Chapter 9 - Valentina
Marco Rosetti stands at the stove whisking eggs with the smooth movements of someone’s Italian grandmother. The sight stops me cold in the kitchen doorway, silk nightgown suddenly too thin, too revealing, as sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows painting Chicago gold.
For a moment, I can't process what I'm seeing.
This is the same man who destroyed Antonio's hand for touching me.
The same man who carries a gun like other men carry wallets.
But here he is, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that flex with each movement of the whisk, looking almost… domestic.
My traitorous body responds immediately.
Nipples tightening beneath the silk, that familiar ache building between my thighs.
Two weeks of sleeping beside him, breathing his scent, and my body has learned to crave him like an addiction I can't break.
The marble is cold beneath my bare feet, making me hyperaware of every step, every shift of silk against sensitized skin as I move closer.
The shoulder where I stitched him moves without stiffness now, mostly healed from the Irish blade.
My hands remember the warmth of his blood, how I chose to heal instead of run.
The memory makes something twist in my chest. Not quite regret, not quite satisfaction, but something dangerous in between.
"You're awake," he says without turning. Of course he heard me approach. This man misses nothing.
"You cook." The words escape before I can stop them, tinged with genuine surprise.
He glances over his shoulder, a smile playing at his lips that carries just enough edge to remind me who he is.
"My nonna insisted all her grandsons learn.
'What if you marry a woman who can't feed you properly?
'" His voice softens on the word 'nonna,' carrying a tenderness I've never heard from him before.
Then his eyes darken as they travel down my body, visible through the thin silk.
"Though I'm learning you have other appetites I'm more interested in satisfying. "
The intimacy of this moment feels more dangerous than any threat he's made. This is Marco without the armor of his suits, without the cold control. This is a man who learned recipes from his grandmother, who whisks eggs with the same precision he uses for everything else.
"That's her carbonara sauce," he continues, nodding toward a pan where cream and cheese bubble gently. "She'd threaten to disown any grandson who used store-bought sauce."
Despite myself, I drift closer, drawn by curiosity and the incredible smell. The kitchen is a marvel of modern design and expensive appliances, but right now it feels almost… normal. Like any kitchen where someone is making breakfast for someone they care about.
No. I can't think that way.
"Carbonara for breakfast?" I ask.
"Just a dollop to flavor the scrambled eggs," he says with a wink. "Don't tell anyone."
I huff out a not-quite laugh.
"Espresso?" He pours from an Italian machine, not waiting for my answer. The cup he hands me is delicate porcelain, the coffee inside rich and perfect.
I accept it because refusing feels petty, and the first sip makes me close my eyes involuntarily. It's extraordinary. Of course it is. Everything in this penthouse is designed to seduce through luxury.
"Your nonna taught you well," I admit, watching him plate the scrambled eggs smoothly.
"She taught all of us. Said a man who can't feed his family isn't worth the family name.
" He sets a plate before me, then takes his own seat at the breakfast bar.
Close. Too close. His thigh brushes mine, and the contact shoots straight to my core.
"The memory of her teaching us, it's one of my favorite ones from childhood. "
The admission hangs between us as I take my first bite. The flavors explode on my tongue. Rich, creamy, perfectly balanced. A small sound of pleasure escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes darken at the sound, pupils dilating with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. "Keep making those sounds, principessa, and breakfast will end very differently than planned."
Heat floods my face, pooling lower as my core clenches at the promise in his voice. I shift on the barstool, trying to ease the ache, but the movement only makes it worse. The thin silk of my nightgown provides no barrier. I can feel the cool leather against my bare skin where it's ridden up.
Outside, the sunrise continues its slow crawl across Chicago's skyline, bathing everything in gold. The light transforms the penthouse from a prison to something else, something that looks almost like a home. I push the thought away, but it lingers.
"And how had you planned it to end?" I ask, despite myself. "Breakfast, I mean."
His fingers drum the counter while he thinks. "Perhaps with a lively debate about novels."
