Chapter 13
VALENTINA
Iwondered at what point the man across from me had stopped listening—or if he’d ever started. Maybe he was just letting me talk, nodding along every couple of seconds so I’d believe he could actually help or at the very least try.
But to my utter disappointment, he couldn’t. Instead he told me everything I already knew.
“There’s really nothing else I can do besides remarry? I thought you were good at this job. Aren’t you supposed to—oh, I don’t know, take him to court or something?”
The bored lawyer looked at me from across the other side of the table as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here, listening to me ask him the same question every time I talked myself into a circle full of hope.
His suit looked cheap. Polyester, maybe, which I’d expect from a free government-assisted lawyer’s office.
With a sigh, he looked down at his papers and then back at me. “Yes, Ms. De La Vega, those are the terms that were set.”
I stared at him. “And you don’t see the problem with that?”
“It’s not about whether or not I see a problem,” he said as he pushed his plastic glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “The terms of the trust were set by your late husband. They’re legally binding.”
It was wrong to hit someone in the face because they weren’t telling you what you wanted to hear, wasn’t it? Still, I felt tempted to do it anyway.
“A dead man has more of a say than me—that’s what you’re saying?”
“That’s . . .” He cleared his throat. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said in a strained voice.
“What if I don’t get married? What happens then?”
“The funds remain in the trust,” he explained. “Indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely,” I echoed. “So Romano gets to hold onto my money forever, and I just have to sit here like a good little girl and play along?”
He hesitated. “The trustee’s role is to manage the funds according to the terms of the trust. If those terms aren’t met—”
“I get nothing,” I finished for him. “Great. Perfect.”
He didn’t argue.
“Ms. De La Vega—”
I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, cutting him off. “Thanks for the chat.”
I left the lawyer’s office with my coat barely pulled on, heels clicking against the pavement.
Waste of time.
I should have known better. Government-funded, bottom-of-the-barrel legal aid.
Some guy with a receding hairline and coffee stains on his shirt telling me, in so many words, that I was screwed.
That my money wasn’t my money unless I played by Max’s rules.
That the best option—the only option—was to get sober, get remarried, and hope Max didn’t decide to move the goalposts again.
I hadn’t even been listening by the end of it. I was just nodding along, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him exactly how useless he was before walking out.
I couldn’t keep getting by like this, blackmailing the poor bastard at AA to sign my attendance slips, pretending to be sober when I knew damn well it was only a matter of time before someone pissed me off enough that I’d need a drink to cool the fire in my veins.
I knew I couldn’t keep it up, but I would, because I was still Valentina.
I could fake it for a while, sure, but then something would happen—a look, a word, a particularly bad day—and I’d feel it. That itch, that pull, that slow, creeping, desperate need for something to take the edge off.
And Max expected me to stay clean long enough to get married?
Ridiculous.
As if marriage was some magical cure for addiction. As if a wedding ring would somehow rewire my brain and make me the kind of woman who sipped herbal tea and did yoga at sunrise instead of spiraling the second the walls closed in.
But I guess this was how they kept wives in the family.
It was never about the money. The money was a leash, but the real point was control. Men like Max didn’t just cut women loose. Not in the Outfit. Not when we knew what we knew.
They couldn’t kill us either. That would be messy. Too many questions. Too much heat. So instead they boxed us in. Put us in gilded cages and made damn sure we stayed there. If we wanted security, we had to remarry. If we wanted freedom, well, too bad. There was no freedom. Not once you were in.
And I’d been in since the day Cillian slipped that ring on my finger.
Now I was here.
Walking.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I let my feet carry me anyway—past blocks, past people who didn’t look at me twice, past everything that had once been familiar and now just felt foreign.
I walked until the city blurred together. Until the cold bit at my fingertips and the wind tangled my hair. Until I stopped thinking about the fact I had no real plan. Then, at some point, without realizing it, I stopped and looked up.
I was standing in front of his building.
Not his anymore. Cillian’s name was on the deed, but it had never really belonged to him. Max owned it in all the ways that mattered, and when Cillian died, he took the paperwork too.
