Chapter 30 - Valentina
Three weeks. That’s all it took to go from fucking away the cemetery memories to sitting at Rosetti family game night like I belong here. Like I haven’t been marking territory distributions on my thighs where Marco’s bruises fade, replacing pain with power.
"Is this what family game night looks like?" I ask Marco, watching Dante sign careful insults about Luca's defense strategy, trying to follow what he's saying. I'll have to learn. His movements are slower, more deliberate than before the injury, but still too fast for me to read.
Faith sits at Luca’s side, conspiring quietly with him when she thinks no one is watching. He grips her hand with iron fingers, like he has no intention of ever letting go.
Sofia threatens to flip the entire Risk board if Alex doesn't stop humming victory songs. The metallic taste of anticipation coats my tongue, the same taste I get before violence, before sex, before anything that matters.
Three weeks since I shot Liam O'Brien in his own church, and the memory still arouses me. God, what has Marco turned me into? Or maybe, what was I always meant to be?
"This is tame," Marco says, calculating his next move with the same focus he uses for actual warfare.
His sleeves are rolled up, and I notice a spot of dried blood he missed on his cuff.
Someone's blood. Someone who probably disagreed with our territory expansion.
"Last month Sofia actually stabbed Luca with a Monopoly hotel. "
"He deserved it," Sofia says without looking up from her systematic conquest of South America. "He was cheating."
"Everyone cheats," Luca counters, rolling dice with suspicious precision. "It's practice for real life."
Ana passes me a glass of wine, the rich burgundy catching the light.
She pours herself a glass of water, holding her sleeping baby in her arms. They named the baby girl Antonia, in honor of Dante’s father.
At just four weeks old, she is tiny and fragile, with tiny black curls plastered to her face.
The scent of baby powder and milk lingers in the air around Antonia, a comforting smell that brings to mind warm cuddles and soft kisses, but somehow doesn’t seem out of place.
“The smell of this red wine doesn’t bother you, Faith?” Ana asks. “I couldn’t stand it when I was pregnant.”
Faith grins. “I’m in the middle trimester. Nothing bothers me anymore.”
“Just wait a couple of months,” Ana mutters. “You’ll feel like a beached whale.”
“I can’t wait,” Luca says, with a glint in his pale blue eyes, and I’m glad they’re locked on his wife and not on me.
Marco's hand brushes mine, but he says nothing. Just turns back to the board where Dante is methodically destroying his European campaign. But under the table, his other hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing the bruises he left there this morning when he fucked me against the shower wall.
"Valentina, tell my idiot brother that Australia isn't worth defending," Dante signs, his movements still stiff from the nerve damage, each gesture taking visible effort.
The doctors said he might regain more function with time and therapy, but for now, his hands work just enough to communicate, a miracle considering how bad the damage looked. Ana translates for my benefit.
"Australia's a fortress," Luca argues. "Two access points, easy to defend."
"It's a cage," I say, surprising myself by speaking. My voice carries more authority now, the voice of someone who's tasted blood and liked it. "Two troops per turn isn't worth the isolation."
The room goes quiet for a moment, everyone looking at me. I've been officially invited to family game night since the church incident, full family acceptance, but I usually just watch, learning their dynamics, noting weaknesses even in the people I'm starting to love.
"She speaks strategy," Alex says with mock surprise. "Our queen has opinions."
"Our queen has been running territory distributions since last week," Marco says, pride clear in his voice. His hand tightens on my thigh, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. "She just hasn't been advertising it."
The game continues with brutal efficiency.
No mercy, even in play. Someone mentions "the soldiers we dealt with yesterday" and everyone raises glasses in a casual toast to necessary violence.
The normalcy of it doesn't disturb me. Instead, I press my thighs together, feeling how wet I am.
This is my normal now: death and desire tangled together until I can't tell them apart.
Sofia takes Africa with ruthless efficiency, the same sweet smile she probably wore when she killed her first mark. Alex makes alliances he breaks three turns later. Luca plays chaotic neutral, attacking whoever seems to be winning, unless it happens to be Faith.
And Marco is losing Europe.
His northern territories fall one by one to Dante's systematic assault.
His brother doesn't gloat, the effort of signing takes too much concentration now, but the satisfaction in his eyes speaks volumes.
Marco's jaw tightens with each lost territory, the same tell he has during actual tactical defeats.
The same jaw I traced with my tongue this morning, tasting salt on his skin.
"Your Mediterranean is exposed," Faith observes, moving pieces toward Marco's southern territories.
"I'm aware," Marco says, but I can see the frustration building.
"The northern route is too exposed," I finally say, unable to watch him lose anymore.
Everyone goes quiet. Even the dice stop rolling.
"What would you suggest?" Marco asks, and there's no condescension in it, just genuine curiosity.
I lean over the board, studying the pieces like they're real armies, real territories. Like they're the Irish soldiers I watched Marco slaughter to get to me. "Sacrifice Britain."
