Chapter 11 - Marco
The day after the auction. Since I spent half a million dollars to remind Chicago who Valentina belongs to. Since she pressed against me in the car afterward, so wet I could smell her arousal, so close to surrender before pulling back again.
Today, I'm giving her something more valuable than diamonds: the illusion of freedom.
The bank of security monitors fills my office wall, each screen tracking a different angle of Chicago's streets. My wife walks through them like she owns the city, her dark hair catching April sunlight as she moves through crowds who have no idea they're parting for a Rosetti.
"She's heading north on State," Tommy's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Maintaining distance as ordered. Torrelli's men spotted two blocks east, but they're not moving on her."
I lean back in my leather chair, signing death warrants while tracking her movements.
Three rivals need to disappear after last night's territorial dispute.
My signature seals their fate as I watch her pause at a crosswalk.
The way she tilts her face toward the sun, breathing deep like she's been underwater for weeks, makes something twist in my chest.
Too long since I tasted her. Since she came apart on my tongue calling me husband. The memory makes me adjust myself, already hard and aching just from watching her through a fucking camera.
"Let her breathe, Tommy. But if anyone approaches her, I want to know before they're within ten feet."
The tracking device in her phone shows her path clearly, but I need eyes on her. Need to see what choices she makes when she thinks I'm not watching. But I am. Always counting: her breaths, her steps, the thirty-eight times she's touched her throat today where my mouth was this morning.
She enters Lincoln Park Zoo, and I switch to the public camera feeds my tech specialist cracked years ago.
The paths are nearly empty this early on a Tuesday.
She wanders slowly, stopping to read signs about animals she probably saw as a child before her mother died, before her world became cages and contracts.
Then she finds the penguins.
Twenty minutes. She stands at that glass for twenty full minutes, watching them dive and surface, dive and surface. Her hand presses against the barrier between her and their contained freedom. One caged creature watching another. If she runs, I'll hunt her to the ends of the earth.
"Boss," Tommy's voice again. "She's just… standing there."
"I can see that." My jaw clenches as a male jogger passes too close. She steps aside, and I memorize his face. Just in case.
But what I really see makes my chest tight with something darker than possession.
The way her shoulders finally relax, the first genuine smile I've witnessed that isn't tinged with sarcasm or rage.
She looks young suddenly. Like the twenty-three-year-old she is, not the hardened survivor she's had to become.
Let her run. Let her try. She'll learn what happens when you run from a Rosetti.
The coffee shop on North Avenue is exactly the kind of place Valentina would have frequented before I took her. Exposed brick, overpriced espresso, liberal college kids who don't know their lattes are served in a city I own.
Sarah Harrison finds her within minutes. Old college friend according to my files, pre-law at Northwestern, father's a federal judge. Dangerous connections for my wife to maintain.
"Val, oh my God." Sarah's voice carries through the bug in Valentina's phone. "Everyone's been so worried. After the wedding…"
"It's complicated."
They sit in a corner booth, Sarah leaning forward with the intensity of someone who thinks they're saving a friend.
Valentina's hand drifts to her throat, fingers tracing the spot where I pressed my lips this morning, where I whispered what I'd do to her when she got home if she only asked.
The unconscious gesture, that memory of contact, makes my cock twitch.
"It's not complicated," Sarah insists, voice dropping. "You were kidnapped. The FBI has a task force. My dad knows people who can…"
"Sarah, stop."
"No, Val, listen. We can get you out. Right now. There's a taxi outside. We go straight to the Federal Building. You'll be in protective custody within an hour."
The offer hangs between them like a loaded gun. This is it. The moment of truth. My hand hovers over my phone, ready to call in every soldier I have. If she gets in that taxi with Sarah, I'll burn half of Chicago to get her back.
Valentina's fingers still rest on her throat, pressing against the exact spot where my mouth was, her body holding onto me even when her mind wants to let go. "I can't."
"What do you mean you can't? Val, this is your chance…"
"I'm choosing not to." Her voice carries that edge of authority she's been developing. That Rosetti steel that makes me want to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she screams. "My situation is… managed."
"Managed? You're being held by Marco Rosetti. The Marco Rosetti. Do you understand what he's capable of?"
