The Surrender of the Twin Dons Chapter 07

The Surrender of the Twin Dons Chapter 07

Luciana’s pov

Salvatore put all the estate staff on an extended leave of absence.

Vincenzo never came back.

He must have been swamped with extra work assigned to him by Salvatore.

He stayed by my side openly—dining with me, strolling through the rose garden.

Each night blurred into endless rounds of him claiming me entirely.

On the third night, he drove me to a hidden seafood spot in the West Village.

I had kept my emotions bottled up for far too long, I drank more than I should’ve.

On the way back, I could barely walk straight.

Salvatore carried me along the promenade of Brooklyn Bridge Park.

His guards hung back, close enough to shield him.

His fingertips brushed this mark.

“How’d you get this?”

I lay draped over his broad back, eyes shut, slurring into his ear.

“When I was little…spoiled rich brat.”

“Loaded family. Total prick.”

“All the other kids sucked up to him.”

“Not me.”

“The more I ignored him, the worse he got.”

“But I didn’t have time for his shit. I had to help my folks run a crêpe stand. Look after my brother.”

“He wouldn’t quit, so I fought him.”

“I was far too small to overpower the boy. He shoved me into a brick planter. Cut me deep. Blood everywhere.”

I rambled until my head spun worse.

Drowsy, I nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Luciana.”

He said my name.

Something else followed.

I didn’t catch it.

The day Vincenzo officially returned, Salvatore hosted a family dinner.

I tilted my head at Salvatore, playing innocent. “Don Rizzo, Vincenzo’s been back three days. Why wait till now for a feast?”

Salvatore looked at me. Held my gaze.

Those eyes were bottomless—like they’d swallow me whole.

I tucked my chin and bolted toward Vincenzo.

I didn’t dare glance back, but I felt Salvatore’s stare burning into my spine.

Vincenzo was in a foul mood.

Probably that Jersey mess is still unresolved.

By his third whiskey, I laid a hand on his glass rim.

“Babe, take it easy. Your stomach’s not great.”

The room fell dead silent in an instant.

Two pairs of eyes locked onto me like crosshairs.

Salvatore—always the picture of decorum—let his silver fork clatter loudly against the bone china plate. The sound was sharp and jarring in the hush.

He lifted his gaze. Pinned me in place.

Vincenzo’s brow furrowed. “What’d you just call me?”

I widened my eyes, flooding them with fake sweetness. “Babe. What’s wrong?”

“Luciana!”

Vincenzo exploded out of his chair, flipping the entire place setting.

I shrieked, throwing my arms over my head as tears flooded my eyes. “Vincenzo—”

“Who the fuck do you call Babe? What the hell have you been doing behind my back?!”

He seized my collar, hauling me halfway off the ground.

I trembled violently. “Y-you said… you liked me calling you that…”

“Bullshit!” Vincenzo’s eyes were bloodshot. “When the fuck did I ever—”

He choked on the words.

The veins in his forearm stood out like cables.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I sobbed, my voice splintering. “You said it yourself… said you liked ‘Babe’… told me to keep calling you that lately…”

Vincenzo’s crimson stare snapped across the table.

To Salvatore.

The man who’d been immovable until now slowly set down his knife and fork.

He rose. The sheer force rolling off him dropped the room temperature ten degrees.

My crying stuttered into silence.

Ice crawled up my spine.

Maybe Salvatore’s tenderness was a lie.

He was more dangerous than Vincenzo.

I started shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

Salvatore’s gaze lingered on me for two seconds.

“Don’t bully a girl.”

He reached out, clamped Vincenzo’s wrist, and pried his grip loose.

“Upstairs. We need to talk.”

Vincenzo ground his jaw, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

Eyes blazing, he shot me one last venomous look before storming up the stairs.

The study door slammed like a gunshot.

My phone vibrated.

A text from Salvatore. Four words: [Don’t be afraid. I’m here.]

I stared at the screen, wiped my cheeks, and sank back into my chair.

Then I covered my face and laughed—a hollow, bitter sound.

Did Salvatore think I didn’t know?

Or that I didn’t remember?

At the welcome banquet when he’d returned stateside, someone had toasted his upcoming engagement to an East Coast socialite.

He hadn’t denied it.

A soon-to-be-fiancé. The Don of the Rizzo family. Playing this sick game with his own brother.

Perhaps this was merely indulgence before his wedding. Or maybe it fed some twisted appetite hiding under that perfect exterior.

And me?

I was nothing more than collateral damage.

Why must I be reduced to their plaything?