The morning light pierced through the curtains, prying Ashley from the comfort of her darkness and guilt. She curled into herself, breathing shallow and shaky.
Why am I still here?
Her heavy heart swelled with disappointment. Last night's prayers had gone unanswered—just like every other night. The silence of divine indifference pressed down on her, amplifying the disaster of yesterday. She stared at the ceiling, then at the bed lamp beside her, unable to summon the courage to face the new day.
The weight of her humiliation clung to her like a stone lodged in her chest.
---
Vincenzo's phone vibrated as he finished his morning workout. He wiped the sweat from his brow before glancing at the screen.
Unknown Number: I know what really happened at your office yesterday. Disgraced by some nobody? That's rich. I guess you couldn't handle what came next, so now you're blaming her for it? Hahahaha. What a weak man.
His fist clenched, muscles tensing. His mind replayed the audacity in her eyes, the sting of her slap. His jaw tightened. The humiliation, the public disgrace—it was seared into his memory. No one had ever dared to treat him like that.
And now his half-brother had decided to remind him.
Alfred Sanchez. A bitter, useless man with nothing but jealousy to his name. The bastard son of Mr. Sanchez Smith—conceived through scandal, raised in resentment. Their father had chosen Vincenzo, an adopted orphan, over his own blood. Alfred had never forgiven him for it.
Vincenzo tossed the towel aside and left the gym, his breaths controlled but sharp. He knew Alfred wouldn't stop at a message. He was a cockroach that thrived on others' misfortune, especially Vincenzo's. He'd spread the story to the underworld by now, twisting the truth for his own amusement.
But that was fine.
Because when the time came, Vincenzo would remind Alfred exactly why he was feared.
---
By noon, Vincenzo's car pulled up to a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of the city, the scent of oil and rust heavy in the air. Inside, a dimly lit room buzzed with low murmurs, the sharp scent of cigars curling in the air. Around the table sat the most dangerous men in Chicago—men who ruled the streets in silence, unseen but ever-present.
The moment Vincenzo stepped in, the conversation ceased. All eyes turned to him.
He could feel it.
They knew.
He took his seat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable.
One of the men leaned forward with a smirk. Rico. Alfred's lapdog.
"Vincenzo." Rico's voice dripped with amusement. "I heard an interesting rumor. You, humiliated by some nobody in public? Losing your edge, are you?"
A low wave of chuckles rippled through the room.
Vincenzo didn't react immediately. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood. The room fell into a hush, tension thick in the air.
Then, he smirked.
"You seem unusually invested in gossip, Rico," he said, voice smooth, dangerous. "You should be careful about getting ahead of yourself. Mistakes like that…" He leaned forward, eyes locking onto Rico's. "They tend to have fatal consequences."
Silence.
The air in the room shifted. A few men adjusted in their seats, avoiding eye contact. Rico forced a smirk, but the unease in his eyes was clear.
The meeting moved on to business—territory disputes, alliances, and money. But Vincenzo's mind remained elsewhere.
Alfred was playing his game. And he wasn't playing alone.
---
Later that evening, Vincenzo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, a glass of whiskey swirling in his hand. The skyline stretched before him, glowing faintly against the darkening sky. But his mind wasn't on the view.
Rodger, his right-hand man, stood a few feet away, awaiting orders.
"Keep an eye on Alfred," Vincenzo commanded, his voice low. "I want to know his moves. And find out who leaked the story in the underworld." He took a slow sip of his drink. "Someone is playing both sides. I want to deal with them myself."
Rodger nodded. "Understood, sir."
Vincenzo didn't look away from the city.
In the mafia world, only the ruthless survived.
And Vincenzo had no intention of losing.
---
The bell jingled softly as Ashley stepped into her aunt's cafe, the familiar scent of warm pastries filling the air. But today, the place was empty.
The quiet unnerved her. Normally, people flooded in for Joanna's cakes and muffins, but the scandal had changed everything.
Joanna looked up from behind the counter, forcing a smile. But Ashley could see the exhaustion in her aunt's face—the sleepless nights, the worry she was trying to hide.
"It's been slow today," Joanna admitted, wiping an invisible speck off the counter.
Ashley swallowed hard. Because of me.
She reached for Joanna's hand. "I'm sorry, Aunt. I dragged you into this. I should have been smarter."
Joanna shook her head. "Ashley, I don't blame you. And I'm sorry for how I reacted the other day. I just… didn't know how to handle it."
Ashley nodded absently, but her mind was elsewhere. This wasn't going to go away. Chicago would never forget. She had ruined not only her life but also the lives of those around her.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Another rejection email.
She clenched her fists. Enough was enough.
She needed to fix this.
And that meant facing Vincenzo Sanchez.
---
The towering glass skyscraper loomed before her, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her.
As she stepped into the lobby, all eyes turned to her. The security guards' faces twisted in recognition, amusement flickering in their expressions.
Still, she walked forward, chin high, heels clicking against the marble floor.
At the receptionist's desk, she squared her shoulders. "I need to see Mr. Sanchez."
The woman barely looked up. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No," Ashley said firmly. "But tell him I'm the woman who slapped him."
That got the receptionist's attention.
A phone call later, two men in dark suits appeared at her sides. They didn't speak. They simply led her into the elevator.
Ashley's heart pounded as the doors opened into a vast, luxurious office. The walls were sleek black, and the decor was sharp and modern. It was cold—just like the man who owned it.
Vincenzo sat behind his desk, watching her with an unreadable expression. His tailored black suit only added to his intimidating presence.
Ashley felt painfully underdressed in her simple striped dress. But she refused to shrink.
Vincenzo's lips curled into a smirk. "You've got guts showing up here." He leaned back in his chair, voice low and mocking. "I was beginning to think you'd never come. I suppose your life has gotten even worse?"
Ashley took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I'm here to fix this. You twisted the truth, and your name alone is ruining my life."
Vincenzo raised a brow. "And what exactly do you want? For me to make all your problems disappear?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "I should be asking you the same question. You turned this into something bigger than it was. So what do you really want?"
Vincenzo stood, stepping closer. The sheer height difference was enough to make her pulse race.
"You're either brave," he murmured, "or incredibly stupid."
Ashley's jaw tightened. "I'm neither."
He smirked. "I'll clean up your mess." He leaned in, his voice a dark promise. "But you're going to wor
k for me."
Ashley's breath hitched. "Work for you? Why?"
His smirk deepened. "Because now, you owe me."
And Vincenzo Sanchez never played fair.