Shivers did not run down your spine, nor did you flinch.

By the time the third one broke, you had stopped keeping track.

Through the sole open window, the usually calm waves of the Mediterranean lapped ferociously against the stone, almost matching the intensity of the emotions running rampant in the villa.

The same eternal blue waves, the sight of which never ceased to calm the storms within your mind, then mirrored the anger, the betrayal, the disappointment in his - as the land stood still, absorbing the hits as it had for centuries.

A cacophony of seagulls accompanied the restless sea that morning, the breeze drafting through the room comforting in a moment of crisis.

A moment that seemed to drag on for an eternity.

The voice he adored sliced through the expanse of the suite, calling him to his senses.

“Santino.”

He did not respond immediately.

Across the room, through the archway, as you watched from the edge of the claw bathtub you had taken a restless seat on, the mere sight of him in front of you continued to break your heart into a million pieces - or, at least, what was left of it.

You had hoped the retreat to your eminent domain, the villa he had donned his home would have aided the situation - yet, it only seemed to remind him of what could have been.

What was taken from him, by the very man that had given him this life.

Santino was disheveled. Distraught. Unconsolable. Words that you had never thought would describe the man you had grown to love more than you knew - he had been pacing, his body relentless.

His hand running through his dark curls as they trailed loosely on his forehead. His crisp shirt, still pressed, yet with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and more buttons undone than usual.

Breathing getting heavier by the minute as the realization dawned gradually, the implications rampant in his mind.

No watch. No signet ring. No theatrics this time, no one to impress.

Just his darkened emerald stare, once quick with reaction and wit, now carried a desperate, faint sheen.

His mouth that never ceased to curl up in that sly smile only reserved for you, unable to escape the frown.

An antique painting half ruined by fire - fraying at the edges in black ash, yet the beauty ever withstanding.

“Everyone knows it should have been me.”

The same words spoken so certainly left his mouth not for the first time in the days that followed the reckoning.

They kept echoing like a mantra, etched on the very walls of the estate, repeated as if Santino had been trying to console himself from a bad dream.

However, sleep had not come easy for the past couple of days.

“It was always going to be me.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips, as his hand ran over his face, over the slight stubble he had not bothered to shave for the past two days.

Then, his eyes lifted to meet yours across the distance, green orbs rimmed with red softened against the concern that lingered in your own.

The shards cracked under his polished shoes as his steps took him into the adjacent bathroom, towards you - towards the only truth he knew.

Fear had not been an emotion he could illicit within you - the defeated gaze in his eyes that seemed to only shimmer with hope when you looked into them proved it so.

And, as you had many times, you would attempt to comfort the storm raging in his chest once again.

Something you had once vowed to do.

The white silk robe wrapped around your body, flowing like water as you rose, hands reaching out to beckon his in.

“Lo so, amore.”

His breath, for a moment, seemed to hitch faintly at your words, as though their simplicity struck deeper than the wound he had inflicted upon himself.

His soles echoing on the stone, just steps before reaching your touch, decided to change trajectory.

“Do you?” he would ask and rather make his stride towards the wide vanity that encompassed an entire wall. The windows on the far end of the room shone light over him in a stark contrast with the darkness of his mind.

“Do you know what it is like, to be promised a future so clear, ever since you were a small child running through the halls of this house?”

You did not take offense but instead, opted to let him try and find his peace. Your hands lowered to your sides, head tilted as you listened.

“To be told, constantly, that you are the one, the only, the heir to behold - and it all vanishes with a single word.”

He would then turn the faucet on and splashed his face with the coldest water, as if trying to wake himself up.

Instinct guided you towards him, a pull so inherent that you could almost touch his heat emanating through his tired body.

“Santino,” you would softly yet steadily remind him, a land laying on his back, feeling his muscles tense over the fabric upon contact.

“You are still your father’s son. You still command an empire of men.”

A bitter laugh emanated from his lips, meeting your gaze through the expansive mirror with his hands clasped against the vanity’s marble, droplets making their lazy trail downwards to his open collar.

“And what did that bring me? A name, amore. Nothing more.”

