Chapter 20 - Valentina
He’s hunched over his desk when I find him in the early hours of the morning, territory maps spread across the mahogany surface like battle plans from a war we’re slowly losing.
The lamp casts harsh shadows under his eyes, highlighting exhaustion he’d never show in daylight.
Red marks show Irish encroachment, blue shows our territory, and the shrinking blue makes my stomach knot.
We’re being pushed back, and every lost block is another crack in his empire.
My body still carries sweet reminders of yesterday.
Bruises from his fingers on my hips, that delicious ache between my thighs from being thoroughly claimed for the first time.
But the soreness is nothing compared to the knot in my stomach as I watch him work.
This man who made me scream his name until dawn now looks like he hasn't slept since.
"You need sleep," I say from the doorway, clutching my silk robe tighter.
He doesn't look up. "Can't sleep when we're losing ground."
I move closer, studying the maps over his shoulder. My fingers drift to my pocket where Mother's rosary usually rests, but I left it on the nightstand. Stupid. I need her protection now more than ever, especially for what I'm about to propose.
"We're being too reactive," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Waiting for them to move, then scrambling to respond. We need to take control of the negotiations."
Now he looks at me, those dark eyes rimmed with fatigue. "What are you suggesting?"
My finger finds the spot on the map that's been calling to me since this war started, the place where my childhood memories tangle with my mother's ghost. "Sapore di Casa. The old restaurant in Little Italy."
"That place has been closed for years."
"But it's still owned by the church. Still hallowed land, which makes it neutral ground.
" I lean against his desk, feeling the weight of what I'm proposing.
The wood is warm from where his arms have rested, and I catch his scent.
Coffee tinged with lime and exhaustion. "The Irish want legitimacy.
Meeting at the church's historic restaurant gives them that. They'll come."
But even as the words leave my mouth, something twists in my stomach.
I was only seven or eight when Father met there, small enough to hide under tables and listen to conversations I didn't understand.
My memories are fragments. The smell of garlic, men's voices, the clink of glasses.
What if I'm wrong? What if I'm playing at being strategic when I'm really just a woman with childhood impressions and too much desperation to be useful?
Marco's jaw tightens. "It's too exposed. Too many variables we can't control."
"I remember some of it." My voice carries less confidence now, more honesty.
"Father used to meet his lieutenants there when I was little.
I'd hide and listen. Single entrance from the street, kitchen that connected to the alley, apartment above.
It seemed defensible, from what I could tell as a child. "
He stands, moving around the desk to face me fully. His presence fills the space between us, making my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy. "You're basing tactical assessment on childhood memories?"
"I'm asking you to trust me." The words hang between us, weighted with everything we've become.
Yesterday he was inside me, claiming me, making me his in every way possible.
Now I'm asking for something deeper. His faith in my judgment.
"I may not know every detail, but I know that restaurant meant something. The old families respected it."
His hands find my waist, pulling me closer with that possessive touch that still makes me wet even after our first night together. "My brilliant strategist," he murmurs, and there's pride in his voice that makes me warm from the inside out. "Planning operations like you were born to it."
For the first time since we started this war, he's looking at me as an equal partner in planning, not just his wife who happens to have insights.
The trust in his eyes makes me brave and terrified in equal measure.
This is what I wanted. To be more than his captive bride, more than a body in his bed. To be necessary.
"Liam will come," I promise, though something flickers in my chest when I say it. A warning I choose to ignore. "He's desperate to prove himself after what happened at the wedding. A formal meeting at a historic venue? Sanctified ground? He won't be able to resist."
Marco's thumb strokes my cheek, gentle despite the violence we're planning. The same hand that broke Antonio's bones for touching me now traces my skin like I'm precious. "If we do this, you stay here. Safe."
"I should be there." When he starts to protest, I press my finger to his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath. "Not as your weakness. As your strength. Show them you're not hiding me."
He kisses my finger, then my palm, then pulls me against him fully. My body molds to his automatically now, recognizing its home. "Every time I think I know you, you reveal another layer."
"That's the plan," I say, trying for light when my heart pounds with the weight of what I'm suggesting. "Keep you guessing so you never get bored."
His laugh is soft, exhausted but genuine. "Impossible, principessa."
The restaurant smells wrong.
That's my first thought as we enter Sapore di Casa the next evening. It should smell like garlic and basil, the way it did when I came here as a child. Instead, there's only dust and something else, something that makes my skin prickle with unease.
"Too quiet," Dante signs to Marco, his dark eyes scanning the shadowed corners.
He's right. Even abandoned, this place shouldn't feel so hollow.
I run my hand along the bar where Grandfather used to pour wine for visiting families, trying to shake the feeling that something's off.
The wood is rough now, splintered in places, nothing like the polished surface I remember from when I was small.
The booth where I'd hide under tables, listening to Father's meetings, sits in shadow.
The kitchen. Why is the kitchen so quiet? There should be settling sounds, pipes groaning, something. But there's only silence, heavy and waiting.
"They're late," Marco says, checking his watch. His suit is immaculate as always, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand stays close to his concealed weapon.
"Power play," I suggest, though my voice lacks conviction. "Making us wait to show they're not desperate."
The front door opens, bells chiming with false cheer.
Liam O'Brien enters, and my breath catches.
This isn't the sweating, weak groom from my almost-wedding just weeks ago.
Something has changed in these few weeks since Marco stole me.
He's different now, his green eyes cold as winter lakes.
The humiliation has started changing him into something that makes my instincts scream danger.
