Chapter 15 - Valentina #2
"That was cruel," I say, though part of me understands it. The honesty of monsters.
"It would have cruel to pretend,” he corrects.
There's something sharp in his smile now, dangerous like all Rosetti men.
"Besides, she was using me too. They use me for the thrill of danger, for the story of fucking a Rosetti.
" He moves closer, and I smell expensive cologne mixed with perfume that isn't his, gunpowder underneath it all. "Fair trade in my book."
"That's a lonely way to live."
His laugh is sharp. "Says the woman who married my brother at gunpoint.
Heat floods my face, but I don't deny it. "That's different."
"Is it? He's using you for legitimacy, for control, for whatever psychological need you fill. You're using him for protection, for purpose, for…" he pauses, studying me with those green eyes that see too much. "Well, that's the question, isn't it? What are you using my brother for?"
The question cuts deeper than intended. "I don't use him."
"No?" Alex's smile shifts, becomes something more genuine. "Then you're either lying or you're in love. And sweetheart, in our world, those might as well be the same thing. Love is just another currency here. You spend it, you hoard it, or you weaponize it."
"Marco isn't like you."
"No, he's not." Alex's expression turns thoughtful.
"He doesn't collect women like butterflies.
He collected you, singular, and now he's done.
Man's been celibate for two years, did you know that?
Two years of nothing but work and violence, then you throw wine in his face and suddenly he's obsessed. "
"I didn't know that," I admit, the information shifting something in my chest. My body's reaction to him makes more sense now. All that pent-up hunger focused solely on me.
"He's different with you," Alex continues, leaning against the wall with casual elegance that doesn't hide the weapon beneath his jacket. "I've known my brother his whole life. He's never actually cared if someone stays or goes. People are chess pieces to him, useful or not, but never essential."
"And now?"
"Now he lets you read his strategy books.
Lets you leave the penthouse alone. Trusts you with family secrets.
" Alex's green eyes pin me in place. "Do you understand how unprecedented that is?
Marco trusts no one, not fully. Not even us.
But you… you he trusts. And trust, in our world, is deadlier than any bullet. "
"He shouldn't," I whisper, remembering the power I wielded last night, how easily I could destroy him if I wanted.
"Probably not. Trust makes him vulnerable. And Marco Rosetti vulnerable is either the most dangerous thing in Chicago, or the weakest. Haven't figured out which yet."
"You sound worried."
"I'm always worried when my brother thinks he's invincible. And right now, he thinks having you makes him untouchable." Alex pushes off from the wall. "Your father's been busy today, by the way. Setting up meetings, making calls. Word on the street is he's planning something big with the Irish."
My blood chills. "Marco knows?"
"Of course he knows. He's got eyes everywhere." Alex's smile is sharp as a blade. "But knowing and acting on it are different things. He's hesitating because it's your father. Because hurting him hurts you."
"My father deserves whatever comes." The words taste like truth and treason both.
"Maybe. But Marco's weighing your feelings above strategy.
That's new. That's dangerous." Alessandro steps closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"Your father's got the O'Briens fully committed now.
That rejected wedding was insult enough, but taking Alice?
That's declaration of war. And there are whispers that some Russians are interested in the chaos. "
"Marco isn't weak."
"No, but he's distracted. By you. By this thing between you that neither of you will name." His laugh is bitter. "Love makes men stupid, principessa. Makes them think they're invincible when they're really just exposed. Makes them hesitate when they should strike."
I think of Marco this last night, the way he held me after I knelt for him, the way he looked at me like I was everything. The way his hands shook slightly when he thought I wasn't looking. "You think he loves me?"
"I think my brother would burn Chicago to keep you safe.
Already started, hasn't he? That rescue yesterday wasn't strategy.
It was pure emotion." Alex's expression is serious now, all trace of his usual charm gone.
"He's got something planned, something big.
Either it'll secure your position forever or get him killed trying. "
"You're being dramatic."
"Am I? When's the last time you saw him truly relaxed? Not pretending, not performing control, but actually at ease?"
I can't answer because he's right. Even in sleep, Marco's wound tight, ready for violence. Even when he comes, there's tension in him, like he's waiting for attack.
"He can't be both invincible and vulnerable," Alex continues. "Either love makes him stronger, or it makes him dead. In our world, there's rarely middle ground. The men who love too much die first."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Stop pretending. Both of you. Whatever this is, commit to it fully or walk away.
" He laughs at my expression. "Yes, I know he'd never let you walk.
But you could make him, if you really wanted.
Tell him you hate him, mean it, break whatever hold you have on him.
