Chapter 3 - The Secret Vincent Never Wanted Me to Learn
At seven the next morning, my mother knocked on my bedroom door while holding her phone like it contained evidence of a federal crime.
"Emily Grace Bennett."
I pulled the blanket over my head.
"No."
"Did a mafia boss kiss you?"
I groaned.
"No morning should begin with that sentence."
She entered anyway.
My mother, Linda, had the supernatural ability possessed by mothers everywhere: she could be exhausted, worried about money, and still somehow produce enough energy to interrogate her adult daughter before breakfast.
She sat on the edge of my bed.
"The video has six million views."
I slowly lowered the blanket.
"Six?"
"Million."
I closed my eyes.
Maybe I could move to Montana.
Become a beekeeper.
Never speak to another human being again.
Mom shoved the phone toward me.
The footage showed everything.
Tyler insulting me.
People laughing.
Vincent standing.
The kiss.
Tyler's horrified face.
Someone had even added dramatic music.
"I'm going to die."
Mom didn't laugh.
Instead, her fingers touched my cheek.
"I heard what Tyler said."
My stomach sank.
"Mom—"
"Why didn't you tell me he used to talk to you that way?"
I looked down.
Because saying it aloud would have made it real.
Because I'd been ashamed.
Because somewhere deep inside, I'd believed Tyler.
"I thought he was right."
Mom's eyes filled with tears.
"Emily."
"Don't."
She hugged me anyway.
For years, I'd been the strong one.
After Dad died, I handled bills.
When Mom developed heart problems, I delayed school.
When Tyler left me for Vanessa, I smiled and claimed I was relieved.
I became good at pretending nothing hurt.
But that morning, wrapped in my mother's arms while strangers debated whether I deserved to be kissed by an attractive man, I felt exhausted.
Then someone knocked on the apartment door.
Three times.
Slow.
Heavy.
Mom looked at me.
I grabbed the nearest object capable of becoming a weapon.
A hairbrush.
Not ideal.
I approached the door.
"Who is it?"
"Vincent."
I nearly dropped the brush.
Mom's eyes widened.
"Oh."
"No."
"Oh."
"Mom."
"Open the door."
"You're enjoying this."
"After everything you've put me through? Absolutely."
I opened it.
Vincent stood in the hallway carrying two coffees and a paper bag.
No bodyguards.
No intimidating procession.
Just Vincent.
Black slacks.
White shirt.
Sleeves rolled slightly.
Unfortunately, he somehow looked even more dangerous without the suit jacket.
His eyes moved to the hairbrush in my hand.
"Planning to attack me?"
"If necessary."
"Good choice."
I looked at the brush.
"You're mocking me."
"Never."
Mom appeared behind me.
"Mr. DeLuca."
"Mrs. Bennett."
He handed her one of the coffees.
"Decaf. Two sugars."
My head snapped toward him.
"You remember her coffee order?"
Mom looked delighted.
Vincent looked caught.
"I remember things."
"Apparently."
Mom took the coffee and disappeared toward the kitchen with suspicious speed.
Traitor.
Vincent handed me the second cup.
"Oat milk. Cinnamon. No sugar."
I stared at it.
"How do you know that?"
"You drink one every morning at ten fifteen."
"You're not helping the stalking allegations."
"I've realized that."
He held up the bag.
"Blueberry muffin?"
I stepped aside.
"You're frighteningly well-prepared."
Inside, Mom insisted Vincent sit at our tiny kitchen table.
The chair seemed too small for him.
Everything in our apartment seemed too ordinary beside someone whose watch probably cost more than my car.
But Vincent didn't look uncomfortable.
He looked around at the photographs taped to our refrigerator.
Me at sixteen.
Mom and Dad on their wedding anniversary.
A terrible Christmas picture where all three of us wore matching sweaters.
His expression softened.
Then his phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
Mine didn't stop vibrating.
Messages from coworkers.
Unknown numbers.
Three interview requests.
Two people pretending to be journalists.
One message from Tyler.
Enjoy your fifteen minutes. He'll get bored when he sees you without restaurant lighting.
I locked the screen.
Vincent noticed.
"Tyler?"
I hated that he guessed.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters if he's bothering you."
"I can handle Tyler."
Something in Vincent's face told me he wanted to disagree.
Instead, he nodded.
"Then handle him."
The restraint surprised me.
"What are you doing here?"
"I owe you an apology."
Mom quietly collected her coffee and moved toward the living room.
"I'll give you privacy."
"You don't need—"
She was already gone.
Vincent leaned forward.
"I should have asked before kissing you."
That wasn't what I expected.
"You were defending me."
"That doesn't remove your right to choose."
His words caught me off guard.
People talked about Vincent DeLuca as if he owned everything he touched.
Yet the first thing he came to say was that he had crossed a boundary.
"I was angry last night," I admitted.
"You had every right."
"But..."