Pressing a once neatly folded towel to his face, he would then run his damp hands through his curls, pushing the locks off of his forehead.

“A name without power, is nothing but dust.”

You found it in yourself to counter slowly, your voice holding weight like an anchor. Your touch trailed down from his back, to shoulder, down to the exposed skin of his forearm.

“There is still a vote. You know that Gianna does not want this. She never has.”

A hollow, humorless laugh followed.

“And yet she was chosen. Chosen by the only one whose choice mattered.”

His words hung in the air, almost as if fogging up the mirrors with the betrayal, the disappointment that coated them.

Delicate hands made their way to lay over the back of his larger one bracing the marble, one still anchoring him on his back as you leaned in to whisper.

“But, I chose you.”

Those words, drifting so naturally, so elegantly off of your lips reflected the truth. It was those words that made Santino loosen his grip on the vanity, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, his gaze turning rather sharply to lock his green gaze into yours. His lips slightly agape, desperation clinging into his expression.

“Tell me,” he started, voice breathy.

He did not need to speak - those eyes laid bare the very secrets of his soul he had hidden from everyone, only reserved for your presence.

Even when undone, at his most vulnerable, there was a tragic beauty that exuded within him.

“Tell me you will still be here.”

A breath caught in your throat, a slight gasp managing to escape your lips before his hands embraced your jaw, moving in for a sudden yet welcome kiss.

A moan reverberated through his flesh, your hands holding onto his taut chest in an attempt to steady yourself.

As his lips claimed yours with unprecedented hunger, the taste of whiskey lingering on his tongue that dominated yours with ease. The desperation seeped into your very skin as his hands worked fervently to untie your robe, to lower the lace chemise underneath.

His body pressed to gently lead you against the mosaic wall, in such contrast to his needy touch.

Just a man trying to claim what he was afraid the world would strip away from him.

And you, you could not resist - he had made it hard to each time. The salt and bergamot faint on his skin enhanced your desire, your fingers would then reciprocate his advances, as they unbuttoned his shirt rather unceremoniously.

“Tell me you will always be mine.”

To him, you were all that mattered in space and in time - the only grounding anchor, the sole source of light at the end of a dark tunnel. Santino’s hands clung to your bare hips as if holding onto dear life, as if letting go would cause his demise.

“Perhaps, it is you, amore. Solo tu.”

His nimble hands that often took their time memorizing every inch, were not so patient then as one took the liberty to slide down your panties, fingers grazing over where you had wanted him the most.

And, at that instant, the betrayal of his legacy was not the only one that entrapped your conscious. Especially in the most shameful corners of your mind.

The memory of his steel-blue eyes brushed against you for a fleeting moment - forbidden, distant yet jarring.

The mere thought of him jolted you unexpectedly, forcing yourself back into the warmth of Santino’s arms before it could have a chance to ever linger, a fevered urgency in your grip.

“You are all that I need.”

A heartfelt nod, lips swollen and agape as his forehead pressed against yours.

It was true. It had been true. It would always be true.

The look in your eyes was the only permission he had needed as his finger effortlessly slipped into your folds, sending your back arching for him.

Santino’s kisses then trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone in pure claim.

Trembling hands made their way onto his belt, as his fingers worked their skillful rhythm against you for moments to come. His other hand found the soft swell of your breast, his touch as delicate as it was desperate.

“Non mi lasciare, amore,” he would murmur in Italian against your neck, finally released from the confinements of his clothes. His once occupied hand would leave you whimpering as he turned your body to face the steadying cool of the mosaic, and replaced his fingers slowly with just what you had yearned for.

His thrusts began unevenly, his rhythm almost overtaken by emotion. A hand pulling your hips towards his, yours resting on the crystal-blue tiles as your form arched with such grace that mirrored the restless sea.

The more your moans mixed in with his, with the salt and sweat in the air, the more his restraint slipped, need overtaking his grief until each movement felt like a silent proof.

Proof that he had not lost everything. Proof that he still had you.

The speed, the cadence of his relentless touch were demonstrations of pure and raw need.

Your name on his tongue, echoing off of the very corners of the room, his damp curls clinging to his forehead from exertion - as though touching, claiming every inch of your body pulled him further into reality.