He'd let you go rather than keep you hating him. He's got that much pride left."
"You think I have a hold on him?"
"Sweetheart, you own him. Body, soul, and trigger finger. Question is what you're going to do with that power. Because power unused is power wasted, and power misused gets everyone killed."
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns. "Speaking of trouble brewing, Marco's interrogating someone right now. Irish informant, from what I hear. Probably why his knuckles will be bloody when you see him later."
My stomach drops. "Is Marco…"
"Always handling something." Alex starts walking toward the stairs. "Tommy's waiting in the garage. Oh, and Valentina?"
I pause. "Yeah?"
"That vulnerable thing? It goes both ways.
You're just as exposed as he is. Difference is, you don't have an army to protect you.
Just him." His smile is sharp. "Better hope love's enough, because war's coming whether you're ready or not.
And in war, the people we love become weapons our enemies use against us. "
The warmth from seeing Alice dissipates, replaced by cold dread. Alessandro is right. We're balanced on a knife's edge, and any wrong move could bleed us both.
"Also," Alex calls back, already halfway down the stairs, "you might want to ice those knees. The bruises are getting darker. Very telling story they're writing on your skin."
Heat floods my face as I glance down, seeing the marks from the penthouse floor, purple and obvious against my skin. "Ass," I mutter, but he's already gone, laughter echoing behind him.
The penthouse is too quiet when I enter, that particular silence that means violence has visited.
I can smell it. Blood and bleach, fear-sweat and gunpowder.
I find Marco in his study, standing at the window with his back to me, knuckles bloody and raw.
His white shirt has arterial spray across the cuff. Definitely not his.
"How's Alice?" He doesn't turn, but I hear genuine concern in the question. The first time he's asked about someone outside his family with actual care.
"Scared. Hurt. But safe." I cross to him, taking in the damage. His shoulders are rigid with barely contained violence. "What happened?"
"Business." He finally faces me, and I see the cold fury in his eyes, the kind that means someone died badly. "Your father's making moves. Had to have a conversation with someone who thought they could gather information on my wife."
"Alex mentioned you were handling something." I take his damaged hands in mine, examining the split skin across his knuckles. The blood isn't all his. "Whose face did these meet?"
"Someone who won't make that mistake again." His voice is casual, but violence bleeds through every word. "No one will."
I guide him to his desk, pushing him into the leather chair before heading to the bathroom for supplies. This is becoming routine now: him coming back bloody, me cleaning him up. The domesticity of it doesn't disturb me anymore.
"You don't have to do this," he says as I return with antiseptic and bandages.
"Yes, I do." I settle beside him, taking his right hand first. The knuckles are worst here. He leads with this hand. "This is what we do now, isn't it? You bleed, I patch you up. You kill, I accept it."
"That's not what I want us to be."
"No?" I clean the wounds carefully, watching him control his reaction to the sting. His skin is fever-hot under my fingers, alive with violence. "Then what do you want us to be?"
His free hand catches my chin, tilting my face up. "Real."
The word hangs between us as I work on his knuckles. Such a simple concept, such an impossible ask in our world of lies and violence. But maybe that's what we are. Real in our dysfunction, real in our violence, real in this sick need for each other.
"Alessandro says I make you vulnerable," I say, focusing on wrapping his hand rather than meeting his eyes.
"Alex talks too much."
"Is it true?" I finish with his right hand, move to his left. These knuckles are less damaged but still split. "Do I make you vulnerable?"
"Yes."
The simple admission stops my hands. I look up to find him watching me with those dark eyes that see everything, that saw me on my knees last night and loved it.
"You make me vulnerable," he continues, voice steady despite the weight of the confession. "You make me hesitate when I should strike, reconsider when I should destroy. I'm planning moves differently now. Wondering what you'd think if you saw the aftermath."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is." His bandaged hand cups my face. "Your father knows it. The Irish know it. Soon everyone will know that Marco Rosetti has a weakness."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Being vulnerable to you, because of you… it's the most human I've felt in years. Maybe ever."
"It could get you killed. Love and death are the same currency in our world."
"Everything could get me killed. At least this," he gestures between us, "this is worth the risk. You're worth the risk."
I finish bandaging his left hand, the familiar ritual grounding us both. "You can't afford vulnerability in your world."
"Our world," he corrects. "And maybe that's exactly what I need. Someone who makes me remember I'm more than just violence and strategy. Someone who makes me remember why I'm fighting."
"Good," I breathe. I set the supplies aside, meeting his gaze fully. "Someone should."