"Hello, wife." His voice cuts across the space like a blade, and I feel Marco tense beside me. "Strange to see you across a table instead of an altar."
Two Irish soldiers flank him, their hands casual but ready.
The atmosphere shifts, electric with potential violence.
Liam's gaze travels over me slowly, possessively, like I'm still his property despite everything.
Despite Marco's ring on my finger, despite the marks his mouth left on my throat this morning, despite everything that's happened since that interrupted wedding.
"Mrs. Rosetti," I correct, lifting my chin.
His laugh is bitter. "Right. The stolen bride. Do you know what they call me now?" He takes his seat across from us, movements controlled and predatory. "The groom who couldn't keep his woman. You made me a joke in my own family."
"Business," Marco says, his voice carrying warning. "We're here to discuss territory, not past grievances."
"Everything's a grievance when it comes to her.
" Liam's eyes never leave mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach drop.
"Did you think I didn't know this was your family's old haunt?
That you wouldn't suggest it? You're predictable, principessa.
Your mother trusted the wrong people too, didn't she?
Thought neutral ground meant something. Thought tradition would protect her. "
My blood turns to ice. "What do you know about my mother?"
"More than you, apparently." His smile is sharp as glass. "But then, daughters never really know their mothers' secrets. The deals they make, the people they trust, the reasons they die."
Dante's hand moves to his weapon, but Marco raises a finger, holding him back.
The negotiation continues, but it feels like theater now, everyone playing roles while something darker lurks beneath.
My skin prickles with the certainty that I've made a terrible mistake, that my need to be useful has led us into danger.
My hand finds Marco's arm just as the kitchen door explodes inward.
Irish soldiers pour through what should have been secure exits, weapons drawn, movements coordinated. This isn't a negotiation. It's a trap, and I led us straight into it.
My knees buckle. This is my fault. The taste of copper fills my mouth where I've bitten through my lip. My brilliant plan. My family's neutral ground. My catastrophic arrogance.
"Did you really think we'd negotiate?" Liam stands, pulling his gun in one smooth motion. "That we'd sit across a table and pretend you didn't destroy everything? I've been planning this since the wedding, studying this place, knowing you'd suggest it."
Dante moves faster than thought. He throws himself in front of Marco as Liam fires, his body jerking as bullets tear into his torso. Blood sprays across white tablecloths, across the abandoned restaurant, across the neutral ground that was never neutral at all.
"Dante!" Marco's roar fills the space as his brother collapses, blood pooling beneath him.
More gunfire erupts. Marco pulls me behind the bar as bottles explode above our heads, glass raining down like deadly snow. The booth where I'd hide as a child is now splattered with Dante's blood.
Marco snarls as he shields me, the sound torn from somewhere primal. Even in his fury at my mistake, his body moves to protect me.
Through the chaos, I see Dante trying to sign something with hands that won't cooperate, blood making his fingers slip. His eyes are wide with pain and frustration, unable to speak, unable to sign, trapped in silence.
"Ambush from the kitchen," Marco snarls, returning fire. "The exits you said were secure."
The accusation cuts deep because he's right. This is my fault. I wanted to be his partner, his equal, and instead I've proven why women in our world are kept safe and silent.
"I'll reclaim what was stolen," Liam calls out over the gunfire. "Both of you. The bride and the respect. Everything you took from me."
Marco drags Dante toward the front entrance while I cover them, my hands steady despite the terror coursing through me. Dante's breathing is wet, labored, and there's so much blood. His hands, the hands he uses to speak, are mangled from defensive wounds.
We burst onto the street where Marco's men are already engaged with Irish soldiers. Tommy has the car running, and we pile in, Dante's blood soaking into expensive leather.
"Drive!" Marco shouts, pressing his hands to Dante's wounds. "Get us the hospital now!"
As we speed away, I see Liam standing in the restaurant doorway, his promise hanging in the air like smoke: he'll reclaim what was stolen. Me.
The compound is silent. Dante's been in surgery for three hours, and the doctor's expression when she finally calls tells us everything we don't want to know.
"He'll live," she says, exhaustion heavy in her voice. "But his hands… there's significant damage. Nerve damage, possibly permanent. He may never have full use of them again."
The words land heavy. Dante speaks with his hands. Without them, he's lost his voice all over again. Because of me. Because I wanted to prove I could be more than Marco's kept woman.
Ana sobs against the wall, cradling their newborn daughter who fusses at the distress in her mother's voice. Faith holds Ana up while Luca paces like a caged animal. But Marco… Marco has gone somewhere I can't reach.
He stands at the window, staring at nothing, and the ice in his posture makes me shiver. When I approach, he doesn't acknowledge me. The warmth from this morning, when he called me his brilliant strategist, when he was inside me whispering how perfect I am, has vanished completely.
"Marco, I'm so sorry," I start, my voice breaking. "I didn't know. I never thought…"
"Don't." He cuts me off without looking at me. "Your strategies are done. This is what happens when I forget that Bernardi women get people killed."
The callback to my mother makes the wound deeper than any bullet could. "Please," I whisper. "Let me…"
"This is what happens when I forget who I am." His voice is cold as winter death. "When I let emotion override judgment. When I treat you as something more than what you are."
The words slice through me. "What am I?"
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are empty. All the warmth, the pride, the love I saw this morning when he called me his equal, his partner. It's all gone, replaced by the cold calculation of the Don who took me at gunpoint.
"My wife," he says simply. "Nothing more. Nothing less." His jaw ticks, the only sign that the words cost him something.