Chapter 13 - Valentina
Alice sleeps against my shoulder while Chicago blurs past the tinted windows, her breath shallow but steady from whatever drugs Father forced down her throat.
My heart races, counting down. Forty minutes since we tore away from the Bernardi estate.
Twenty minutes until the hour Marco promised me expires.
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, dark with promises that make my stomach flip. The muscle in his jaw ticks as his gaze drops to where I'm pressing my knees together, trying not to think about that ache. He knows exactly what that look does to me. Has known for weeks.
"Almost there," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, and I hear all the layers beneath—almost to safety for Alice, almost to the compound, almost to the moment I pay what I owe.
Alex shifts in the passenger seat, checking his phone while his hand never strays far from his weapon. "Security team confirms the estate is burning. Your father's men turned on him completely."
The words should bring satisfaction, but all I feel is hollow victory.
"Good," Marco says, but his attention stays fixed on me through the mirror. "He'll be too busy surviving his own men to come for what's mine."
The Rosetti compound materializes through morning mist, limestone and legacy, old Chicago wealth mixed with new power.
Guards nod as we pass through the gates, and I realize this is my first time seeing it in full daylight, without the adrenaline of family dinners or violence clouding my vision.
Manicured gardens. Children's toys on the lawn from some cousin's visit, right next to a security camera gleaming in the morning sun.
"Maria will get Alice settled," Marco says as Tommy parks. "Guest room, third door on the right."
He knows better than to assume that will satisfy me. I won't leave until I see her sleeping soundly.
The foyer smells like antiseptic over fresh flowers, an impossible combination that somehow fits this family perfectly.
Marco's hand burns through my shirt at the small of my back as he guides us through marble halls lined with family photos.
Generations of Rosetti men looking dangerous in expensive suits, women beautiful and trapped in equal measure.
We carry Alice upstairs, her unconscious form light between Marco and Alex. They lay her gently on silk sheets. She mumbles something about napkin squirrels before drifting deeper into drugged sleep. Safe. Finally safe. The relief makes my knees weak.
"She'll sleep it off," Alex says from the doorway, his usual charm subdued. "Maria will check on her every hour."
"And you'll call me as soon as she wakes?"
"The very instant."
Voices drift up from below, laughter mixing with Italian curses. Marco's fingers find my wrist, thumb pressing against where my pulse races like a caged bird. "Come. You promised."
We head downstairs and the voices get louder. "Everyone's having breakfast," I tell Marco. "We can't leave without saying hello."
He growls at the delay but follows me as I detour to the back of the house.
The kitchen is beautiful chaos. Sofia perches on the counter eating pastries while Dante signs something to Ana that makes her laugh despite her enormous belly.
She must be nearly eight months now, looking ready to pop any moment.
At the table sits a couple I don't recognize: a man with Marco's features but red hair and wilder energy, and an elegant woman who watches him with such open adoration it makes my chest tight.
"Leonardo," Marco says by way of introduction. "My cousin from New York. And his wife, Eleanor."
Eleanor turns to me with a smile that reaches her eyes, real warmth beneath the perfect makeup. "Another stolen bride, I hear." Her tone is light, but there's understanding there, recognition of a shared experience. "Welcome to the club."
I study her carefully as I take my seat.
The designer dress, the manicured nails, the way she unconsciously leans toward her husband even while buttering toast. Every gesture speaks of casual intimacy, genuine affection.
Is her happiness fake? Another performance for the family?
Or can women like us actually find contentment in our cages?
Leo says something in Italian that makes Eleanor blush and swat his arm playfully. "Behave," she chides, but she's smiling, her whole face lit with it.
The gesture is so naturally intimate, so casually affectionate, that it makes my throat tight with longing I don't want to examine. She doesn't look like a woman pretending. She looks like a woman in love.
"Don't mind them," Sofia says, stealing bacon from Dante's plate. "Couples are nauseating. Give it a few years, Eleanor will be plotting his death like the rest of us."
Ana laughs at Sofia's joke, then suddenly doubles over with a gasp that cuts through all conversation. Pain and surprise and terror mix in the sound that escapes her. Liquid splashes onto the marble floor as her water breaks in a dramatic rush.
"Oh God," she breathes, clutching her belly with both hands, knuckles going white. "It's too early. The baby's not supposed to—"
The room erupts in panic. These men who kill without blinking, who run criminal empires with iron fists, stand frozen as Ana grips the table edge. Even Dante, usually so controlled, looks lost as his wife pants through a contraction that makes her whole body rigid.
My body moves before my mind catches up, my training overriding everything else. "Everyone step back." The command comes out sharp, authoritative, surprising even me. "Sofia, I need clean towels. Alex, call 911 but tell them we might not have time to wait."
Marco's eyebrows shoot up. "Valentina—"
"I was pre-med before Father ended my education." I'm already helping Ana to the living room couch, checking her pulse, noting how her skin has gone clammy. "Until he decided daughters didn't need careers."
I've always hidden this part of myself, the competent woman Father tried to erase. But Ana's eyes are wild with terror, and I choose to be who I really am, consequences be damned.
Sofia actually obeys, running for towels without her usual snark. Alex has his phone out, speaking rapidly to dispatch. But my focus is entirely on Ana, whose face has gone gray with pain.
"How far apart are the contractions?" I ask, keeping my voice calm despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
"I don't—they just started but—" Ana cries out as another one hits, barely thirty seconds after the last. Too fast. This is happening too fast.
I push her dress up, maintaining her modesty as much as possible while checking her dilation. What I find makes my heart stop. A tiny foot. God, no, not breech. But I force my expression to stay calm. These people are trusting me with everything.
"The baby's coming now," I tell the room, meeting Dante's eyes directly. "And we're not waiting for an ambulance."
