Italian Affari

Chapter 4 ~ Angelina

Antonio surged through the throbbing crowd, a vessel of raw emotion. Each step brought him closer to the edge of a truth he couldn't escape. The bass pulsed against his chest like a mocking heartbeat. 'Or what? You'll send me away like your father did to you?' Angelina's words sliced deeper than he'd ever admit, the fury in her eyes haunting him. Shot after shot of amber fire numbed his lips, but not the ache in his chest—she had marked him, and damn it, it burned.

He spotted her at the bar, her mocha hair cascading like a dark waterfall. Her eyes glowed with that familiar, infuriating poise. She stood next to Vladimir Petrov, that bastard with his chiseled Aryan looks and cold, calculating gaze. Antonio's heart twisted—a visceral pull of jealousy yanking at his insides. Her voice, light and silky, reached his ears, twisting the knife deeper. Rage flared, hot, and blinding. He was fucking angry—no, furious—to see her with Vladimir.

"Fuck this," he muttered, downing another shot of liquid courage, feeling the alcohol burn its way down his throat, stoking the flames of his resolve. His green eyes, glazed but sharp, locked on them—locked on her. A dance of casual intimacy played out before him, clawing at his pride.

"Another," Antonio barked at the bartender, slamming his glass down. The liquor splashed into the glass—a golden promise of oblivion. He threw it back, relishing the sear as it set his blood ablaze, armor against the feelings he refused to process.

He shoved away from the counter. Each step toward them was heavy with intent. The world blurred into irrelevance; all that mattered was the confrontation brewing like a storm inside him.

His stride faltered when Zander appeared beside Angelina, his hand clasping her arm with an authority that brooked no argument. The sight of her being pulled away from Vladimir sent a fresh jolt of anger through Antonio. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching as Zander steered her through the crowd and out of sight. His blood simmered, a toxic brew of possessiveness and outrage.

"Son of a bitch," Antonio hissed, redirecting his stormy march toward Vladimir, who stood there with the smug air of a cat who'd just toyed with a mouse.

"Vladimir," Antonio spat the name like venom as he closed the distance. His eyes darkened like storm clouds. "What the fuck do you think you're doing with my—her?"

"Marchetti," Vladimir greeted him, his voice cool, unbothered by the fire burning in Antonio's eyes. "Always a pleasure."

"You're meddling where you don't belong," Antonio growled. "Stay away from Angelina."

"Why so serious?" Vladimir smirked, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Stay away from the Marchettis. Especially Angelina. I won't warn you again," Antonio's voice was a low, lethal rumble, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"A warning?" Vladimir arched a brow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I merely offered an old friend what she needed. Stability. Protection. Things you seem incapable of providing."

Antonio's laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. "You think you can protect her better than I can?"

"A woman like Angelina needs what only a real man can provide," Vladimir mused, his tone laced with implication.

Antonio's eyes darkened further, a threat simmering beneath the surface. "Watch your fucking mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

"Empty threats," Vladimir dismissed, turning away, treating Antonio as though he were beneath him. "Remember who you're dealing with, Marchetti."

"Remember who you're fucking with," Antonio shot back, his fists aching with the urge to strike. Restraint—barely held by the thinnest thread of control—was the only thing keeping him from tearing Vladimir apart. For now.