Page 49 of His Savage Ruin
"Marco," I call without looking away from Romeo. "Get over here."
Marco appears from his post down the corridor, and I catch the way his eyes immediately go to Alessia before settling on Romeo, and there's something in his expression that I file away for later—resentment, maybe, or blame, like this is somehow her fault. "Yes, Don Romano?"
“Call all the guards. Now.”
Within three minutes, eight guards line the corridor walls. They stand at attention. Nobody moves.
"You know the rules," I say, keeping my voice level and conversational because shouting would give Romeo the impression that this is about emotion rather than consequences. "You know boundaries exist for a reason. No inappropriatecomments. No touching unless it's part of your job to move someone out of danger."
"Yes, Don Romano." His voice shakes.
"Then explain to me what you were doing just now."
"I—" He stops. Swallows hard. Starts again. "She... I thought?—"
"You thought wrong." I take a step closer, and he presses back against the wall like he wants to sink through it. "When a woman says let go, you should let go."
"No, I?—"
"Yes." The word cuts through his stammering. "You need to understand why that kind of behavior is dangerous in my house."
His face drains of color until he's white as the marble beneath our feet. "Don Romano, please, I'm sorry, I swear I'll never?—"
"You're right about that last part. You won't."
I turn to Marco without taking my eyes off Romeo's face. "Give me your knife."
Marco doesn't hesitate, but I see his jaw tighten as he reaches for his belt, and when his eyes flick to Alessia again there's definitelyanger there now—not at Romeo for crossing the line, but at her for being the reason his friend is about to lose something. His hand goes to his belt and comes back with a folding knife—four-inch blade with a serrated edge, the kind we all carry for utility work and emergencies. He extends it toward me handle-first. I take it, feel the weight of it in my palm, then hold it out toward Romeo. "Take it."
Romeo stares at the knife like it's a snake. "Don Romano, please?—"
"Take the knife, Romeo."
His hand trembles badly when he reaches out and wraps his fingers around the handle. The blade catches the morning light coming through the high windows, throwing small reflections across the marble floor and walls.
"Your left hand," I say, still in that same level, conversational tone that's more frightening than shouting would be. "Pinky finger. I want you to cut it off at the joint closest to your palm."
The silence that crashes through the corridor is absolute. Not one guard moves, not one guard breathes, and I can feel the weight of their attention even though they're all staring straight ahead at nothing.
Romeo stares at the knife. "Don Romano?—"
"Do it yourself, or I'll have Marco hold you down and do it for you. Your choice."
His breathing goes ragged, almost hyperventilating. Sweat runs down his temple in visible tracks, drips off his jaw onto his shirt collar. He looks at me with desperate hope, like maybe if he waits long enough, I'll tell him this was just a test and he's passed it.
I don't.
"Now, Romeo."
"Matteo, stop!" Alessia's voice cuts through the corridor. She moves toward me quickly, and I see her reaching for my arm.
I don't turn to look at her. "Stay back, Alessia."
"Don’t do this. He made a mistake, it was a misunderstanding?—"
"He understood perfectly." I keep my eyes locked on Romeo, who's frozen with the knife trembling in his grip. "This doesn't concern you. Step back."
"It does concern me!" Her voice goes higher, desperate as she moves closer. "He was talking to me, you can't punish him like this."
