Page 62 of Phantom Mine

The punch flies before I can second guess it, but the satisfaction of hearing the blow connect and my brother’s face snap to the side removes any lingering doubts.

“Enough.” There’s a strange note of madness in my voice.

Behind me, our father chuckles darkly.

Rocco rubs his sore jaw while giving me a victorious smirk. His arms stretch to either side of him as he tips his chin up at me.

“You’re finally admitting you like the stripper.”

“I’m not admitting shit.” Every word is forced past my clenched jaw. I push Valentina behind me towards the door. “She’s nothing. I just don’t need to watch you assault a woman in front of me. I’d do the same for anyone.”

I whirl on Valentina next.

“Get out,” I snap, arm extended towards the door, my jaw so tight it’s one attempt at a facial expression away from cracking in half.

She stumbles back a step, unsure eyes finding mine, but she stays. Her gaze darts to my family before coming back to my face. She hesitates like she doesn’t want to leave me here alone with them. I descend on her when she doesn’t move. Grabbing her by the arm, I drag her to the door. I can’t fucking focus while she’s in here, a clear and visible target to them.

“Matteo—”

“I said,get out.”

I throw the door open, push her out and slam it shut behind her.

My father cocks his brow at me. “Interesting little display, Matteo.”

Ignoring him, I turn on my brother. “You know what else is bad business? Harming the fucking merchandise. The last thing we need is bruised dancers on stage.”

“That’s the reason for your overreaction?” he asks, taunting me with his arrogant smirk.

“The only one.”

“Huh.”

That one harmless enough syllable has the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

“Stay the fuck away from the dancers, Rocco.”

“The dancers?” he asks, smile growing exponentially. “Orher?”

“Both,” I spit. “You don’t want to cross me on this, Rocco. That’s a fucking promise.”

Chapter Seventeen

Valentina

Firenzeis alive with energy when I emerge from the VIP room. The scent of sweat and sugary drinks hangs in the air. The floor is sticky beneath my feet, my heels almost coming off with every step. Vibrant strobe lights cut through the darkness, illuminating bodies and faces caught in movement.

I stumble out in a complete daze, unsure what to do or where to go, but somehow the chaos and sensory overload of the club help to settle me.

Unsteady legs take me away from the VIP area and its familiar faces, and down to the main dancefloor. I don’t have it in me to look into Aurora’s eyes and pretend right now. I navigate through the mass of people towards the bar.

“Vodka soda, please,” I call, motioning to one of the bartenders whose name I can’t remember. Even though the bar is completely overwhelmed, he recognizes me and prioritizes making my drink.

I don’t let him place it in front of me — I snatch it right out of his hand and down it.

His brows lift skyward. “That kind of night, huh?”

“Another,” I answer, settling onto an open barstool.

---