Chapter 39 #2
I unlocked the car and slid inside, pulling my phone from my pocket.
No missed calls. Yet. Good sign—or a terrible one.
Either Sebastian hadn’t reached her yet or Valentina was already dealing with the aftermath alone.
Neither option was good, but I’d take the first. I’d figure the rest out on the way.
I pulled away from the curb, gripping the wheel tight enough to turn my knuckles white.
She wasn’t answering my calls, hadn’t responded to the texts I’d sent, and the AA meeting had ended at least half an hour ago by the time I arrived.
When I got home, I shoved the door open harder than necessary, stepping in.
It was dark.
Quiet.
The house felt colder without her, emptier in a way that immediately unsettled me. The tight knot of worry in my gut twisted more.
She wasn’t at her meeting. Not answering her phone. Sebastian was out, pissed, and he’d been one step ahead of me all night.
Panic crept in. I’d always been good at controlling it, pushing it aside, staying calm under pressure, but not tonight. Tonight was different. Tonight was personal. It was about Valentina.
Before I knew it, my hand was moving on its own, swiping violently across the countertop and sending a stack of useless papers scattering to the floor. Bills, files, all of it tumbling to the tile.
I braced my hands on the counter, my breathing ragged, pulse hammering in my ears. “Fuck!” The word ripped from my chest, raw and furious, echoing off the empty walls.
I didn’t recognize my own voice—strained, rough, desperate. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, to pull it together.
My breathing was ragged, harsh, as I tried to piece together my next move. José’s, maybe? She always went there when things got hard. Or maybe—
But I never finished the thought.
I froze as I heard the sharp clicking near the door.
Heels.
I knew exactly who they belonged to.
Every muscle in my body locked tight. Valentina was here. The relief hit me instantly, hard enough to knock the breath out of me—but the feeling lasted barely a second. Because then I saw her standing in the hall.
Fuck.
I’d expected . . . hell, I don’t even know.
Maybe tears. Sadness. Disbelief. Devastation.
Something I could handle; could explain away, or at least soften.
But rage? Pure, unfiltered fury blazing from her eyes?
Shit, I’d never seen her look at anyone like that.
And now she was aiming it straight at me.
I tried, stupidly, to say her name. “Valen—”
I didn’t even finish before one of her shoes came hurtling straight at my chest. The pointed heel hit dead-on, a pain like a hot poker searing through my chest. I bit down hard to swallow back a curse. My hand instinctively reached to the spot where she’d nailed me.
The woman had deadly aim.
“Jesus, Valentina—”
“?No me vengas con eso, cabrón!” Her voice cracked like a whip. She was already slipping the second shoe off her foot. “No tienes derecho a decir una puta palabra.”
She didn’t pause, just hurled that second shoe at me. I barely ducked in time—Christ, who taught her to throw like that?—the sharp heel sailing past my face close enough for me to feel the rush of air against my skin.
“You lied to me!” she snapped, voice shaking, trembling, but not with sadness. “?Crees que soy estúpida, Marco? ?Crees que no iba a enterarme tarde o temprano?”
She stormed closer, barefoot now, eyes flashing dangerously in the dim light.
I’d seen angry men before. Sebastian had once put a gun to my head.
But nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to Valentina: tiny, furious, shaking with the kind of wrath that would make most men step back. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
She crossed the distance before I had the chance to figure out my next move, grabbed my tie, and yanked me forward hard enough to knock me off-balance.
She was close enough now that I could see every detail of her expression—the hurt, the betrayal, buried beneath layers of blazing fury.
Close enough that her eyes burned holes straight through me.
“Valentina,” I tried again, but she wasn’t having it.
With a strength I didn’t realize she had, she shoved me backward hard enough to send me stumbling onto the couch. I landed awkwardly, heavily, and didn’t get back up. I just sat there watching as she paced like a caged animal.
“Lo mataste,” she continued. “You looked me in the eye every single day, and you never once said a word. I-I trusted you. For the first time in my life, Marco, I genuinely believed someone wasn’t going to betray me.
But you—you’re the reason I’m even here!
You’re the reason I needed saving in the first place. ”
Her accusation landed harder than any blow, twisting something beneath my ribs. I’d prepared for anger over what I’d done to Cillian, but her anger wasn’t about him. It was about the lie.
