Chapter 5 - The Awakening of the WolfThree weeks passed in a blur of sterile bandages, physical therapy, and quiet luxury.
My arm was now held together by a lightweight carbon-fiber brace, and the cracked ribs had healed enough for me to breathe without sharp stabs of pain. During those three weeks, I rarely saw Vincent during the day—he ran an empire that spanned continents, dealing in shipping, real estate, and entities far darker—but every evening at precisely eight o'clock, he would appear in the penthouse.
At first, we simply ate dinner in silence while overlooking the city. Then, he started bringing books.
Not romance novels or light fiction. He brought translated volumes of Machiavelli, geopolitical histories, corporate takeover strategies, and case studies on psychological dominance.
"A wolf doesn't survive by hiding in the woods, Lena," Vincent said one evening, dropping a heavy, leather-bound ledger onto the glass dining table. "A wolf survives by understanding the terrain better than the hunters."
I looked down at the ledger, then up at him. "Why are you doing this? You saved me from Marcus. You gave me a place to stay. I'm grateful, truly... but I'm just a diner waitress. I don't know anything about empires, or corporations, or power."
Vincent poured himself a glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid slowly before taking a sip.
"When I first saw you at that diner," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave, "you spilled coffee on my table. Do you remember what you did next?"
"I... I apologized. I offered to pay for the dry cleaning with my own tips."
"Exactly," Vincent said, his eyes narrowing. "You took the blame for an accident caused by a clumsy customer bumping into your elbow. You apologized to men who carry weapons for a living because you were conditioned to absorb everyone else's sins."
He leaned forward, slamming his palm softly against the table.
"That stops now. You are no longer a victim absorbing collateral damage. You are a Moretti asset. And in my world, assets don't apologize. They dictate terms."
The words struck me like lightning. Something inside my chest—something that had been beaten down, starved, and suffocated for five long years—suddenly snapped wide open.
Not fear.
Ambition.
"Show me," I said, my voice steady, clear, and devoid of its old hesitation.
May you like
Vincent’s lips parted in a slow, dangerous smile.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Turn to page forty-two."