"That's insane," Luca says immediately. "Britain's worth—"
"Britain's isolated." I trace the route with my finger. "Look, you're bleeding resources trying to hold it while Dante picks apart your mainland territories. Let it go. Take southern Europe through Africa instead."
"Africa's Sofia's," Marco points out, his thumb circling the skin of my thigh.
"For now." I meet Sofia's eyes, fighting to keep my voice level. "But she's overextended trying to hold both Africa and South America. She can't defend both."
Sofia's eyes narrow, but there's something else there. Approval? "You're suggesting he come for me?"
"I'm suggesting he stop playing not to lose and start playing to win." I turn back to Marco. "Britain is pride. The Mediterranean is power. Control the center of the board, you control the game."
"That's brilliant," Dante signs slowly, the effort visible in his careful movements. Even I can understand that. "It's fucking brilliant."
"Show me," Marco says, pushing his pieces toward me.
The strategy works.
Six turns. That's all it takes for Marco to dominate the board once I show him the path. Britain falls to Alex, who wastes resources trying to hold it. Sofia splits her forces trying to defend two continents. And Marco slides through the gaps I identified, claiming territory after territory.
"Jesus," Alex mutters as his last piece falls. "She's better at this than you are."
"She's better at everything than me," Marco says, and pulls me into his lap. I grind my ass into him slightly, feeling him twitch. "Tell them about the territory distributions."
"The Bernardi holdings will be absorbed," I say, my voice rougher now. "Every warehouse, every route, every contact. The Irish situation is chaos. We can start claiming their territory within the week."
"She designed the entire plan," Marco adds, his arm tight around my waist. "In one week. Using annotated Xenophon as her reference material. Her margin notes on friction in warfare were more insightful than my own."
"You left better notes in Seneca," I counter, unable to stop myself. "About power being perception."
Luca's eyes sharpen with interest. "You two are passing notes like schoolchildren?"
Faith chuckles.
"Like strategists," Marco corrects, his thumb stroking my waist. "The best conversations happen between the lines."
Sofia actually laughs at that. "Christ, you're both nerds. Violent, terrifying nerds."
Alex snorts out a laugh. “Tell me you didn’t propose to her in a book margin.”
Marco actually slumps, and I can tell he considers that a missed opportunity. I rub his arm to cheer him up.
Sofia raises her glass with a sharp smile. "Next family meeting, Valentina runs strategy."
There's a challenge in her voice, testing whether I'll reach for power or defer to Marco. The old Valentina would have looked to her husband for permission. The woman who shot Liam O'Brien smiles and says, "I already am."
Ana raises her water glass formally. "To the new Queen of Chicago."
The toast ripples through the room. Even Dante raises his water, signing "Queen" with painful deliberation using his damaged hands.
The acceptance is complete, but it came at a price.
Blood on church floors, bodies in Lake Michigan, my relationship with Alice fractured, though not broken. This is what I paid for my crown.
I think of Alice, probably on a train by now, heading west with the money we gave her. Free. The one good thing to come from all this blood.
Later, Marco and I stand on the balcony overlooking our city. Chicago spreads below us, lights twinkling like conquered territories. Marco wraps around me from behind, and I feel his cock hard against my back, always ready, always wanting.
I look out at the city that's ours now. Every light represents territory we control, lives we affect, power we wield. The scent of frost and flowers rises from the gardens at our feet.
"My mother tried to escape this world," I say, tasting blood where I've bitten my tongue. "She died with my father's hands metaphorically around her throat."
Marco's hand moves to my throat, squeezing gently, and I moan. "And you?"
"I'm going to rule it instead," I say, grinding back against his erection. "I'm choosing to put your hands literally around mine, to beg you for the violence she ran from."
His fingers tighten on my throat, and I moan just from that, from his possession, from the promise of violence.
"That's my queen," he growls against my neck, then his teeth sink into the sensitive skin where my pulse races. "Tomorrow we start taking the Irish territories."
My breath catches. "What are you going to do?" But I already know. Can feel it in the way his cock presses insistently against my ass, in the darkness radiating from him.
"I'm going to make them kneel to you." His other hand slides down, pulling my dress up, fingers finding my soaked panties. "Every single one who resists. On their knees before their new queen."
"Marco…"
"Then," he continues, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes me drip, "I'm going to fuck you on their territory.
Claim it all." His fingers push my panties aside, sliding through my wetness.
"So everyone knows exactly who rules Chicago now.
So they understand that you're not just my wife.
You're their queen, and I'm the king who'll kill anyone who forgets it. "
The image he paints, me bent over something in a warehouse, Marco's cock buried inside me while we claim new territory, makes heat power through my entire body.
"You're sick," I breathe, but I'm already imagining it, already desperate for it.
"We both are." He spins me suddenly, pressing me against the balcony railing, the city lights blurring below.
His mouth crashes against mine, and I taste red wine. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll start claiming what's ours, and he'll fuck me on conquered territory, and I'll love every second of it because this is what I've become. A queen who gets wet at the thought of expanding our dark kingdom.
My mother would be horrified.
I can't wait.