“I made things right,” I finally said, forcing the words past my stubborn pride. “I did everything possible to correct it.”
Her laugh was bitter. “Oh! So this is your idea of charity. Perfect. You felt guilty, and marrying me was your act of redemption?”
I stared at her, my jaw tight. I was losing control—of the conversation, of her trust, of everything. “That’s not what this was, Valentina.”
“No?” she challenged. “Then explain it. Clearly. Without the damn logic. Without rationalizing every step. Tell. Me. Why.”
I hesitated. I’d spent years perfecting restraint, rationalizing every action. Feelings were never part of the equation. Feelings got you killed, compromised. But standing in front of Valentina, logic felt desperately inadequate.
“I had no idea you even existed when I took that job,” I admitted quietly. “Cillian was a name on a list. It wasn’t personal.”
She shook her head, refusing my reasoning. “But it became personal. You made it personal. You didn’t have to marry me, Marco. Why did you?”
“It wasn’t pity,” I answered again.
She narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, daring me silently. “Then what? Guilt? Obligation?”
I stayed quiet, watching her carefully, frustrated by my inability to speak. I’d always known exactly how to justify every action. But this time I didn’t.
“You’re going to have to do better,” she whispered. “Tell me why.”
I drew in a slow breath, fighting the urge to retreat. Damn her. She was relentless. The longer I stayed silent, the more her anger intensified and her eyes burned into mine, demanding answers I wasn’t prepared to give.
“You were right in front of me, Valentina,” I said carefully. “I saw exactly what I’d done to your life, and I thought . . . if I stepped in, I could manage it. Make it right somehow.”
“You just said it wasn’t pity,” she snapped bitterly. “Sounds a hell of a lot like pity to me.”
“It wasn’t,” I countered, frustration seeping into my tone despite my best efforts.
“Then why?” she pressed again. “You’ve explained logistics, convenience, rationalizations, but you haven’t once told me what it meant. What I meant. Why did you even care?”
I stayed quiet again, struggling with my own inability to offer clarity, to be vulnerable.
She was demanding something I didn’t even know how to give.
Because I’d never done it before. I’d never put words to any of it.
Never admitted to wanting something I was terrified to lose.
Especially not someone as unpredictable, volatile, and capable of walking away as Valentina.
She’d already run once. She was practically famous for leaving before she could be left.
I finally stood from my seat, trying desperately to grab a hold of my thoughts. I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I couldn’t offer her any neat explanations or comforting half-truths.
“What do you want me to say?” I finally snapped, turning abruptly away from her.
I couldn’t face those eyes anymore—eyes that saw straight through my every defense.
“You want some easy answer? Something that’ll make sense of this mess?
I don’t have one. I can’t justify what I did—not the way you want. ”
Valentina didn’t understand—couldn’t possibly understand—how much of my life I’d spent avoiding conversations exactly like this.
Feelings, explanations, honest words. They made me feel weak, vulnerable.
Exposed in a way I’d never willingly allow.
That was something I’d learned from childhood, from being passed around from home to home like an unwanted burden—even to my final foster home.
Real was complicated. Messy. It was always easier to pretend, to compartmentalize, to keep emotions locked away.
People left. They always left. I’d learned that lesson young, and I’d learned it well. It was ingrained. Instinctive. The few times I’d let someone in—actually let them in—it always ended the same way, with me standing alone, picking up the broken pieces, vowing never again.
“Was it entertaining at least? Was watching me spiral amusing for you?”
“No,” I admitted, shaking my head. “No, Valentina—never. Listen, I didn’t know it was you. Not at first. Not when it happened.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, dismissing my words.
“The first time I ever saw you was at Cillian’s funeral,” I interrupted, panicking, needing her to hear me. “I had no idea who you were until that moment. If I’d known—”
“What?” she demanded. “You would have done things differently? You would have spared me the humiliation? What did you get out of this, Marco? If not amusement, then what? Sebastian told me about the trades, about Cillian’s will—”
“I made sure those were in your name. Everything Cillian had is yours. It wasn’t about the money,” I insisted quietly, desperate for her to understand. “Not for me.”
“Then what the hell was it about?”
I hesitated, struggling against the truth pressing insistently against my throat. I didn’t want to tell her. I couldn’t.