Chapter 15 - Valentina
When I reach to embrace my sister, she flinches away.
The rejection stings worse than any slap. Alice sits propped against silk pillows in the Rosetti guest bed, still wearing Mother's white nightgown from yesterday's rescue. The fabric hangs loose on her thin frame, making her look even younger than nineteen.
"Don't." Her voice cracks on the single word.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, maintaining the distance she clearly needs.
The morning sun cuts through the compound windows like judgment, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air between us.
I barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Marco's hands tangled in my hair, tasted him on my lips, remembered the power of bringing him to his knees.
My knees throb with bruises from the marble floor, marks I wear like badges of the war I'm winning. Or losing. I can't tell anymore.
The scent of bergamot clings to my clothes from Marco's embrace this morning, a reminder that I'm walking between two worlds now.
Somewhere below us, I hear muffled voices.
Marco's men handling morning "business" that probably involves blood and pain.
My body still aches from last night, and I shift uncomfortably, hyperaware of how I must smell like him.
"Alice, please. I came as soon as I could."
"You left me there." She won't meet my eyes, fingers picking at the nightgown's hem with the same nervous gesture Mother had. "You chose them. Chose him."
The accusation hangs between us, heavy with truth I can't deny. "He took me, Alice. I didn't have a choice in leaving."
"But you're choosing to stay." Now she looks at me, eyes red but sharp as Father's knives. "I can see it. The way you said his name when you found me. The way you look… settled. Like Mom looked, after she stopped fighting."
The comparison cuts deep. How do I explain that yes, I'm choosing this? That somewhere between being stolen and saved, I've started needing Marco like oxygen? That the cage has become home? The girl who threw wine at him would be horrified. The woman I'm becoming wants to kneel for him again.
"You're right," I admit quietly. "I am choosing to stay."
Alice's laugh is bitter, aged beyond her years. "So you're just like Mom. Loving the wrong man, staying when you should run."
"Mom didn't have options."
"Neither do you, apparently." She pulls her knees to her chest, a defensive gesture I remember from when Father would rage. "He kidnapped you, Valentina. Forced you to marry him at gunpoint. And you're defending him?"
"I'm not defending anything. I'm just…" I trail off, unable to find words that don't sound like betrayal or surrender. My fingers unconsciously drift to my throat where I can always feel the ghost of Marco's lips, and I force my hand back down.
"Do you love him?"
The question hangs between us, heavy as the bodies Marco leaves in his wake. I open my mouth, close it, try again. Nothing comes. The silence stretches, speaking louder than any confession could. God help me. This sick need for dangerous men must be hereditary.
Alice's expression softens slightly, understanding dawning. "I learned to read men's intentions the hard way. Watching Father destroy Mom piece by piece. You have that same look she got near the end. Like the violence stopped being scary and started being… necessary."
My eyes burn with unshed tears. "Mom died trying to leave."
"No," Alice corrects gently. "Mom died because she waited too long to choose. Either stay or go, but the indecision killed her. You're lucky. Your captor wants you alive. Mom's wanted her broken."
When did my baby sister become so wise about survival? I shift closer, and this time she doesn't pull away. "Can I?" I gesture to her tangled hair.
She nods, turning so I can reach the dark strands that match mine.
I find the brush on the nightstand and begin working through the knots, the familiar rhythm soothing us both.
We used to do this every night before bed, back when our biggest worry was Father's temper at dinner, not marriage contracts written in blood.
"I was so scared," she whispers as I brush. "When Father told me about Christopher O'Brien, about the wedding. I kept thinking you'd save me somehow."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner."
"But you came." She reaches back to squeeze my hand. "You and your terrifying husband burned down our world to get me out."
My terrifying husband. The words feel right somehow. I think of his bloody knuckles, the casual violence, the way he kills with the same hands that make me espresso every morning. "He's not… he wouldn't hurt you, Alice. Or me."
"I know," she says simply. "I saw how he looked at you. Like you're the sun and he's been living in darkness. Like he'd kill anyone who tried to eclipse you."
The description makes my chest tight. "It's more complicated than that."
