Chapter 35 Marco #2
Valentina smiled softly—the kind of smile that probably hid knives. “Tempting enough to risk poisoning your grilled cheese?”
“There are cleaner ways to kill a man,” I said, matter-of-fact.
She watched me carefully. “As a war criminal, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
I almost choked on my sandwich.
Tommy must’ve told her about my past. Of course he’d tell her. Tommy didn’t have secrets, didn’t understand why other people needed them.
“That subject is off-limits.”
She stared at me for a moment longer, deciding whether to press further or retreat.
Her curiosity irritated me. It always did.
Valentina didn’t respect boundaries—not mine, not anyone’s—but somehow, she always knew exactly how far she could push before I’d shut her down completely.
And damn, if I wasn’t tempted to let her this time.
It bothered me how easily she did that—how effortlessly she made me second-guess lines I’d been drawing clearly for years before I even met her. She was relentless in her curiosity, persistent in a way that was as maddening as it was intriguing.
She wasn’t wrong. It was understandable she’d want answers.
She was my wife after all. But she’d agreed to this marriage under the terms I’d laid out—terms that specifically avoided anything resembling emotional intimacy.
Yet here she was, acting like she’d stumbled across some great injustice simply because I refused to talk about birthdays or childhood memories or anything else that reminded me of things I’d rather not bring up.
“We’re married, remember? Call me crazy, but usually, people in our position know things about each other. If not about your work past, then basic things like birthdays and where you grew up.”
I stared at her blankly. “Faubourg Marigny.”
She blinked. “What now?”
I smirked. “Faubourg Marigny. It’s a neighborhood in New Orleans. That’s where I grew up.”
Her brows pulled together. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s not. It’s right next to the French Quarter.”
Her eyes lit up. “So did you, like, grow up around jazz and voodoo?”
Valentina liked romanticizing things. Jazz and voodoo.
If only my childhood had been half that interesting.
More like crowded group homes and foster placements that shuffled like cards.
There had been music, sure, drifting in from the street at night.
But mostly, I remembered noise, chaos, and the feeling that the ground beneath me wasn’t solid enough to build anything lasting.
Still, watching her now, with her eyes wide and intrigued, I hesitated to disappoint her. She looked at my past and saw something fascinating. Something I’d never considered it could be.
“Mostly just loud.”
She didn’t seem deterred. “So no haunted cemeteries? No mysterious swamp rituals?”
“Sorry to disappoint. Just a lot of humidity and tourists.”
She leaned back, chewing the edge of her lip thoughtfully. “I still think it sounds magical. Like a movie.”
“Magical” was definitely not how I’d describe the Marigny.
It was just another place I’d survived. But for a second—just a second—I tried to see it through her eyes.
The jazz clubs, the street performers, the bright colors of shotgun houses crowded together, and the smell of café au lait drifting out from corner shops.
Maybe it was magical—at least the way she imagined it. Maybe everything looked better when you weren’t stuck in the middle of it.
She didn’t give me a chance to respond before she said, “You could show me one day.”
“You want me to show you?”
She nodded. “Isn’t where you come from important?”
Where I came from had never felt important—not to me or anyone else.
Foster care wasn’t exactly a tourist attraction, and my childhood memories weren’t something I was eager to revisit.
The Marigny was a place I’d survived, not somewhere I’d taken pride in.
But she asked the question so simply, like it was obvious.
Like knowing these pieces of me mattered to her.
And somehow, maybe, that made them matter a little more to me too.
“I guess,” I said quietly. “Though you might be disappointed. It’s not exactly what you’re picturing. It’s not like where you came from. Not like your sister’s house.”
I knew what she must’ve been imagining. A family home filled with noise and laughter like the house her sister had. One of those places that made you feel welcome even if you didn’t belong.
My childhood had been nothing like that. It had been the opposite of stable, nothing close to welcoming. It was the kind of place people tried not to remember. Not exactly postcard material.
She tilted her head, regarding me carefully. “Well, no two places are the same, are they?”
“No,” I admitted slowly. “They’re definitely not.”
And for that, I was grateful. Her life hadn’t exactly been easy either, but at least she’d known what home could look like. At least she had memories worth holding onto.
I’d never envied anyone before—never had a reason to—but I found myself wishing, just for a second, I’d known a home worth missing. Somewhere solid enough that showing her wouldn’t feel like exposing a weakness.
