Page 151 of Ruthless Vow
“Your mother hasn’t stopped crying,” he says at last.
“I noticed.”
More silence. The music swells around us, filling the space where words should be.
“You’re happy here.” It’s not a question.
“I am.”
He nods. Once. Like that’s all he needed to know.
We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to. He came. He danced. He saw me.
It’s enough.
Renzo appears at my elbow like a shadow given form.
“Dance?”
It’s not a question. With Renzo, nothing is. I take his hand anyway.
He holds me at a formal distance, one hand at my waist, the other gripping my fingers like he’s handling something fragile. Or dangerous.
The music plays, but neither of us is listening.
I count the measures because there’s nothing else to do with the silence between us. His expression gives me nothing. Those eyes, flat and watchful, cataloging me the same way he’d catalog a threat.
I remember the first time we spoke alone. That empty hallway, those empty eyes.If you hurt him, there’s nowhere you can go that I won’t find you.
I believed him then. I still believe him now.
The dance ends. He releases my hand, takes a single step back. His gaze pins mine for one long beat.
“You’re good for him. Don’t let him forget it.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone. Disappeared into the crowd like he was never there.
I stand alone on the dance floor. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From something deeper than that. My ribs ache with it, my eyes stinging.
I’m one of them now.
Near the bar, Renzo catches my eye. He slides a glass of water across the counter toward me. Not champagne. Water. Because he’s been watching. Because he pays attention.
By the time I look up to thank him, he’s already gone.
“Cassia.” Nico materializes beside me, champagne flute in hand, that charming smile locked in place. But underneath the warmth, those eyes are still watching. Still reading. Some things never change.
“Nico.”
“Welcome to the family.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Officially.”
“It only took three months and a near-death experience.”
His smile widens. “That’s faster than most. Dante’s picky.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He glances across the garden to where Dante is watching us, arms crossed, looking like patience itself reaching its limit.
