Chapter 161
LEVI
Julian’s party was ruined.
The glittering spectacle he had poured his vanity and money into—marble floors polished until they gleamed like water, chandeliers dripping with crystals, champagne flowing like a stream of gold—had collapsed under the weight of blood, shattered glass, and the screaming red-blue glow of police sirens. The music was dead. The laughter was silenced. Guests scattered into corners like frightened birds, clutching their jewels, whispering with wide eyes. No one gave a damn about Julian’s prized art collection anymore, not with the chaos staining the walls and the scandal already writing itself in people’s heads.
And I didn’t give a damn either.
Not about Julian. Not about his ruined party, his paintings, his investors, or the shallow guests who had come to worship him. Not even about my own reputation, which I knew would be dragged through the mud by morning. Social media would feast on me, gossip journalists would sharpen their knives, and every stranger with an opinion would decide whether I was right or wrong. And I suspected the world would not take my side—because there were always people who lived for the sight of powerful men like me dragged down into the dirt.
But I didn’t care.
The only thing I cared about was Isabella.
Getting her out of that place. Away from the eyes that had devoured her pain. Away from the cameras that would have immortalized her humiliation and replayed it for the world’s amusement. She was mine to protect. Mine to shield. Mine to claim. And someone had dared—dared—to put their filthy hands on her.
My hands curled into fists as the memory surged up again—the moment I had stepped into the restroom and seen her cornered, broken. My chest tightened. I closed my eyes for half a second, as if darkness could lock the memory away, but it burned behind my lids, searing, unshakable.
I stood stiff beside the policeman, his words drifting toward me like smoke I couldn’t catch. Every bone in my body screamed to break free, to rush Julian again and finish the job. Isabella trembled beside me, her body small beneath the weight of my coat, my father’s hand hovering protectively at her back. The only reason I didn’t lunge at the paramedics loading Julian onto the stretcher was because of them. My knuckles still ached, skin split where they had met his face. My body still hummed with unfinished rage.
“Mr. Ferrari, we may need to call you both tomorrow for a statement,” the officer finally said, his voice steady, professional, unbearably calm. His gaze flicked toward Isabella, as though preparing to question her, and I shot him a warning glare sharp enough to cut. The woman was shaken. Too shaken. Truthfully, so was I.
I barely heard myself when I answered, “You do that.” My voice was calm, but my pulse still rattled like a drum inside me.
Nothing would come of this. I knew it the way I knew my own name. Men like Julian were never punished the way they deserved. Money scrubbed everything clean. The law would slap his wrist and send him home. But it didn’t matter. I had already punished him with my fists, and that was enough—for now. If tomorrow the rage still gnawed at me, I wouldn’t hesitate to pay him a visit in the dark, to remind him who he had crossed.
The ambulance doors slammed shut, swallowing his bloodied body, Julio climbing in after him like a loyal host. Watching them drive away filled me with savage satisfaction. Let him rot in a hospital bed. He had earned every ounce of it. And Julio deserved to have his party ruined.
The fucking bastard. ALL OF THEM! Bastards!
When the police finally cleared us, my father left first. His face was unreadable, but disappointment lingered in the tight lines of his mouth. “We’ll speak tomorrow,” was all he said before stepping into his car. That silence—that restraint—was worse than if he had shouted. But I could handle my father tomorrow. Tonight, all I cared about was my wife.
I forced myself to walk through the wreckage of guests like a man condemned to clean the ruins of his own storm. My shoes crunched against the marble floor, sticky with spilled wine and broken glass, as I made my rounds. I offered apologies where they were expected, bowing my head slightly, the perfect host despite the destruction. Most of the guests who remained were mine—people who had come for the engagement party. I told them this wasn’t how I had wanted the night to end, that I regretted what had happened. Lies, all of it. I didn’t regret a damn thing.
But my voice was smooth. My tone sincere. “I’m sorry for the disruption.” “Thank you for coming.” “I’ll call tomorrow.” The practiced words rolled off my tongue easily, even though my mind was far away, already with Isabella.
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