Chapter 92 CHAPTER 092

Chapter 92 CHAPTER 092
Anna stared at Vincenzo, confusion flooding her features as she searched his face.

“W-what?” Her voice caught. “W-what do you mean?” She swallowed hard. “W-why are y-you telling me to get out of the car?”

“Get out of the fucking car,” Vincenzo growled.

Anna flinched at his voice. “But how will I—”

“Rodrigo will take you home.” He jerked his chin toward the window, and she followed his gaze.

A man stood outside the car, his silhouette outlined against the headlights of another vehicle parked a few feet away.

Rodrigo.

She had seen him before. He was one of Vincenzo’s men, a solid figure with a broad chest and a face that gave nothing away.

Anna opened her mouth to speak to Vincenzo, to ask why he was telling her to get out of the car, to ask what she had done wrong, to ask if he was angry at her, to explain herself, to tell him it wasn’t what he had seen.

But the words never came.

Her throat tightened, locking them inside, and all that escaped was a small breath that dissolved into the silence between them.

A shaky sigh slipped from her lips as she reached for the door handle.

The door clicked open, and she stepped out into the night.

Cool air brushed against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth she was leaving behind.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked toward Rodrigo.

She didn't look back.

She couldn't.

Sliding into the back seat of the other car, she stared through the window as Rodrigo shut the door behind her.

Across the bridge, Vincenzo's car remained where it was, engine idling, its taillights glowing like twin embers in the darkness.

She watched until Rodrigo pulled away. Watched until they turned a corner and the lights disappeared from view.

Only then did she sink back into the car seat, letting her head rest against the headrest.

Her hands were shaking.

She stared at them, at the fine tremor running through her fingers, and pressed her palms against her thighs, willing them to be still. But her heart refused to calm, pounding hard against her ribs.

She could still feel the ghost of Jonathan's fingers at her waist, the imprint of his grip, the warmth of his breath lingering far too close to her lips.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow breath and tried to steady herself.

\~~~~~~~

Inside Vincenzo's car, the silence was absolute.

He sat rigid in the back seat, fists clenched on his thighs, veins standing out along his neck, his jaw locked so tightly it ached.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

He simply sat there, a coiled spring of fury and something else—something hot and relentless that burned in his chest and refused to be named.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking up before quickly dropping back to the road.

"Take me to the penthouse," Vincenzo said.

His voice sounded like gravel dragged over broken glass, rough with the strain of holding himself together.

The driver gave a short nod. "Okay, boss."

The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the bridge behind.

Vincenzo turned toward the window, his gaze fixed on the city rushing past.

Lights and shadows blurred together beyond the glass, but he barely saw them.

All he could see was the memory of Jonathan's hand on Anna's waist.

His fingers pressing into the red fabric of her dress.

His face inches from hers.

A sharp crack split the silence as Vincenzo's fist slammed into the seat beside him.

The leather absorbed the blow with a dull thud, but it wasn't enough.

It did nothing to ease the pressure building inside him.

He drew in a breath and released it slowly, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping himself under control.

\~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~VINCENZO’S MANSION~

Camilla lay sprawled across the silk duvet, one hand loosely holding her phone.

Her thumb moved lazily across the screen as she scrolled through her messages, her thoughts drifting from one piece of gossip to the next.

The room was dimly lit by the bedside lamp, its warm glow casting soft shadows into the corners. Everything was quiet and still.

Then her phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a name she had no desire to see.

Father.

Her expression immediately darkened.

She stared at the name for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the screen.

She had no patience for her father’s judgement tonight.

No patience for the constant lectures, the impossible expectations, or the way he always managed to make her feel inadequate, as if she were nothing more than a disappointment wrapped in designer clothes and expensive jewelry.

The phone rang again, vibrating against her palm.

With a tight press of her lips, she answered.

“Non riesci a fare niente di giusto, vero? (You cannot do anything right, can you?)”

Her father's voice rolled through the speaker, low and rough, the Italian words curling through the room like smoke.

There it was.

No hello. No how are you. Not even a token attempt at pretending to care.

Straight to the insults.

At least he was consistent.

Camilla rolled her eyes and sank deeper into the pillows, releasing a long, exaggerated sigh that she knew he would hear.

If he was going to start the conversation by being insufferable, the least she could do was make sure he knew she thought so.

“Che c’è questa volta, Padre? (What is it this time, Father?)” she asked, her voice flat.

“Dove sei? (Where are you?)” he growled.

