I can clearly see that he is furious, but honestly, he needs to get over himself. I did him a favor.
"Why are you acting like I have an incurable illness or something?" I challenge, leaning closer. "If you like, we can take a detour and go to the hospital."
Vega closes his eyes briefly, his control slipping. The veins throbbing in his neck are the only sign of how profoundly annoyed he is.
"Come on," I say, trying to lighten the mood with a nonchalant wave of my hand. "It was just a kiss."
Vega's control snaps. "Just a kiss, when you used your tongue?"
I glance at the rearview mirror. Seth's eyes have widened in shock, making him look like a startled owl.
"I couldn't help it," I reply, leaning back with a smirk, fully committed to tormenting him now that the marriage is sealed. "Your lips were just so... tempting."
Seth's eyes grow even bigger, looking like they might actually pop out of their sockets.
Vega has truly reached his limit. His jaw tightens, and the muscle in his temple twitches violently. "Stop the car."
The Maybach immediately pulls up on the side of the road.
"Get out," Vega commands, his voice dangerously low.
I think he's joking, or at least bluffing. "What about the meal you promised?" I ask, my expression innocent.
Vega glares at me, his gaze soul-piercing. He looks like he would tear me to pieces with his eyes if he could. The air in the car is suddenly thick with silent rage.
"Okay, okay," I concede, raising my hands in surrender. "I'm going, damn."
I push the heavy door open and slide out. Seth starts to protest. "Sir—" but he clamps his mouth shut instantly after being glared at.
I am so annoyed at having lost the luxurious meal that I leave the car door open on purpose and start walking down the sidewalk.
The loud, metallic sound of the door being slammed shut echoes behind me. The engine roars, and the black car drives past me, disappearing quickly down the road.
As soon as the car is gone, a wave of relief washes over me. I smile happily. The reservation is lost, yes, but at least now I don't have to spend two hours eating opposite a cold-faced stone. I pull out my phone.
I decide to get some takeout from that excellent Thai place downtown and go back to the gym to eat with my father instead. Since I have that idiot's black card, I'm going to be very generous.
***
Carmine Vastano (Vega's uncle) POV
I sit in the back of the car, the leather seat familiar and comforting. The car is discreetly parked on the side of the street, a few blocks from the courthouse. The door opens, and my subordinate, Rico, silent and efficient slips into the seat beside me.
I take a long drag of my cigar, the thick smoke curling around the back of my hand, where the heavy Vastano ring catches the dim light of the interior.
"It seems legit," Rico reports, his voice flat. "They kissed. Sensually, if I may add."
I sneer. The smoke tastes bitter. My nephew, Vega, suddenly announced his engagement just days ago. Everyone thought he was crazy, because who didn't know that Vega hated being touched by anyone, much less kissed in public? If he was going to marry, it meant he'd simply paid someone to play the part.
I thought the old lady, my viper of a mother would catch him in the lie, which is why I urged her to go and witness her grandson get married.
Who would have thought he would actually let someone touch him like that? The performance must have been flawless.
"Who is she?" I demand, my patience already thin.
Rico hands me a tablet. I stare at the picture of the young woman on the screen: Tyr Evensen. A champion fighter. Not at all what I expected. I stare at her beautiful face for a while, assessing the weakness, the angle.
After a moment, I toss the tablet onto the seat beside me. "This doesn't change anything."
"Should we eliminate the problem?" Rico asks, his hand already moving toward his coat.
"Not yet," I instruct, watching the smoke drift to the ceiling. "I want it to be slow and painful."
My lip curls into a sinister grin.
***
Tyr POV
I'm wrapped in black hand wraps like war paint, the thick fabric tight and reassuring. I stand in the center of the cage, the steel mesh cool against my skin. I circle the mat like a predator, my long braids swinging low like a lion's tail, my gaze locked on the sparring partner across from me, Jace.
He's a seasoned fighter with a reputation for breaking ribs and egos. But today, he is the one bracing, tightening his core and pulling his guard high.
"Ready?" Leif barks, his clipboard forgotten on the floor, the stopwatch dangling uselessly from his neck.
I don't answer. I simply explode.
My first strike, a fast, deceptive feint, draws Jace's guard up exactly where I want it. The second, a brutal spinning back elbow, cracks against his ribs with a sound like a gunshot.
He gasps, his eyes wide with shock and pain, but he's too slow. I'm already inside his defense, raining down knees like judgment. One for the lies, one for the debt, one for the damn wedding.
"Control, Tyr!" Leif shouts, his voice cracking with alarm. "This is sparring!"
But I'm not sparring. I'm exorcising something. Every movement is precise, brutal, and poetic. My footwork is a dance of destruction; heel pivots, shoulder rolls, feints that whisper lies before delivering truth in bone-breaking form.
Jace tries to clinch, hoping to smother the attack and recover. Big mistake.
I twist, drop my weight low, and use his momentum against him, executing a flawless hip toss that sends him flying. He lands hard and skids across the mat with a sound that makes the few spectators wince.
I don't follow. I stand over him, my chest heaving, my eyes burning with determination. Every bruise I give him is a release of the cold, clean anger that Vega sparked.
Leif steps in, a towel raised like a white flag. "That's enough!"
I turn slowly, the sweat gleaming on my brow like a crown. "Just when it was getting fun," I say, my voice low, almost amused.
Jace groans from the floor, clutching his side. Leif kneels beside him, shaking his head. "Are you angry and taking it out on my fighters?" he asks, his tone knowing.
I walk past them, unwrapping my hands. Each strip of black cotton falls like shed skin. I am about to offer some sarcastic retort when the doors to the gym burst open, and Mac storms in. He is obviously here to pick a fight.