And in the aftermath, where both of your cries of pleasure mixed in to accompany the crashing waves and howling mid-day wind, when the gasps and sighs making your chests heave softened - silence claimed the room once again.

His forehead found the crook of your neck, where it had always fit just right. Breath ragged, his lips trailing lazy patterns of fleeting kisses along your shoulder.

“Sei mia,” he would whisper, voice rough, more of a plea than a claim this time.

You are mine.

His arms wrapped around you, with the hold of a man clinging onto the very thing that kept him alive.

Eyes closed, riding the lingering drops of pleasure still, you would lean and let your head rest on his chest.

“Sempre.”

And, although you whispered back just the words he needed, the words that always came from your heart - you had found that the vow settled heavier in your throat than before.

As the words left your lips, in the dark corners of your mind, another man’s faint voice echoed beneath it.

Gold-encrusted frescoes painted by the hands of maestros adorned the walls, columns rising like serpents in between the decorated panels. The polished chevron-pattern hardwood almost acted as a mirror, reflecting the elegantly carved ceiling - a symphony of drapery, precious gold and figurines. A gentle fire burning shyly within the confinements of the green marble, against the cold winter of Paris. Echoes of a soft piano piece emanating through the halls, gentle yet unwaveringly present.

No less would do.

His was a taste that could not be acquired with ease.

The sheer grandeur of his estate had only been an introduction to his refined style of living, his savoir-faire. It surrounded every inch of his being, his touch woven into the very fabric of all that made him, him - an unmistakable signature.

In the carefully constructed seams of his navy pinstripe three-piece, the precise placement of his insignia on the lapel, in the bright shine of his custom Yves Saint Laurent leather boots. In the perfect part of his dark blond hair, with only a stray falling onto his forehead - almost too calculated.

Life was a show that never took the spotlight away from him, and Vincent knew he had to look and act the part.

However, there he stood as the sole occupant of the room, right in the center, next to a long, equally decorated dining table - perhaps accentuating the sheer loneliness that only unthinkable wealth could buy. As per his request, only a single set of guards accompanied him within the room, posted against the door - a sea of space between him and his men.

He had needed time to think that morning.

Along the intricately carved mahogany table, a meticulous spread of the most delicious treats collected fresh from an assortment of Parisian bakeries, buds of the finest flowers accompanying the colorful tarts, enough to satisfy the sweet cravings of many a man.

Even a man like him had petty indulgences, pleasures in moderation amongst a sea of excess that brought him delight.

Something so simple as sweet delicacies, yet it had often helped collect his thoughts.

His thoughts that, on that calm morning, danced around the memory of your silhouette, your eyes beneath the veil piercing into his soul - a fortress he now found himself wanting to breach, when all he really had was your name.

That, of course, could be changed.

A mere couple of weeks after his trip across continents, it had been a typical weekday at his estate save for the quiet storm in his mind, the day slowly seeping into the morning. He had been up since dawn, on the dot - a man with his network and responsibilities to manage, even in the midst of grandeur, did not find much indulgence in sleep. With a plethora of servants and guards alike to run to any errand, Vincent still found sanity in the mundanity of tasks.

Certain things, naturally, he did not trust anyone else but himself.

His nimble hands slowly, almost ceremoniously, picked out a scrumptious piece of tarte tatin, the tip of his finger pushing the slice onto the vintage porcelain. Next came the short clinking sound as he mixed his freshly brewed espresso as he had found comfort in the ritual.

A sip to ground his senses. A small bite of the sweet apples to accompany the bitterness.

Among the colorful symphony of plates and flowers, laid a small folder, almost indistinguishable to the unseeing eye, hidden under the bright sunlight flowing through the glass.

To Vincent, it might as well have been everything he cared for at that moment in time.

Inside were the first threads of an investigation he had commissioned the moment his plane landed.

He would not waste much time as he took out the stack from the folder, his eyes trailing further through their initial gander.

A plethora of Camorra names, photos and meeting notes, fingertips grazing the edge of the papers as if gauging their secrecy. Then came the redacted ones - names leading to nowhere, dates blurred into shadows. Records that contradicted themselves, which was not unusual for the Camorra. They knew how to cover their tracks well.

