Chapter 26 Chapter 26

Chapter 26 Chapter 26
“Alessandro staggers back a step, more surprised by the timing than by the blow itself. Blood runs from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the white linen of his cuff. The expression on his face isn't pain, not anger—it's pure calculation. He blinks briefly, then slowly runs his thumb over his chin, examining the blood as if it were a wine stain on a carpet that isn't his. And then he looks up. Directly at me. “A mistake, amore mio.” Calmly. Clearly. Without a trace of agitation. “An expensive one.” I stop. Every muscle in my body wants to move, to strike again, to scream, to do anything louder than that one sentence. But I don't. Not because I don't want to. But because I'm not allowed to. “Then put it on the bill,” I hiss. He grins crookedly. “Someone else will have to pay for it.” Vito steps closer, very close, as if he wants to push his way between us, as if he's realized what I've just risked. Not just because of the contract. Not just because of the De Luca. But because I smashed his face in right in front of everyone. And men like Alessandro don't forgive humiliation. They calculate. Sooner or later. "Touch him again today," Vito says to him, quietly, threateningly, "and I'll feed you bits and pieces of your family tree." "How touching," Alessandro sneers. "The bastards stick together!" "I'm just warning you once, Alessandro, if you insult my family again or betray me, you'll regret it, I swear!" Alessandro slowly approaches me, that same smug grin on his face, and places his hand so gently on my cheek that I almost forget I just hit and threatened him. My heart stops for a moment until his voice reaches my ears. "Oh, my love, and what do you intend to do? Get a divorce? What a shame, you can't, not with the contract your daddy so generously signed! You know, the one I left you in your room as bedtime reading!" "Fuck you!" "Don't worry, I will." Alessandro laughs softly, a guttural, deep sound that doesn't match his battered mouth, but he doesn't seem to mind. He takes another step closer, his gaze sweeping over my face as if reading it like an open book. His hand, just moments ago on my cheek, slides slowly down the back of my neck, firm, possessive, almost gentle, like patting a dog before forcing it to sit. "You're cute when you're angry," he murmurs, and before I can push him away, he pulls me close and presses his lips to mine. Harsh, provocative, demanding. Not a kiss seeking tenderness, but one marking possession. I feel the metal of his ring against my cheek, taste the blood on his mouth, and it's as if he's saying, you can hurt me, but I still belong to you. And you to me. I pull away, but not quickly enough. Not before everyone in the room has seen what's really raging between us. Not before my father clears his throat loudly, not feigned, not by accident. "Sit down," he says calmly, and although it's only two words, there's more authority in them than in any hint of violence. I leave. Not because I want to. But because I have no other choice. I sit down at the table, my fingers still trembling with tension, my gaze fixed on the plate, which suddenly seems like a stage set to me. Alessandro sits down next to me. As if nothing were amiss. And with a casual movement, he picks up a glass of wine, sips it, barely flinching. “Merlot! Mmm! Your family certainly doesn’t skimp on the good vintages!” I feel Vito lean on the table across from me. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Alessandro as if trying to set him ablaze with sheer willpower. And perhaps he is. But no one says anything. My mother passes the appetizer, my father raises his glass to keep the evening going. Small talk begins. Empty words, hushed voices. I’m the only one sitting here. Between a husband I hate, a contract I can’t break, and a cousin who plunged the truth into my chest like a knife. And everything in my mouth tastes of blood. And pepper. And a life that someone else has long since taken control of. The first course is served: steaming risotto with saffron and braised artichoke hearts. The plates clink softly as they are set down, the cutlery sparkles in the chandelier light, and yet it feels as if we are sitting on a battlefield. Alessandro takes his time. With exaggerated care, he cuts off a small piece of artichoke, brings it leisurely to his mouth. Chews. Swallows. "Compliments to the kitchen," he finally says to the group, as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't just almost broken his nose. My mother smiles weakly. "It's good that you took the time today! Family has to stick together!" "Especially in difficult times," my father adds dryly, without looking at anyone. Vito leans back, plays with his fork, without taking a bite. His gaze never leaves Alessandro. "Some families deserve this more than others!" "Oh, please, Vito," Alessandro replies with feigned patience. "Let's not ruin the evening! I'm sure Nicolai can speak for himself without your knee-jerk reactions!" I feel my grip on the fork tighten. It could just as easily be a knife. "Alessandro," my father says, now with real emphasis. "A little respect!" "I am showing respect," he counters immediately. "I'm sitting here, I'm eating, I'm being polite! But I won't be silenced if I'm constantly being sniped at!" A brief silence. Only the clinking of glass. And then my mother's voice, quiet, soothing: "We wanted this evening to unwind. Not for... arguments!" I nod slowly, take a sip of water, then look directly at Alessandro, clear, without wavering. "Good! Then let's have some peace and quiet! At least as long as you can behave!" He smiles again, that grin that lies, that promises, that never forgets. "I am behaving, amore mio! Just like a husband should!" My father raises an eyebrow questioningly, my cousin tenses his jaw muscles, my mother remains silent. And me? I pick up my cutlery again, cut into the risotto, chew slowly, as if I could crush the tension between us all. After the main course, my father pulls me aside. No grand gesture, no "Come with me." Just a look I've known for years. One that brooks no argument. I follow him into the old study—heavy wood, old carpets, the smell of smoke and power. The place where decisions used to be made. And sometimes judgments. He leans against the desk, studies me as if he needs to remeasure me. "You were strong, Nicolai," he begins. No greeting. No beating around the bush. Just that damned disappointment in his voice, always like a kick to the chest. "Unpredictable to others, but loyal to the family! You knew when a stand was needed! When tough love was required!" I say nothing. Let him talk. Because I know he will anyway. "And now? You're sitting there with this husband, like you've forgotten who you are! Like you're one of those we used to wipe out before they even became relevant!" "I did what you wanted," I say quietly. "I got married! I'm taking the name you forced on me! I'm keeping the peace! That was never the agreement!" "You shut up! That's what you're doing!" His voice is cutting. "And while you do, you're watching yourself disappear! You're playing the loving husband, but you're not blind! You know what he's up to!" I clench my teeth. “You don’t want to hit him because you’re scared! Not for yourself! But of what will become of you! Because you know you’ll never stop if you start again!” I laugh bitterly. “You act like this is my damn destiny!” He takes a step closer. “Maybe it is! Maybe it’s the only thing you’re really good at!” I look at him. For a long time. It’s silent. No movement, no breathing to ease the tension. And then I hear it. Selena’s voice. ‘You promised, Nic, no more bloodshed!’ Her smile, which felt like home. And which burned with her.