeared with red.

When he finally looked at Vincenzo, there was nothing left in his gaze but fear—and disbelief that it had come to this.

Before Jonathan could straighten fully, Vincenzo’s hand shot out and fisted in his collar.

The fabric bunched tight as he yanked him forward, then shoved him back, driving him across the space until his spine hit the wall with a dull thud that rattled the framed painting beside them.

Jonathan’s breath left him in a harsh rush, a choked sound caught in his throat.

His hands scrabbled at Vincenzo’s wrist, fingers clawing at the grip pinning him in place, but Vincenzo didn’t move.

His arm was a steel bar across Jonathan’s chest, his face inches away.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch her again,” His lips barely moved as he spoke, each word landing like a hammer blow. “Because the next time you do, I will cut off your hands and make you eat them.”

Jonathan’s heart raced beneath Anna’s gaze; she could see it in the pulse jumping at his throat, in the way his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

His face had gone pale beneath the blooming red mark on his cheek, and his eyes were fixed on Vincenzo’s with an intensity that bordered on terror.

“Easy, man,” Jonathan said, voice strained, the words scraping past the collar pressing into his windpipe. “There’s no need for threats.”

Vincenzo leaned closer, his face dipping toward Jonathan’s until there was no space between them at all, until Jonathan had to tilt his head back against the wall just to meet his gaze.

Anna could see the cords of muscle standing out in Vincenzo’s neck, his jaw locked so tightly she thought his teeth might crack.

“That’s not a threat. It’s a warning,” Vincenzo said through gritted teeth.

He held Jonathan there for a moment longer, his eyes boring into his.

Then he released him with a shove.

Jonathan’s shoulders hit the wall again, softer this time.

He slumped against it, one hand flying to his throat, fingers pressing against the red marks blooming on his skin.

Vincenzo turned without another glance at him and moved toward Anna.

His hand closed around her wrist, firm and possessive.

His thumb settled against the inside of her wrist, and she felt her pulse hammering wildly beneath his grip.

“We’re leaving. Now.” His tone left no room for argument.

He turned sharply, dragging her along as they moved through the room.

The crowd fell silent and parted before them like water before a stone.

Anna caught glimpses of wide eyes and stunned faces as they passed.

No one stopped them.

No one spoke.

They passed the bar, the towering flower arrangements, and the soft, insipid music that somehow still played, as though the string quartet hadn’t just watched a man get threatened with dismemberment.

The hallway stretched ahead of them, long, white, and silent.

Vincenzo’s footsteps remained steady while Anna stumbled beside him, her heels catching against the thick carpet.

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped inside.

A soft hiss followed as the doors closed behind them, cutting off the sounds of the party so completely it felt like a door sealing shut on another world.

Vincenzo released her hand.

He crossed to the opposite side of the elevator and braced both hands against the wall, his back to her.

His head hung forward, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

Anna could see the tension radiating from him—in the way his fingers curled against the polished metal, in the rigid line of his spine, in the tight shift of the muscles beneath his jacket.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at her.

Anna remained where he had left her, arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers digging into her elbows.

A thick, suffocating silence stretched between them.

Her breathing sounded too loud in the confined space, mixing with the soft hum of the descending elevator.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but the words caught in her throat, and she swallowed them back down.

The elevator doors slid open into the lobby, and Vincenzo stepped out without a backward glance.

Anna hurried after him, her steps uneven, like a child struggling to keep up with a retreating shadow.

The lobby lay nearly empty; the concierge sat behind his desk, pretending with great effort to be absorbed in his screen.

They moved through it without slowing, through the revolving doors and out into the night.

The car waited at the curb, the driver standing beside it with the rear door already open.

Vincenzo slipped into the back seat without a word.

Anna followed, lowering herself onto the leather seat and immediately pressing as far away from him as the space allowed.

She hugged the door, hands folded tightly in her lap, fingers twisting over one another in restless knots.

The driver closed the door, got in, and started the engine.

It turned over with a soft purr, and the car pulled away from the curb.

Anna was scared as hell, but she said nothing.

The car moved through the city in silence, lights spilling across the windows in blurred streaks of gold, red, and white.

The interior of the car was dark, lit only by the dashboard and the occasional sweep of streetlamps.

In that shifting half-light, Anna watched Vincenzo.

He sat opposite her, angled toward the window, his face turned away.

His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles pale with strain.

His jaw was set hard, a muscle flickering in his cheek with restrained tension.

Even his neck, exposed above his collar, looked taut, the veins faintly raised beneath the skin, pulsing with contained effort.

Anna could see the violence coiled beneath his restraint in the white-knuckled fists, the flare of his nostrils, the rigid set of his shoulders, as though he were holding himself together by force alone.

The silence in the car felt alive, pressing against her chest and making it hard to breathe.

She could hear her own heart beating, could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the pulse points at her wrists.

She wanted to say something, wanted to explain, wanted to tell Vincenzo that she had not wanted Jonathan to touch her, that she had tried to push him away, that his hand on her waist had made her skin crawl.

But the silence had grown teeth, and she was afraid it would bite if she broke it.

The car came to a stop.

Anna looked up, confused.

They weren’t at the mansion.

They were beneath a bridge, concrete pillars looming around them, headlights carving a tunnel through the dark.

She turned to Vincenzo, confusion tightening her brow.

For the first time since they’d left the party, he looked at her.

His eyes were flat, dead cold, the fury in them contained but far from gone.

“Get out of the car,” he growled.