As his focus arrived at your records, his fingers traced along the faint image acquired through his intelligence channels - a small snapshot of you at a High Table adjacent function, presumably a couple of years back.

Blurry, grainy yet a certain beauty that emanated through the confinements of the paper.

It had been another mystery to add onto the grand scheme, as Vincent found himself wondering just how he had not crossed your path.

It must have been fate, yet another thing Vincent did not believe in - but chose to yield to at times.

But when he began skim the pages, where it should have been detail, were the echoes of a silence. Information redacted with blank lines, no true record, nor a deep history as the only substantial piece of text were the usual vitals and some highly-public attendances.

No family history, no known main residence. Sightings around the world, yet nowhere permanent. 

Vincent would raise an eyebrow, the attention in his steel blues locked onto the papers.

It was almost nothing.

In his world, no one was nothing. Everyone left trails, some scars, others whispers. Yet, according to the very little knowledge his sources could obtain, you were untouched by the ever-running rumor mill, unshaped by public scandal.

A ghost in the world where one did not survive without a shadow.

The lack of information, the blank, redacted lines should have been infuriating to him.

Instead, they only intrigued him.

For all he knew, in his world, the absence of detail had to be carefully curated - nothing was an oversight. It had all been intentional, perhaps even yours, to keep what was important folded away from prying eyes.

The kind of absence that spoke louder than a thousand reports. The kind of erasure that had to be condoned, that had to be maintained.

Pensive, his eyes drifted from the folder to the high windows of the hall, where daylight fell in fractured beams across the chevroned floor, easing through the curtains. Dust lingered in the air, caught in the shafts of light, a modest shine to them as they swirled in their lazy haze.

And in that quiet stillness, with no disturbances save for the enigma forming in his mind - his thoughts returned to you.

In a room where history was meant to be written, you had not demanded attention. Not a single word came out of your mouth - yet your silence had been louder than any voice.

A gaze so heavy, a stance so poised that they commanded the entire room without asking, steady and unwavering.

What you carried could not be imitated. It was not performance, nor an act put forth for show. It was not deception - just the true self mirrored outwards. No wealth could drape such control across your shoulders, as no bloodline could purchase it.

That kind of authority was not learned. It was not conferred - it was inherent.

It was the kind of presence that unsettled even someone like him.

The piano continued its quiet lament in the background, a small crescendo almost intentionally mirroring his mind already moving in a sharper rhythm.

Vincent leaned forward with a small exhale, closing the folder with care, as though sealing a promise to himself. He took yet another sip of his coffee, seemingly done with his breakfast.

Bright sun rays that usually shone over the centuries old stone walls yielded themselves to warm candlelight, casting a calm yet eerie atmosphere.

The chandeliers were dimmed just a notch, expertly-cut crystal reflecting light across the gold freckles embedded within frescoes adorning the ceiling - painted by hands long gone yet never forgotten.

Windows across the foyer were opened that night, to let the fresh night air in, carrying the scent of the pines.

It was a deceptively calm evening at the d’Antonio villa, standing tall within the stillness of the lake which spread like a steel sheet that particular night.

The corridors leading to the grand study were decorated with white lilies in tall glass vases in haste of the guest’s arrival, the polished marble floors glinting as candle flames painted flickering shadows with the draft.

Antique mirrors that adorned the halls reflected the moonlight seeping through skylights, casting a shine to your step as your patent heels took you throughout the maze of a house you had memorized a long time ago.

Behind the thick mahogany double doors of the study, the siblings sat across from each other on leather armchairs, next to their father’s carved oak desk - a rare sight in itself, almost as if paying their respects as they waited, occasionally nursing their glasses of red wine resting on the marble cocktail tables.

Candles surrounded this room as well, yet the light of the antique chandelier and sconces still bounced off the walls adorned with seemingly endless books, the everlasting smell of paper and leather surrounding them.

It was a rare moment of quiet understanding, as they took sips and did not say much - the crackling of the fire in the grand marble fireplace and the faint yet approaching clicks of heels in the hallways a welcome distraction to their thoughts.

