Chapter 7 - Under His Wing
Tyler collapsed onto his knees, his drunken bravado instantly evaporating into pathetic sobs. "Please! Mr. DeLuca, please! I was just talking to her! We have history, we—"
"Take him out through the service stairs," Vincent ordered quietly, not sparing Tyler a second glance as he walked directly toward me. "Ensure he understands that if he ever sets foot in this city again, he will not leave it alive."
The two guards grabbed Tyler by his collar, dragging him out into the broken hallway without a sound.
Vincent reached me in two long strides. His hands framed my face, his thumbs gently wiping away tears I hadn't even realized I was crying. "Did he touch you?"
"No," I choked out, leaning involuntarily into the warmth of his palms. "No, he just... he got in through the window."
"You're shaking," Vincent said, pulling me against his chest.
I buried my face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of cedar and clean linen. His arms wrapped around me, massive, solid, and utterly unyielding. For so long, Tyler had made me feel like an inconvenience, someone who took up too much space in his bed, in his car, in his life. But in Vincent’s embrace, I didn't feel too big. I felt entirely shielded.
"He was right about one thing," I mumbled into his chest, the poison of Tyler’s words refusing to leave my thoughts. "I don't belong in your world, Vincent. I don't know how to navigate this. People look at you with respect and fear. They look at me and wonder what a man like you is doing with a woman who wears size sixteen jeans."
Vincent pulled back slightly, forcing me to look up into his dark, piercing eyes.
"Listen to me very carefully, Emily," he commanded softly. "I do not care about the superficial standards of cowards who are afraid of a real woman. I have lived my entire life surrounded by beautiful porcelain dolls whose souls are as rotten as dead wood. You are vibrant. You are kind. You have more courage in your little finger than any man in this city."
He rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my lips. "Tomorrow night is the annual St. Jude Charity Gala. Every influential politician, business tycoon, and syndicate leader in the state will be there. I want you on my arm. Not as an assistant, not as a guest. As my partner."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "The gala? Vincent, the press will tear us apart."
May you like
"Let them try," he whispered fiercely. "Tomorrow night, I will show this entire city that you belong to me, and that anyone who disrespects you answers to DeLuca."
***
