Chapter Eight: The Vow
559 Words
The villa’s master suite was a blur of hushed voices and the sterile scent of antiseptic. Vittorio lay propped against a mountain of pillows, his once-vibrant frame swallowed by the bed. But his eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—locked onto Luciano the moment they entered.
“Took you long enough,” he rasped.
Luciano’s hand tightened around Emily’s. “*Nonno*—”
“Save it.” A gnarled finger pointed at Emily. “*She’s* the reason you waited until the last damn minute to marry, isn’t she?”
Emily’s breath caught.
Luciano didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Vittorio’s wheezing laugh dissolved into a cough. “Stubborn *bastardo*. Just like your father.” His gaze shifted to Emily, studying her with unnerving intensity. “You love my grandson?”
The question hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
Luciano’s thumb stroked her wrist—a silent plea. *Lie.*
But the words that tumbled out were anything but false.
“Yes.”
Something unreadable flickered in Vittorio’s eyes. Then he reached beneath his pillow and slid out a yellowed envelope. “Then you’ll need this.”
Luciano went rigid. “What is that?”
“The truth.” Vittorio pressed it into Emily’s hands. “About his father. About the money.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And why he *really* brought you here.”
Emily’s fingers trembled. The envelope felt like a live grenade.
Luciano snatched it from her. “Enough, *Nonno*.”
“No.” Vittorio’s breath rattled. “It’s time.” His bony hand grasped Luciano’s wrist. “You think I didn’t know? About the laundering? About the *Caldwells*?”
Luciano recoiled as if struck.
“I protected you,” Vittorio hissed. “Buried it so deep no one could touch you. But *this*—” He jabbed a finger at the envelope. “This is your insurance. Use it if Isabella talks.”
A chill slithered down Emily’s spine. “What’s inside?”
Vittorio’s lips peeled back in a grim smile. “Proof that Luciano’s father was working with the feds. That he was *trying* to bring the Caldwells down.”
The room spun. Emily grabbed the bedpost for balance. All this time—the guilt, the secrets—and Luciano never knew his father wasn’t the villain?
Luciano’s face was bone-white. “You *knew*?”
“And I let you hate him.” Vittorio’s eyes gleamed with tears. “Because anger makes a better weapon than grief.”
A nurse bustled in, shooing them out. As the door closed behind them, Luciano sagged against the wall, the envelope crumpled in his fist.
Emily touched his arm. “Luciano—”
He yanked her into an empty salon, kicking the door shut. For a long moment, he just stared at her, his chest heaving. Then—
“Was it real?” His voice was raw. “What you said in there?”
Her heart stuttered. She should lie. Should remind him this was just a contract.
But the words came anyway.
“Every word.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then he hauled her against him, his mouth crashing down in a kiss that tasted like desperation and hope and something terrifyingly like love.
When they broke apart, his whisper scorched her skin—
“Then marry me. For real.”
- Writer
