Vito's POV
Interesting.
I leaned back in the plush leather booth of the VIP section, listening to the young woman across the café describe me in terms that would make a horror novelist proud. Monster. Unhinged. Dangerous. The usual repertoire of adjectives that followed my name these days.
Most people who spoke of me with such fear did so out of jealousy or terror—jealous of my power, terrified of what I might do to them. It was a reputation I'd cultivated carefully over the years, one that had served me well in business and in war.
But this girl... she genuinely believed every word she was saying. There was real fear in her voice, authentic terror at the thought of marrying me. It was almost refreshing, in a twisted way.
If only she knew how wrong she was about my condition.
The car accident two years ago had indeed been a setback—a carefully orchestrated attempt on my life that had nearly succeeded. But the extent of my injuries? Complete fabrication. I could walk, I could see, and every part of my body functioned exactly as it should. The only thing damaged was my faith in the people around me.
The paralysis, the blindness—it was all an elaborate performance designed to flush out whoever had tried to kill me. When you're believed to be helpless, people become careless. They say things they shouldn't, do things they wouldn't dare attempt if they knew you were watching.
Only Nicholas and my private physician knew the truth. Even my grandfather, who worried constantly about my "condition"—believed I was truly disabled. It was a necessary deception, one that had already yielded valuable intelligence about my enemies.
But it had also led to unexpected complications. Like the marriage arrangement grandfather had insisted upon.
"You need an heir, Vito," he'd said just last week, his weathered hands shaking as he gripped his walking cane. "The Romano bloodline cannot end with you. If you cannot... perform your duties as a husband, then we need to find a woman who will understand, who will work with artificial means..."
I'd nearly broken character laughing at that conversation. If only the old man knew that my "duties" were functioning perfectly well, thank you very much.
The irony was that I'd never planned to marry at all. Not until I found her.
Her. The woman who'd haunted my thoughts for two years, who fled my hotel room before dawn, leaving behind nothing but a rumpled bed, the scent of jasmine and vanilla on my pillows, and a hundred-dollar bill on the nightstand.
A hundred fucking dollars. Like I was some kind of prostitute she'd hired for the evening.
Even now, the memory made my jaw clench with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Did she think I was a gigolo? Some pretty boy she could pay for services rendered? The thought that her tiny, apparently empty brain had somehow concluded I was a sex worker was both insulting and oddly endearing.
What kind of woman picks up a stranger in a hotel bar, has the most incredible sex of her life, then leaves money like she's paying for room service?
The sex had been incredible, though. Even two years later, I could remember every detail with crystalline clarity. The way she'd trembled beneath my hands, the soft gasps she'd made when I'd touched her in just the right places, the way her body had responded to mine like we'd been made for each other.
The hotel bar had been deliberately kept dark that night - one of the features that made it popular with people who valued discretion. I'd chosen a corner table in the deepest shadows, a habit born of years in a business where being seen could be dangerous.
She never saw my face clearly, and I never saw hers clearly either.
Only that birthmark had been clear in the dim light filtering through the hotel room's heavy curtains. That small, distinctive mark that had been burned into my memory ever since.
And that moment when I'd taken her from behind...
The red birthmark on her right hip, shaped like a small strawberry. The way she'd cried out when my palm had connected with her ass, the way she'd clenched around me so tightly I'd nearly lost control then and there.
Fuck. Even thinking about it now made my cock twitch in my perfectly tailored pants.
But how the hell was I supposed to find one woman based on a birthmark on her ass? It wasn't exactly the kind of detail I could put in a newspaper advertisement. "Seeking brunette with strawberry-shaped birthmark on right hip. Must enjoy being spanked. Serious inquiries only."
I'd spent two years searching for her. I'd had my men check guest registries from that night, investigated every woman who'd been at the hotel bar, even hired private investigators to track down possibilities. Nothing. She'd vanished as completely as if she'd never existed.
But she had left something behind. Something that made my obsession with finding her even more urgent.
A ring.
Not just any ring—a simple silver band with a small emerald that I'd given to a little girl twenty years ago. A girl who couldn't have been more than eight years old when she'd saved my life.
I was ten, running through the back alleys of Little Italy with three of my father's enemies hot on my heels. They'd cornered me in a dead-end alley, guns drawn, ready to send a message to the Romano family by putting a bullet in the head of the heir.
That's when she appeared, wearing a school uniform that was too big for her. She'd been feeding stray cats behind a bakery when the shooting started.
"This way!" she'd whispered, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a hidden opening in the brick wall that I'd never noticed. We'd crawled through what felt like miles of forgotten tunnels beneath the city until we emerged six blocks away, both of us covered in dust and breathing hard.
"Are you hurt?" she'd asked, her little hands checking me over for injuries with a gentleness that had stunned me.
I'd given her my mother's ring and made her promise to keep it safe. "So I can find you again," I'd told her. "When I'm big enough to protect you properly."
She'd smiled, slipped the ring onto her thumb since it was too big for her other fingers, and disappeared into the crowd before I could even ask her name.
For years, I'd searched for my little savior. Checked every school in the neighborhood, questioned shopkeepers, followed up every lead. But she'd vanished as completely as if she'd been a guardian angel who'd appeared just long enough to save my life.
And now, twenty years later, I'd found that same ring on my hotel nightstand, left behind by a woman who'd fled before dawn.
The woman with the strawberry-shaped birthmark on her right hip.
The connection should have been impossible. The little girl would be a woman now, probably married with children of her own. But that ring... there was no mistaking it. The small chip in the emerald where she'd dropped it on the cobblestones. The way she'd worn it on her thumb because her fingers were too small.
It had to be her.
And now, apparently, grandfather had solved my marriage problem without solving my woman problem.
"I've found the perfect match for you," he'd announced yesterday, his eyes bright with satisfaction. "The eldest daughter of the Cohen family. Beautiful, educated, from good bloodlines. The family is experiencing some... financial difficulties, which makes them very motivated to ensure the alliance succeeds."
So this mystery woman describing me as a monster across the café—this was supposed to be my bride? Isabella Cohen, eldest daughter of Abraham Cohen?