The noise of disbelief escapes me before I can stop it. "I'll believe you read fiction the same day that a crow becomes Mayor of Chicago."
His mouth twitches as though he's caught me in a trap. "Have you read Calvino?"
"Italo Calvino?" I blink at him. "You really read fiction?"
"Why so surprised?" He takes his seat at the breakfast bar, close enough that I catch his bergamot cologne. "Did you think I only read military strategy?"
"Well, considering that you have three shelves of…"
"Four shelves," he corrects. "But there's more in the library. Including a first edition of If on a winter's night a traveler."
I nearly choke on my carbonara-infused eggs. "You have a first edition Calvino?"
"Several, actually. My mother collected them." Something softens in his expression. "She loved how he played with the concept of reading itself. The relationship between reader and story."
"The way he breaks the fourth wall," I say, forgetting for a moment who I'm talking to. "Making the reader a character in their own story."
"Exactly." He looks genuinely pleased. "Most people find it pretentious."
"Most people don't have patience for metafiction." I take another bite of the eggs, which are frustratingly perfect. "Though I always thought Invisible Cities was his masterpiece."
"The conversation between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan about cities that may or may not exist." He smiles slightly. "Every city is Venice in the end."
"Or every city is a reflection of the observer's mind," I counter. "That's the whole point—we see what we're prepared to see."
He studies me with an expression I can't read. "Is that what you think you're doing here? Seeing what you're prepared to see?"
"I think," I say carefully, "that Calvino would find our situation fascinating. Reality imposed by force, but perception still somehow negotiable."
A short laugh escapes him—genuine, not calculated. "My wife, the philosopher."
"Your prisoner who happens to read," I correct, but there's less bite to it than usual.
"Speaking of reading." He stands to refill my coffee. "Those war strategy books you definitely didn't take from my library—finding them useful?"
Heat floods my face. "I don't know what you mean."
"The note you left in the margin of Clausewitz was particularly insightful." His tone is casual, but I catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. "About how his concept of friction in war applies to territorial disputes in Chinatown."
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "You found that?"
"'The Torrelli family's weakness isn't their soldiers, it's their supply chain friction.' Direct quote." He's definitely enjoying this. "You were right, by the way. We've been approaching them wrong."
"How did you—when did you—"
"Last night. You're not as subtle returning books as you think." He leans against the counter, watching me with dark eyes that hold more amusement than threat.
The sunlight is a splash of rose gold across the countertops, and the hint of garlic and ham fills the air.
"This is good," I say, gesturing to the eggs, needing to fill the silence that's grown too comfortable. "Really good."
"Two weeks, and that's the first genuine compliment you've given me." His tone is light, but there's something underneath it. Satisfaction.
The days have blurred together into a routine established without my conscious consent.
He leaves for business. I read. He returns.
We eat dinner. We sleep in the same bed, me clinging to the edge like it might save me, him giving me space I didn't expect.
Every night, I touch myself thinking of his mouth between my legs, hating myself for needing what only he can give me.
"You haven't earned many compliments," I counter, but there's no real bite to it.
He stands to refill my coffee, and I realize he knows exactly how I take it. When did he learn that? When did I stop noticing him watching?
He takes a sip of his espresso, watching me over the rim with those dark eyes that see everything. "You're not a prisoner here, Valentina. You're my wife."
"A wife you forced at gunpoint," I remind him, needing to reestablish boundaries that keep blurring.
"Yes," he agrees simply. "But a wife nonetheless. And I take care of what's mine."
The word 'mine' makes me think of how he destroyed that man's hand for touching me. How he holds me when nightmares wake me. How he's made this space feel safe despite everything. How wet I get every time he asserts his possession.
"I'll unlock the library," he says.
"That doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"No," he agrees. "But you'll read the books anyway.
And we'll talk about them over dinner. And you'll pretend you don't enjoy the conversation while your eyes light up discussing character motivations.
While your body leans toward me across the table.
While you forget, for just a moment, that you're supposed to hate me. "
He's right, and we both know it. This routine we've fallen into is becoming comfortable. Familiar. Almost like a real marriage.