Valentina's laugh is dark, knowing. "Better than anyone. I've seen him break a man's hand for touching me. Watched him kill three Irish soldiers in our living room."
The casual use of 'our' makes my grip tighten on the pen until it cracks.
Sarah reaches across the table, grabs her friend's hands. "This isn't you. The Val I knew would never…"
"The Val you knew is dead." Valentina extracts her hands carefully. "I need to go."
"Val, please. Just think about it. Call me if you change your mind."
Valentina stands, and for a moment I think she might take the offer. Instead, she bends to kiss Sarah's cheek, a goodbye that feels final.
"Take care of yourself," she says, then walks out, leaving her old life behind again.
Tommy's voice in my ear: "She refused help. Could have screamed, could have run. She chose to leave alone."
I watch her on the street cameras, the way she pauses outside the coffee shop, hand on her throat again.
"Stay with her," I order Tommy, then turn to Luca who's been sitting across from me, cleaning his weapons while I watch my wife. "Handle the Torrelli situation. I want their capo missing by sunset."
Luca's smile is all teeth. "How missing do you want him?"
"Lake Michigan missing."
"My favorite kind." He stands, tucking his gun away. "She's got you wound tight, brother. When are you going to stop playing and just fuck her?"
"When she begs for it."
"From what I hear, she already did. With her mouth on your…"
The paperweight hits the wall where his head was, but Luca's already moving, laughing as he exits.
The bookstore on Michigan Avenue is one of the last independents, too stubborn to die like the woman browsing its shelves. I switch between security cameras, watching her fingers trail across spines. The way she bites her lip while reading makes me picture those teeth on my skin.
She pauses in the philosophy section, pulls down Marcus Aurelius. I know she's already read my copy, left her own notes in my margins. The thought of her handwriting mixed with mine feels more intimate than sex.
Then she finds the strategy section.
My breath catches as she reaches for Sun Tzu's "Art of War." The exact edition I have. She opens it, reads, and something shifts in her expression. Decision crystallizing.
She takes it to the counter, pays cash. Money from the wallet I left on the dresser this morning, another test passed. She borrows a pen from the cashier and scrawls something inside the book, but I can't make out what she's written.
"Dammit!" My fist pounds the desk.
"Boss," Tommy's voice tightens. "She's heading to St. Mary's Cemetery."
Where her mother is buried. Where my mother rests three rows over.
I switch to traffic cameras, following the taxi's path through Chicago's veins. Watch her pay the driver, walk through iron gates that have witnessed too much grief. Her heels, the Louboutins I bought her, sink slightly in the grass.
She finds her mother's grave easily. "Chiara Bernardi, Beloved Mother."
Valentina kneels, expensive dress spreading on the cold ground. The book rests beside her as she traces her mother's name.
"Hi, Mama." Her voice through the phone bug is soft, broken. "I know it's been a while."
She tells her mother about the wedding that wasn't, the marriage that is. About my family, about the violence, about the way I watch her.
"What would you think of me now, Mama?" The words catch, tears flowing. "He's nothing like Father. He's worse. He makes me want the cage. Makes me forget why I should hate him."
The confession hangs in the April air. She's crying properly now, shoulders shaking.
"When he looks at me, I feel like I exist. Like I matter. Not as property, but as… God, Mama, I think about him constantly. Dream about him."
Tommy's report vibrates my phone: "She's been crying for fifteen minutes. Should I…"
"Don't you fucking dare approach her," I type back, my free hand gripping the desk hard enough to leave marks.
She stays another ten minutes, whispering things the wind steals. When she stands, she kisses her fingers and presses them to the stone.
"I'm going home," she tells the grave. "To him. And I think… I think I want to."
The doorman at my building, George, who's been here since before I bought the penthouse, doesn't hide his surprise when Valentina walks through the lobby alone.
"Mrs. Rosetti," he greets carefully. "Should I call up?"
"No need. I'm home." The word falls from her lips naturally, and I watch her freeze as she hears what she's said. "I mean, I'm going up."
"Of course, Mrs. Rosetti. Welcome home."
She flushes but doesn't correct him again. The elevator rises, and I close the security feeds, moving from my office to the living room.
The elevator chimes. She enters with her keys, the ones I left beside the money. Another test passed.