The stillness would not last long - it never had when it came to their family.

It was Gianna who broke first, as the crystal glass left her red-painted lips, her eyes an almost exact copy of her brothers - always sharp, yet that night, they beared a certain weariness.

“Nothing good will come out of this, fratello mio.”

Cryptic for many, yet Santino knew just what she had meant.

Santino’s gaze caught the crackling of flames and held it - a restless glint instead of his usual emeralds stare. However, he did not answer - not at first.

He let the words he wanted to say lull on his lips, his jaw twitching. His fingers tapped against his knee, a rhythm that betrayed the ambition clawing beneath his well-tailored composure.

The words hanging in the air, their impact heavy and felt, until the silence fractured yet again with the doors opening.

You entered with measured steps, the trusted hand of a servant pulling the brass handles wide. The siblings’ eyes flicked to you at once, a slightly startled expression coating their gaze.

It was not doubt that stirred in their tired eyes - never that. Their trust in you had been forged long before that night, back in the days of childhood, when the three of you had learned to navigate through the world together.

A bond that tightened over time and ran so constant that it sometimes felt as though a thread truly tied you to both of them - in many different ways.

A thread that always tugged at you when they lied, when they withheld, when they tried to hide the weight of the burdens pulling them deep.

No, their startle came not from mistrust, but because they had been waiting - waiting for the news that only you could bring.

Waiting only for a future already written, one they had no hand in molding, one that was constructed decades ago.

“They are here. Two armored cars,” you would personally inform, “ - they are waiting in the entrance hall.”

The fire let out a hiss as it swallowed another log, as you met Santino’s eyes - by the moment your gaze found his darkened one, his jaw was already set, the flames flickering on his face, a comforting smile saved for your eyes only stretching his lips.

In preparation for company, Gianna straightened her already flawless black long sleeved dress, and as you approached the pair, you would watch Santino take yet another desperate swig off of the red wine.

A drink he often savored slowly and reverently, polished off from the glass with a long drag. 

Anything to take the edge off.

The next moments would prove that he would have needed the additional drops of wine in his system.

Mere minutes later, the sound guests approaching carried through the study, accompanied with silent acknowledgements and a slow cadence of measured steps, as the d’Antonio party awaited patiently for the inevitable.

When the steps reached the doorsill, it was not the envoy alone who entered, as the Marquis de Gramont followed in his wake.

You could feel the breath get hitched in your throat, the confused tilt of Gianna’s head and the quiet twitching of Santino’s jaw.

The sight of the unannounced guest almost made the frescoed ceiling press lower, the candlelight entrapped in sconces to dim ever so slightly as if the very room understood just how the gravity of the situation could change momentarily.

The Marquis finally moved after he had let the envoy through - he had no grand entrance, no aggressive stride. He walked with quiet command, his leather boots echoing against the floor and then choosing to stay still after a couple of steps - close, but with no immediate intention of intervening.

He had merely been the observer sent by the High Table, after all.

The black tweed caught the firelight in subtle textures, light golden threads embedded in the very fabric, his brooch shining just a bit brighter against the dark weave. His hair was coiffed in his usual preference, with an elegant part and not a strand out of place.

He would then incline his head just enough to mark formality towards the family.

It was not a bow - not quite. Rather, a quiet show of respect among the future of the High Table and the ones who guarded it.

His steel-blue eyes swept the room once, not judging, rather exploring - above all, he had been a man of refined taste, and one that knew how to appreciate curated beauty.

They lingered on the artwork hung proudly around the study, on the double windows letting the night seep into the room, and then, briefly, deliberately - on you.

The coldness of his gaze from afar burned ice into your skin, even when you had stood right next to a crackling fireplace, behind the chair your fiancé had taken a seat on.

If alcohol had been Santino’s deterrent from stressful situations, yours was to stand up - in an attempt to gain the mental upper hand within the chaos of your thoughts, to defeat your inner demons clouding your judgment.

This time, it had not seemed to help that much as a cold shiver of unknown origin ran down your spine, your hand instinctively wrapping around Santino’s hand to clasp it gently before moving to rest on his shoulder - a small crack of weakness that did not go unnoticed.

