Chapter 3 — Shadows of Control

Vincent

The Saint Estate loomed before me, a fortress carved from ambition and control. Its towering stone walls and ornate iron gates were as much a symbol of power as they were a warning. The faint drizzle slicked the driveway, softening the glow of the marble statues scattered across the estate’s immaculate gardens. They stood like silent sentinels, their stoic faces bearing witness to the secrets festering within these walls. The scent of wet earth mingled with the crisp tang of freshly cut grass, a deceptively clean veil over a world built on blood and betrayal.

Inside, the air shifted—denser, colder. The polished floors reflected the chandelier’s fractured light, glittering like shards of glass scattered across the ceiling. Every sound, from the faint creak of leather to the muted echo of a footfall, felt amplified, as though even the house itself demanded vigilance. This wasn’t merely a home; it was a stage. Every movement, every breath here was part of an unspoken performance, a calculated display of dominance. But I wasn’t an audience member tonight—I was a player.

I found Tara in the east garden.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of roses that clung to the creeping ivy. The garden was a masterpiece of symmetry—geometric hedges, a lattice of delicate blooms, and stone paths laid with surgical precision. It was a space designed to invoke control, a curated Eden that betrayed the tempest I knew churned within her.

She stood at the edge of the pergola, back straight and chestnut hair catching the muted light filtering through the overcast sky. One hand gripped the stone railing, knuckles pale against the cold granite. Her entire bearing screamed defiance, yet I could see the tension in the set of her shoulders. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will—a caged predator testing the limits of its confinement.

For a moment, I lingered in the shadows, observing her. The sharp green of her eyes, even from a distance, burned like a challenge. It wasn’t just rebellion that radiated from her; it was intelligence. She wasn’t merely resisting—she was calculating. Watching her, I felt an unfamiliar ache stir beneath my practiced control. Not desire, not quite—it was something sharper, more dangerous. An awareness that Tara Saint was a complication I hadn’t accounted for.

My shoes crunched against the gravel as I approached, breaking the stillness. Her head turned sharply toward me, green eyes narrowing the instant they recognized me. That gaze—unyielding, taunting, threaded with fire—locked onto mine as if daring me to step closer.

“Vincent,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I stopped just a few paces from her, slipping my hands into the pockets of my coat as though her defiance didn’t unsettle the air between us. The drizzle had stopped, but the dampness lingered, thickening the scent of roses around us. “I thought it prudent to check on the bride-to-be,” I said, letting the words fall with deliberate neutrality. “To see how she’s adjusting.”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—a razor disguised as a gesture. “How thoughtful of you.”

I let the silence stretch, studying her with the same precision I might a chessboard. Her flushed cheekbones, the tremor in her grip against the stone, the way her weight shifted against the railing—it was all there, the unspoken battle raging within her. “Defiance suits you,” I said finally, my voice low, deliberate. “But in a place like this, it’s a dangerous indulgence.”

Her expression sharpened, green eyes flashing like glass catching fire. “And why is that? Are you here to remind me where I belong?”

I stepped closer, the gravel shifting beneath my polished shoes. Not enough to crowd her but enough to disrupt the space between us. “I’m here to remind you what’s at stake.”

Something flickered in her eyes—a mixture of defiance and something softer, more vulnerable. Her hand tightened against the stone railing, her knuckles whitening further. “My place,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness, “is to marry your brother. To smile for the cameras, recite the vows, and play the obedient Mafia wife. Isn’t that the script?”

Her words hit their mark, sharp and deliberate, but I didn’t flinch. “You think this is about you?” I asked, my voice cold, steady. “This is about survival. For your family. For mine. Do you truly think autonomy will protect you? Protect Luciano?”

Her breath hitched, so faint I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching. Mentioning her brother wasn’t a misstep—it was calculated. Her weakness, as much as she tried to bury it. I hated myself for the cruelty of it, but this wasn’t a game we could afford to lose.

Her fingers twitched—subtle, but unmistakable—and my gaze flickered briefly to her side. Was the Vesper Dagger hidden beneath the folds of her dress? The thought sent a strange thrill through me, laced with caution. If she was armed, I’d disarm her before she could blink. But the fact that she might even consider it—there was something intoxicating in that.

“You don’t know anything about my brother,” she said, her voice colder now. Dangerous.

“I know he’s your weakness,” I said softly, the words cutting with precision. “And in our world, weaknesses are exploited. If you’re not careful, Tara, your rebellion will have consequences—and he’ll pay the price.”

Her green eyes burned like embers, and for a moment I thought she might lash out. But beneath the fire, I caught the barest flicker of something else. Fear. “What do you want from me, Vincent?” she asked, her voice raw, the edge of her composure slipping.

“What’s your angle?” she pressed, sharper now, her calculating mind catching up with her emotions. “I doubt you came all this way for a polite conversation.”

I tilted my head, allowing myself a faint smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I want you to survive,” I said finally. “And sometimes survival means playing the part. Bowing your head now doesn’t mean surrendering forever. It means living to fight when the odds are in your favor.”

Her gaze searched mine, as though trying to read between the lines of what I wasn’t saying. “And you?” she asked, quieter now, almost hesitant. “What part are you playing in all this?”

I stepped back then, putting distance between us before I said something I couldn’t take back. Before I let her see too much. “I play the part that keeps my family alive,” I said simply, my tone even. “The same as you should.”

Her silence was heavy, laden with words unsaid, as I turned to leave. But I felt her eyes on me, sharp enough to cut, as I walked away. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

Because Tara Saint wasn’t dangerous for her defiance. She was dangerous for what she stirred in me—the cracks forming in my carefully constructed armor. And that, more than anything else, was a threat I didn’t know how to control.