"Love always is. Especially when it comes with a body count." Alice turns to face me, looking older than her years. "Just… be careful, okay? Men like him, they love with the same intensity they destroy with. And in our world, that usually ends in blood."
Before I can respond, she pulls me into a fierce hug, burying her face in my shoulder like she used to during thunderstorms. "I don't want to lose you too," she mumbles against my shirt.
"You won't," I promise, holding her tight. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You already did," she says, but there's forgiveness in it. Understanding. "You're already gone, aren't you? You belong to him now."
The truth of it settles into my bones like lead. Yes, I belong to Marco Rosetti. The question is whether I'll survive it better than Mom survived belonging to Father.
"I need to understand," Alice says as I continue brushing her hair, our reflections caught in the vanity mirror across from the bed. "Help me understand how you can choose this."
My hands still for a moment. How do I explain that Marco's violence feels like protection while Father's felt like imprisonment? That his control comes with care while Father's came with cruelty? That a pang of wetness strikes even now, remembering his pleased groan when I swallowed him down?
"When he took me," I start slowly, "I thought my life was over. Thought I'd become another mafia wife, dead-eyed and decorated. But he… he sees me. Not just as property or a prize, but as a person."
"Stockholm syndrome is a thing, Val."
"I know. God, I know. I've questioned everything I feel, wondered if it's real or just survival.
" I section off another piece of her hair.
"But when those Irish soldiers came for me, when I had the chance to leave with them or later with Sarah, I chose to stay.
Not because I had to. Because I wanted to. "
Alice is quiet for a long moment, processing. In the distance, I hear a door slam, male voices raised in anger before going abruptly silent. Someone didn't give the right answer to Marco's questions.
She squeezes my hand. "You don't look terrified. You look… alive. More alive than I've seen you since Mom died."
The observation hits deep. She's right. For eleven years, I've been going through motions, surviving rather than living. Until Marco stole me from that altar and inadvertently woke me up.
"He makes me feel real," I admit. "Like I matter beyond my last name or my body. He asks my opinion, listens when I speak, trusts me with his family." I think of Ana's birth, of being needed for my skills rather than my bloodline. "I delivered his sister-in-law's baby yesterday."
"What?" Alice's eyes widen.
"She went into labor, breech position. I handled it." Pride creeps into my voice. "His family trusts me now. I'm not just Marco's wife to them. I'm Valentina."
"You sound happy," Alice observes, wonder in her voice. "Despite everything, you sound actually happy."
The realization crashes over me. I am. Somehow, in this gilded cage with my dangerous husband, I've found something I never had in Father's house: myself. Even if that self is darker now, stained with his violence, hungry for things good girls shouldn't want.
I leave Alice's room feeling raw, exposed, like she's peeled back layers I didn't know existed.
The hallway stretches before me, morning light painting patterns on expensive wallpaper.
I can hear sounds from below. Something heavy being dragged, water running, the efficient noise of cleanup.
My knees throb as I walk, bruises from marble floors that I press on deliberately, remembering the power of making him lose control.
I need to find Marco's driver, get back to the penthouse, process everything my sister just made me admit.
Instead, I nearly collide with Alessandro escorting a disheveled blonde toward the stairs.
"I can't believe you're doing this," the woman hisses, her designer dress wrinkled, hair a mess, makeup smeared. She looks exactly like what she is: a morning-after mistake. "You said you'd call!"
"I said you'd call me," Alex corrects with that smile that probably melts panties at fifty yards. "Subtle difference, sweetheart."
"You're an asshole." She jerks away from his guiding hand. "I thought last night meant something."
"It meant we both had a good time. Repeatedly, if memory serves." His tone is light, casual, like he's discussing breakfast options. "But dawn has a way of ending all fairy tales."
He straightens his cuffs, and I notice blood under one fingernail. Not his, not hers. Something from whatever business he handled before his evening entertainment.
The woman's palm cracks across his face anyway, the sound echoing through the hallway. Alex doesn't flinch, just touches his cheek with an amused expression. "Feel better?"
She storms off without another word, heels clicking angry staccato on marble stairs. Alex watches her go, then turns to find me frozen in the hallway.
"Sister-in-law!" His delight seems genuine despite the red handprint on his face. "Enjoying the morning entertainment?"