VINCENT VALENTINO
Cold, heartless, arrogant and insipid. Vincent Valentino, Underboss to the Italian mafia, is met with the terrible reality that he's no longer 17 anymore and therefore has to get married. But not just to anyone.
ELENA MACHINOVIA...
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A harsh glow of early moonlight filtered through unfamiliar curtains, casting a small light across the room. Disorientation gripped me as I slowly regained consciousness.
A dull ache pulsed through my hip. I tried to sit up, only to be met with a sharp twinge, a reminder of the bullet that had found its mark the previous day.
4 a.m. — the clock on the nightstand read, and the sheets clung to my form as I shifted. Panic fluttered momentarily until my gaze landed on him.
Vincent.
He lay beside me, asleep. A strange mix of vulnerability and reassurance washed over me as I took in the sight.
It took a moment for my surroundings to register—the room, the familiarity of the furnishings. Vincent's old room in his parents' house.
How did I end up here?
The memories of the gunshots and the chaos flooded back, each piece fitting into the puzzle of the night before.
I turned my gaze back to Vincent, his presence a silent anchor in the midst of the turmoil.
His parents' home, a place that held layers of memories, felt like an unexpected haven. The clock on the nightstand ticked away, marking the quiet moments that lingered before the world woke up.
Gingerly, I touched the bandage on my hip, the reality of the situation sinking in. The bullet had found its mark, a consequence of the life we lived.
I knew it was his old room because I still remember us coming in here as kids. It has changed though. Maybe because he's not 13 anymore.
I slowly get up despite the aching pain in my hip. "Shit." I whisper as I make my way to the door which is the bathroom. And I turn the light on.
Blinking a few times so I can adjust to the light as I close the door and make my way to the shower.
I take a really long fucking shower and then get changed into the same pants I was wearing and go to Vincent's closet and steal a shirt.
When I exited the bathroom I saw Vincent sitting up smoking a cigarette. His eyes meet mine and I make my way back to the bed, my hip still aching and pounding with pain but it's more tolerable now.
I sit on the bed next to Vincent and snatch the smoke out of his mouth and take a puff. "How's the wound?" He asked, nonchalantly, like he doesn't care.
Because he doesn't.
"It's good" I say and hand him the smoke after I take another puff.
He nodded and I watched as he placed the filter end into his mouth, my eyes fall down to his adams apple and then to his chest. Vincent wasn't like covered in tattoos but he had a few.
Unlike Vito and Ace. Who were both covered in ink.
"How did i get in here? how did we get here? off the boat?" i question trying to think of answers myself.