I didn’t let myself think about it too much. I just walked inside and headed straight for the front desk.
The receptionist barely glanced up. Her eyes squinted with recognition.
I could tell she remembered me. I suppose it was hard not to, since last time I’d walked in here as if my hair were on fire, like those stupid cartoons where they’re blazing with rage.
I’d thought it was funny when I was a little kid eating my bowl of cereal in front of the TV. Now? Not so much.
“What can I help you with?” she had asked softly, with a smile.
I hesitated.
There was a long list of things I needed help with. A way out. A plan. A solution that didn’t involve Max’s leash tightening around my throat.
But those weren’t things I could ask for here. I wasn’t even sure why I was here. Maybe out of habit. Cillian used to have me in this office so often I could probably still find my way around blindfolded.
I drummed my fingers once against the counter, my nails clicking softly against the marble. “Um,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m here to see Marco.”
She blinked. “Last name?”
I tilted my head. “Don’t know it.”
That earned me a look. “Is he expecting you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
I stepped back, turning away before I could catch the judgment in her expression. It didn’t matter. I had worse things to worry about.
I started pacing. Not fast, but just enough to keep the energy from settling under my skin. I hadn’t planned this visit—hadn’t even let myself think about it until I was already here—but now I was, I wasn’t sure why I’d asked for him.
Of all the people in this building, of all the ways I could spend my time, I’d walked up to the front desk and asked for Marco.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek, still pacing, trying to piece together what the hell I even planned to say to him. If I needed legal advice I could go anywhere. Find another government-funded hack willing to pretend they gave a shit.
Instead I’d come here.
To him.
I hated the way that sat in my chest, so I told myself this was just because he was a good lawyer.
A really good lawyer.
Expensive too.
I’d spent enough time around men like Cillian and Max to know what good representation cost. And Marco?
He was up there. The kind of guy who could charge five figures just to read your emails.
The kind of guy who didn’t just get people out of trouble—he made sure their names never even touched trouble to begin with.
I knew that, and I knew he wasn’t my lawyer, but I also knew, for whatever reason, it worked for me, the whole “damsel in distress” thing. He liked pretending he wasn’t affected. Like he didn’t give a damn.
I could tell he did. It was subtle, buried under all the arrogance, but it was there.
I was about to tell the receptionist to forget it, that I’d changed my mind, when a familiar figure stepped out from the archway.
Marco.
His brow lifted slightly as he gave the receptionist a glare and then looked back at me.
The memory of his palm pressed against the backs of my thighs made my skin flush hot beneath my sweater.
It pissed me off that I couldn’t just dismiss it.
Instead, it sat there, clinging to the corners of my thoughts, distracting me more than it should’ve.
And now he was standing there looking just as annoyed as always.
How could someone look so perfectly put together and yet still manage to seem perpetually irritated? It was like being pissed off was his natural state. Or maybe that was just whenever I was around.
I met his stare head-on, lifting my chin slightly.
It was easier than admitting how much my heart rate had kicked up the moment he stepped into the room, or how much I was noticing the fit of his suit.
How good he looked in dark colors. How annoyingly handsome his stupid face was when he scowled at me, even from across the lobby.
Damn it. I wasn’t supposed to notice things like that. Not about Marco.
But I did. And now I was here, standing in his territory, about to ask for his help—again. If humiliation had a paragon, I was quickly becoming it.
He moved toward me, and suddenly, the lobby felt smaller, like there wasn’t enough air. He stopped a few feet away, slipping one hand casually into the pocket of his slacks. My eyes followed the movement.
“Valentina.” His voice was flat, guarded. He looked concerned. Not worried—not exactly. Wary, maybe, like he had to prepare himself to deal with me.
Finally, I asked, “Are you busy?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was. But I needed him on my good side, so I refrained from an eye roll and chose to bat my lashes instead as I asked, “Can you spare some time for me?”
He was already annoyed. I could tell. I was throwing off his day, interrupting whatever he had to deal with.