He waited.
"I don't wish it hadn't happened."
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips.
The temperature in our tiny kitchen seemed to rise ten degrees.
"Neither do I."
Silence.
Dangerous silence.
I stood.
"You're supposed to be terrifying."
"I've been told."
"This is inconvenient."
"For me too."
I laughed.
Then his phone rang again.
This time he answered.
"What?"
His expression became stone.
"Where?"
Pause.
"I'll be there."
He stood immediately.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Nothing you need to worry about."
I crossed my arms.
"That usually means something I should worry about."
His eyes met mine.
"The restaurant received a threat."
My blood went cold.
"What kind?"
"Someone threw a brick through the kitchen window."
"That's not a threat. That's vandalism."
"There was a note attached."
He hesitated.
"What did it say?"
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"'DeLuca should remember what happens when powerful men develop weaknesses.'"
Mom appeared in the doorway.
I felt sick.
"Because of me?"
Vincent stepped closer.
"No. Because of me."
"They called me your weakness."
"They're trying to provoke me."
"Who?"
His silence gave me the answer.
Someone dangerous.
"Emily, I need you and your mother somewhere secure until I know who sent it."
"No."
His expression hardened.
"No?"
"I'm not abandoning our apartment because someone decided to threaten you."
"They threatened you."
"I have work."
"The restaurant is closed today."
"I have bills."
"I'll cover—"
"Don't."
My voice came sharper than intended.
Vincent stopped.
"I don't want your money."
"I'm not trying to buy you."
"I know, but I need you to understand something. Tyler spent three years convincing me I couldn't survive without him. If I walk from one controlling man directly into the arms of another, I haven't learned anything."
Vincent stared at me for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
I blinked.
That had been easier than expected.
"But I'm still not leaving you unprotected."
"Vincent."
"Compromise."
His voice softened.
"One security officer downstairs. He doesn't follow you unless there's an actual threat. You keep working when the restaurant reopens. Your mother keeps her routines."
I considered it.
"And you don't pay my rent."
His mouth twitched.
"That was oddly specific."
"I saw you looking at the overdue notice."
Caught.
"Fine."
"And no expensive gifts."
"You're ruining several plans I hadn't made."
Despite myself, I smiled.
"One security guard."
"Two."
"One."
"One visible."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Vincent."
"Compromise."
Apparently mafia bosses negotiated like children.
"Fine."
He turned to leave.
I followed him to the door.
"Vincent?"
He looked back.
"Be careful."
Something unexpectedly vulnerable crossed his face.
"I always am."
Three hours later, I learned he had lied.
A black SUV exploded in an underground parking garage belonging to one of Vincent's companies.
Nobody died.
But two of his men were injured.
The police called it electrical failure.
Vincent called it a message.
And Tyler?
Tyler chose that exact afternoon to give his first online interview.
He told millions of viewers I'd spent years obsessed with wealthy men.
He called Vincent's kiss staged.
He claimed I'd cheated during our relationship.
Then Vanessa joined him.
Smiling sweetly into the camera, she said:
"Emily has always been jealous of women who take care of themselves."
The clip exploded online.
By evening, my name was trending.
By nightfall, strangers were waiting outside our apartment.
Some defended me.
Others shouted insults.
One woman screamed that I was embarrassing "real women."
I shut the curtains.
Mom sat beside me.
"Don't read it."
"I know."
But I kept reading.
Then another video appeared.
Vincent.
He stood outside Bellini's, surrounded by reporters.
He looked furious.
A journalist shouted, "Mr. DeLuca, did Emily Bennett arrange your relationship for publicity?"
Vincent stopped.
Every microphone moved toward him.
"No."
"Are you dating?"
His eyes lifted toward the camera.
"No."
My stomach dropped unexpectedly.
Then he continued.
"I haven't earned that privilege."
The reporters fell silent.
Vincent looked directly into the nearest camera.
"But since everyone seems fascinated by Miss Bennett, here's something worth reporting."
His voice became colder.
"She works sixty hours a week while caring for her mother. She regularly buys meals for homeless people behind the restaurant. She gave up nursing school to pay family medical expenses. And yesterday she endured public humiliation without insulting a single person."
His eyes darkened.
"If that's the woman people have decided to mock, the problem isn't Emily Bennett."
A pause.
"It's everyone watching."
The clip ended.
I stared at the screen.
Mom smiled beside me.
"That man is in trouble."
"Who?"
"Vincent."
She squeezed my hand.
"He isn't watching you anymore, sweetheart."
"What do you mean?"
"He's falling in love with you."
I wanted to tell her she was ridiculous.
Instead, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph filled the screen.
It showed me leaving our apartment earlier that morning.
Someone had drawn a red circle around my face.
Below it were five words.
Stay away from Vincent DeLuca.
My blood turned cold.
Then another message arrived.
May you like
Next warning won't be a photograph.
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