Yet, he welcomed it. He always would when it concerned you.

In the quiet before the storm, the envoy almost waltzed in towards the center of the room, understated elegance finding body in the tailored suit and the leather briefcase he had carried. Handsome - yet subdued by duty.

However, the Marquis did not move forward, nor did he need to.

Even from his vantage, the d’Antonio family’s beloved study seemed to adjust itself around him, as if the shadows bent slightly where he stood, accommodating his presence in an estate that he did not own.

Momentarily, the envoy’s voice echoed off of the wooden walls, thick yet not overbearingly so, even when wielding the power of the ones that were greater than him.

“With our due condolences, by the hand of the High Table,” he started, the thick envelope containing the will unfolding in his nimble hands casually as one of the house helpers rushed quietly to hold the briefcase out of his way.

“ - the d’Antonio family seat has been wished upon Gianna d’Antonio.”

The heavy words lingered in the air for a beat,  collecting the dust, ashes and the specks of fire emanating from the hearth.

Santino’s shoulders tensed under the bespoke fabric, as he shifted uncomfortably under your touch, almost as if he had been waiting for the envoy to speak just a little more.

To correct what he had just declared. To divulge more details, to secure his ascension.

Yet, no further words would come out of the envoy’s mouth.

Even the clock’s ticks seemed to stop for the time being, the crackles of fire the only source of commotion in the room.

It was supposed to be him.

Your hand tightened around Santino’s shoulder behind the chair, as he did not dare rise from his seat, his breathing heavy while he reached for the freshly replenished drink in front of him.

A different kind of poison this time - whiskey. The trusted staff had undoubtedly realized the need for it.

The silence was broken by Santino’s low chuckle, his head shaking as if he had been desperately trying to make himself believe in reality.

Silent protest rising in his tongue as Marquis tilted his head towards your direction just slightly, a subtle yet curious gesture.

“Even from the grave,” he spoke under his breath, his breathy words dripping with venom as he downed the liquor.

The crystal glass clicked a little too loudly on the drink table this time.

Gianna then became the next focus of your gaze, as she had been in a similar predicament.

To you, it had not been a surprise that she did not desire the seat.

The envoy’s words still hung in the air when she found it in herself to slowly rise from her chair with an audible yet soft sigh - too cautious to meet Santino’s eyes then but for a brief moment, her gaze found yours.

And you saw the look of a woman who did not want the power - but yet, was awarded with it nonetheless.

Uncertain, deciding if willingly walking into the eternal fire had been worth anything.

Hopeful, for the sheer, far possibility of letting it all go to hell.

The Marquis, however, lingered in the back with his hands clasped in front of him, casting a watchful shadow as he watched the scene unfold without uttering a single word.

You would feel Santino shift with the tension, leaning forward slightly in anticipation, your hand falling off of his shoulder unceremoniously and landing on the carved backrest of the armchair.

“I need time,” Gianna declared to the envoy, her voice unwavering for the time being, able to keep her composure so far in response to the sudden news.

Yet, you could make out the inescapable tone in her voice that indicated otherwise, no matter how much she had tried to hide it.

“Very well,” the envoy responded, sealing the envelope back shut with accrued ease.

“The High Table will require a vote, to see the seat properly filled. Whether you choose to bear this duty or decline it, the Table will not abide a vacancy any longer.”

His words were cold, calm and methodical - always straight to the point when it came to the Table matters.

“Further details on location and date will be communicated with the Camorra.”

As the envoy finished the last of his words, Gianna hurriedly took strides to make her way out in an unexpected manner, not bothering to look back at the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood as the doors opened once again, as though the room exhaled in her absence.

The upwards shift in Vincent’s eyebrow caught the light, as the subtle glints in his eyes announced he had been somewhat impressed by the sudden departure.

And, to make matters worse, it had seemed like the usual fire within Santino had returned after the initial shock - as he got up from the armchair in such a rush, breaking in a light run as he followed his sister, calling out her name impatiently.

The sudden shift in the air left you speechless. Instinct alone guided you to move, to ground yourself, as you lowered onto the very edge of the armrest.