“Can I ask another question?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t like it,” she warned.
“Ask me anyway.”
“Tommy said you were in the military.”
I nodded, seeing that she wanted me to confirm it. “I was.”
“But now you’re not. What else is on your resume?”
She wanted to get to know me. That made me smile despite the fact I tried not to. I’d just told her the subject was off-limits, and yet here she was, poking anyway, confident I wouldn’t push her away. Confident that no matter what I said, I’d end up giving her exactly what she wanted.
And damn it, she was right. She always seemed to be. Because even though I knew better—knew how this would end—I’d still give her whatever piece of myself she asked for, consequences be damned.
“I joined when I was seventeen. Graduated early. Served for a while, many deployments. Eventually, I wrecked the left side of my body.”
“Then you suddenly became a lawyer? Doesn’t that take a lot of schooling?”
I nodded. “It does. But Remy has connections, and I am very good at what I do.”
She watched me quietly, listening. Valentina had a way of hearing not just what I said, but what I didn’t say too.
“Do you like it?” she wondered.
“No.”
“But you stayed?”
“Yes.”
Her brow rose. “Why?”
I hesitated. It was the right question—maybe even the obvious one.
But that didn’t mean the answer came easily.
She’d expect something simple: money, stability, maybe influence.
But none of those things were what kept me sitting behind a desk, buried in paperwork, tangled up in other people’s problems.
“I stayed because it made sense,” I said finally. “Remy needed someone he could trust. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions.”
Valentina frowned. I could see her putting the pieces together, realizing I’d willingly trapped myself in another role that didn’t quite fit.
“So you’re doing this for Remy?” she asked softly.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“You do a lot for other people,” she said, her gaze softening. “Makes me wonder if anyone does anything for you.”
I didn’t respond right away. Mostly because no one had ever said that out loud before. Not even me.
It wasn’t something I allowed myself to think about—what I did for others; what they did or didn’t do for me.
I’d learned early not to expect reciprocation.
You either gave something freely or you didn’t give at all.
And for most of my life, giving freely had meant not looking too closely at what I got back.
“No,” I said finally. “I don’t expect them to.”
She tilted her head slightly, considering my answer. “That’s lonely.”
“It’s easier.”
“Maybe,” she said softly. “But it’s time to break that habit, lawyer.”
I smiled. “You’re not really giving me much of a choice, are you?”
Valentina rolled her eyes, her tone dry. “If I gave you a choice, you’d probably just sit in silence forever.”
“Probably,” I admitted.
She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin up on her hand, eyes thoughtful. “Were you always like that?”
“Like what?”
“So serious,” she said. “Even as a kid.”
“I think so.”
“Sounds like you were born forty years old.” Her eyes softened as she reached across the table and stole a corner of my sandwich. “What was little Marco like anyway?”
“Taller than you.”
“Okay, asshole.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you play sports? Were you a delinquent? Were you—oh my god, wait. Did you have an accent?”
“What?”
“A southern drawl. You had one, didn’t you?”
“Not like you’re imagining.”
“Please tell me there’s video evidence somewhere.”
“Likely destroyed,” I said flatly, leaning back. “Along with anyone who ever heard it.”
“Shame. I would’ve paid good money.” She tapped her fingers thoughtfully. “Can you still do it?”
“Not even if my life depended on it.”
She smirked. “What if mine did?”
“Then you’d better get your affairs in order.”
She laughed, shaking her head, clearly enjoying herself far too much at my expense. “Well then, at least tell me you wore cowboy boots and called everyone ‘darlin’.”
“You’re thinking Texas, not New Orleans,” I corrected dryly.
“Sorry. Southern stereotypes all blend together when you’ve never been below Jersey.”
“Figures. Jersey is about as far south as good judgment goes.”
“Yet you ended up with me. Sounds like judgment skipped you entirely.”
“Every man is allowed one mistake. Consider yourself mine.”
She blushed. “You think I’m your mistake?”
“If you prefer, we can call you an unfortunate oversight.”
“An oversight would imply you weren’t paying attention. And we both know that’s a lie.”
“Unfortunately, even the best lawyers occasionally miss the fine print.”
She rolled her eyes. “I should’ve hired a better lawyer.”
“With what—your one dollar?”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Careful, lawyer, or I’ll demand a refund.”
I shook my head slowly, leaning back in my chair. “No refunds. You signed the contract.”