“Sono alla villa di Vincenzo, (I am at Vincenzo's mansion.)” she replied, the Italian coming easily, familiar and sharp on her tongue.

“E tu sei lì mentre Vincenzo ha presentato un'altra ragazza come sua moglie? (You are there while Vincenzo introduced another girl as his wife?)”

His voice cracked through the speaker like a whip.

Camilla went still.

For a moment, she was certain she had misheard him.

Then she shot upright so fast the phone nearly slipped from her grasp.

Every trace of laziness vanished as her spine locked rigid.

She tightened her grip on the phone and pressed it harder against her ear, as if that would somehow make the words sound less insane.

“What?”

Her voice came out louder than she intended, filling the room and bouncing off the walls, the ceiling, the windows, returning to her in fractured echoes that only deepened her disbelief.

She heard it rebound in her own ears, sharp and unsteady.

“Sei sicuro, Padre? (Are you sure, Father?)”

“Sì, ne sono sicuro, (Yes, I am sure.)” he replied, his anger barely contained beneath the surface, frustration threading through every word.

“Chi è lei? (Who is she?)” Camilla asked, her grip tightening around the phone until her knuckles turned white.

“Controlla i tuoi messaggi. Ti ho mandato la sua foto, (Check your messages. I have sent you her picture.)” he said.

Camilla pulled the phone from her ear almost immediately, her fingers already moving before he had even finished speaking.

She opened the message.

The image loaded slowly, pixel by pixel.

Then it resolved.

A photograph from the gathering.

Vincenzo stood beside a woman in a red dress, his hand resting lightly on her back, her face caught in a partial profile.

Camilla knew that face.

She knew the shape of that jaw, the line of that nose, the way the hair fell over those shoulders.

She had seen it every day for months.

In the hallways. In the kitchens. Passing her without a second thought.

Recognition hit first.

Then anger.

It rose sharp and immediate in her chest, tightening her breath until it came in uneven pulls.

“That cheap maid?” she snapped, the words tearing out of her before she could stop them, her voice cracking at the edges.

Her father's voice came through the phone again, harder now, the frustration giving way to something colder.

“Avevi un solo lavoro, Camilla. Sedurre Vincenzo e farlo diventare tuo marito. E non ci sei riuscita. (You had just one job, Camilla. Seduce Vincenzo and make him your husband. And you failed.)”

Camilla opened her mouth.

To explain. To defend herself.

To tell her father that she had done everything right, that she had worn the right dresses and said the right things and been in the right places.

But Vincenzo was impossible.

He was like an impenetrable wall she could not climb, ice she could not melt.

“Padre, io— (Father, I—)”

“Non voglio sentire una sola parola da te, Camilla. (I don't want to hear a single word from you, Camilla.)” He cut her off before she could finish. “Devi risolvere questa situazione, qualunque cosa costi. (Fix this situation, whatever it costs.)”

The line went dead.

Camilla stared at the phone in her hand.

The screen had gone dark, leaving her own reflection staring back at her, distorted in the black glass.

Her chest was heaving.

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps that caught in her throat as a sudden heat spread through her body, flooding her cheeks, her neck, and the pit of her stomach.

She looked at the photograph again, pressing her thumb against the screen to zoom in and bring Anna's face closer.

The image blurred, then sharpened.

She stared at the side view of Anna's face, tracing the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw, looking at the way she stood beside Vincenzo as if she belonged there.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

As the pressure built in her hand, her arm, and her chest, she felt something give way inside her, some thread of control finally snapping.

She hurled the phone across the room.

It hit the wall near the window with a sharp crack.

The screen shattered, scattering pieces across the floor in a spray of glass and plastic.

The finality of the sound seemed to hang in the air while Camilla sat in the middle of the bed, her hands fisted in the duvet, her breath coming in ragged heaves.

“Aghhh... cazzo... (Ugh... fuck...)”

The words tore out of her, raw and strained.

She pressed her hands to her face, fingers digging into her temples, nails scoring her skin.

Her breathing escalated into a frantic struggle—each inhale a fight, each exhale a shudder—as her chest heaved to pull in enough air.

She pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, until the pressure behind her eyelids became a bright, pulsing light.

Dropping her hands, she stared at the wall where her phone had hit, fixing on the small dent in the plaster and the fragments of glass glittering on the floor.

Her breath slowed, becoming steady and even.

The hot anger in her chest solidified into something harder, something much colder.

“I am going to ruin you, Anna. You disgusting, pathetic swine. You don’t get to fucking take what is mine.”