Yet, even there, composure was a fragile illusion as the world you had known changed with you bearing witness.

The job done for the time being, the envoy would slip out of the room, a guard appearing to escort him out of the estate.

The doors did not bother to close behind him this time around, letting in the echoes of Santino’s roaring voice chasing Gianna down the corridor, their argument carrying throughout the halls in the moments to follow - leaving the eerie silence of the study settle in heavier than before.

For the first time that night, due to circumstances out of your control - you realized you were alone with him.

The intrigued stare in his eyes only deepened as he took a couple of steps towards the fireplace, neither close nor far - only choosing to move towards you after the initial storm had passed.

Your eyes, however, were focused so intently into the burning fire, refusing to meet his gaze - the unspoken weight of possible futures already shifting within the confinements of your mind.

The Marquis did not immediately fill the space with words as he knew he did not need to.

Not much was needed to be said in a moment like this.

Instead, he let it breathe - as if testing how long it would take for the weight of his presence to settle over you.

He did not sit. Vincent instead remained by the fire, his posture ever so calm, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. The steel gaze, however, directed solely at you.

“Restraint is a rare thing in this world.”

The fire crackled, and the flicker of orange light caught the heirloom engagement ring on your clasped hands, as if shedding a light of hope in a sea of unknowns.

Though he did not gesture toward it, you felt the Marquis’ eyes trace it.

A small, almost imperceptible shift in his expression betrayed that he had noticed.

“And, I assume you know by now- so is loyalty,” he continued his monologue regardless, almost pressing on, tone unwavering.

He did not receive a response from you immediately, as he had anticipated so. It would have taken a lot more than insinuations and hidden meanings to illicit a genuine reaction out of another who understood how the cogs turned.

Beyond the walls, Gianna’s voice rose sharply, then dulled again, as if swallowed by the villa’s vast corridors. Santino’s deeper timbre chased right after it, the betrayal in his voice instantly recognizable even from the distance.

Vincent let his words rest in the atmosphere, his gaze turning momentarily to watch the fire, the warmth a stark contrast with the ice in his stare.

“Loyalty is a performance,” he said quietly, his accent laced on his pronunciation. The tone and words of a man who had understood the silent powers at play, his voice slicing through the air so effortlessly.

“However, yours is… convincing. Almost flawless.”

That made your head rise up ever so slightly, the fire not enough to prevent a cool shiver running down your spine upon meeting his eyes.

“What makes you think it is a performance, Marquis?”

And, for the first time, something flickered in his eyes, something akin to amusement.

A sharp flash of intrigue ran through his expression as he studied you.

And, in the most surprising of ways, a ghost of a smile found its way to his lips.

“Because, everything is,” he said gently, softer than what you had expected out of a man like him.

“Every word, every act. Until the audience no longer knows the difference between play and reality.”

A slight twitch of your jaw did not go unnoticed as he let the words settle.

The faint noise of heavy wooden doors slamming shut vibrated through the stone walls, making your gaze return to the fire - a means of escape.

“It is rare - ” he murmured at last, as though he were reciting something already written, taking a pause in an attempt to catch your eyes. 

Almost to affirm his own thoughts, gradually snapping you out of your momentary distraction, he would then continue, “ - to find someone who unsettles the order simply by standing in it.”

A troubled, questioning look shielded your eyes when they finally met his.

Deep beneath you, it hurt to admit the unnerving effect his mere presence had all over your conscience.

His head inclined the faintest fraction, not respect but recognition, as though you had confirmed something he had long suspected.

“The world notices when the performance falters,” Vincent went on, words chosen more deliberately.

“I notice when it does not.”

Without another word uttered, he turned and walked away from the exchange that had taken mere minutes - yet, to you, it had felt like an eternity. A breath you did not realize were holding released itself in a soft exhale, as you could not help but look after his parting silhouette.

His steps were even, unhurried, the disappearing sound of soles against stone impossibly steady against your pulse.

At the doors, he halted for the briefest instant, hands still clasped neatly behind his back - lingering long enough to make you believe, with the shortest-lived hope, that he just might have glanced back.

He did not.