"She's breech." The words are heavy in my mouth. "I need to turn her."
Ana's eyes go wild with terror, tears streaming down her face. "What? No, that's—Dante!" She reaches for her husband, who drops to his knees beside her, capturing her hands in his.
My hands are already moving, palpating her belly to determine the baby's exact position. Shoulder dystocia, the worst possible breech position. If I don't turn this baby now, both Ana and the child could die.
"I wish Van was here," Sofia mutters, and I remember. Van, the doctor who married their cousin Carmela. But he's in New York, and I'm all they have.
"I can do this," I tell them, locking eyes with Dante. "But I need you all to trust me completely."
For a man who communicates without words, Dante's response is eloquent. He studies me for one heartbeat, two, searching for something in my face. Then he nods once. Complete trust from a man who trusts no one.
"Marco, clear the room," I order, striding to the sink to wash my hands and arms with hot water and soap. "Everyone except you and Dante needs to leave. Now."
I feel Marco's eyes burning into me, sense his barely leashed need to control the situation warring with his recognition that I'm the only one who can help. But he moves, his voice low and commanding as he ushers extended family out.
My focus narrows to Ana, to the baby who needs to turn, to the blood that's starting to flow too fast. My hands are steady despite the stakes. This is what I was meant to do before Father stole that future.
"Ana, look at me." I grip her hand while my other works to manipulate the baby's position externally. "You're not going to die. Your baby isn't going to die. I promise you that."
"It hurts," she sobs, bearing down against the pain, her whole body shaking.
"I know. But you're the woman who stood up to the Rosetti family. You survived them. You can survive this." My hands are covered in blood now, warm and slick, but I feel the baby starting to shift. "That's it. She's turning."
The room holds its breath as I work, manually manipulating the baby through Ana's belly and birth canal, techniques I learned but never thought I'd use. Each second stretches like hours. More blood. Too much blood. But the baby is moving, responding.
"Please," Ana whispers, her voice breaking. "Please save my baby."
"I'm saving you both," I promise, and mean it. These people might be killers, might be criminals, but right now they're just a family terrified of losing someone they love.
The baby girl slides into my hands with a cry that fills the room like a miracle. Perfect. Tiny. Alive.
"You did it," I breathe, my own voice shaking as I clear her airways quickly. "Ana, you did it. She's perfect."
The infant's wails are the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. Pink and angry and absolutely healthy despite her dramatic entrance. I clean her with the towels Sofia brought, checking her reflexes, counting fingers and toes. Then I place her on Ana's chest, skin to skin.
"My baby," Ana sobs, clutching the child while Dante wraps his arms around them both. His shoulders shake with silent tears I pretend not to see.
"She's beautiful," Eleanor whispers from the doorway, tears streaming down her face, her hand pressed to her heart.
Sofia approaches me slowly as I stand on shaking legs, my hands covered in blood that's already drying, cracking on my skin. She studies me with those sharp eyes that usually cut like knives.
"You did it," she says, and for once, there's no mockery in it. Just genuine warmth, real acceptance.
The sincerity in her voice breaks something in me, and my legs are suddenly not strong enough to bear my weight.
"I need to wash my hands," I manage, voice rough with emotion I refuse to examine too closely. "The placenta will follow soon, and…"
Marco appears at my elbow, guiding me to the kitchen sink. His hands cover mine under the warm water, helping wash away the blood while his family celebrates in the next room. The intimacy of the gesture, him caring for me after I cared for his family, makes my eyes burn with unshed tears.
"Alice is still sleeping upstairs," he murmurs against my ear, his breath making me shiver. "Maria's with her, watching over her."
"Good." I watch the pink water swirl down the drain, taking with it the evidence of what just happened. "That's good."
I catch my reflection in the window above the sink. Hair wild, dress stained, but something different in my eyes. I don't recognize myself. His reflection joins mine, dark and possessive behind me, and the contrast makes my breath catch.
"You've taken longer than your allocated hour." Marco's voice drops to that dangerous register that makes heat flood through me instantly. "You remember what you owe me."
I turn in his arms, finally meeting those dark eyes that have haunted my dreams for weeks. The hunger there makes my nipples peak against my bloody shirt.
"I got a little distracted," I say, waving a general hand toward the lounge room where Ana still lies with her baby.
"Every promise you made," he continues, backing me against the counter, caging me with his body. "Everything you swore you'd give me if I saved Alice. The bill comes due tonight."
My pulse pounds where his thumb presses against my throat, marking the spot he seems obsessed with. "I know."
"You did well with Ana." His praise sends satisfaction through me, and I want to hear it again.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me against him so I feel how hard he is, the thick length of him pressing against my belly through our clothes.
"But principessa…" His lips brush my ear, making me shiver. "You still owe me everything."
The reminder of our bargain sends liquid heat straight to my core. I promised to stop fighting, to be his completely, to pay any price for Alice's freedom. Now she sleeps safely upstairs while Ana nurses her newborn daughter, and my debt to Marco Rosetti is about to be collected in full.
"Yes," I breathe, the word carrying all my surrender.
His smile is pure predator, pure dark promise. "Tommy's bringing the car around. Say goodbye to the family, Mrs. Rosetti. Your husband is taking you home."
The possessive way he says 'husband' makes my chest fill with heat.
I've been fighting this for four weeks, but watching Eleanor's genuine happiness, seeing how Sofia accepted me, feeling the trust Dante placed in me…
maybe surrendering to Marco isn't losing.
Maybe it's choosing a different kind of victory.
The hunger in those dark eyes promises that everything changes once we reach the penthouse. Everything I've been fighting, everything I've been denying, everything I secretly crave comes due tonight.
And God help me, I can't wait to pay.