4. Valaria
Valaria
It’s a mistake. A royal, flaming, kingdom-toppling mistake.
This mission is a mess. A tightly-wound, royally funded, elegantly dressed disaster. And of course, he’s in the center of it.
Pietro Cucinotta. The man is a walking contradiction. Muscles and mockery. A smile wrapped in leather and sin. I swear, if he improvises one more time, I’ll have him tranquilized and dropped in the Fontana di Trevi with a note that says, “Oops.”
He doesn’t follow protocol even when lives are on the line. That’s the part I hate most—because he gets away with it. And worse? It works. His gut is right.
The way he looks at me. I feel the heat.
I feel it. In my throat. In the way I breathe wrong when he’s near. I’ve spent years building walls. Cold, smooth, bulletproof.
It’s not a partnership. It’s a collision course.
This morning in the briefing room, I had listened with crossed arms as the head of Intelligence, Admiral Caldris, droned on about “security risk containment” and “high-value diplomatic optics.” But all I could hear was the dull roar of blood rushing to my temples.
“Any questions, Miss Serrano?” he’d asked smoothly, eyes sharp as blades.
“Yes,” I said, smiling with the kind of practiced professionalism I usually reserve for hostile press briefings. “Just one.”
Caldris had inclined his head.
“Why him?”
I didn’t look at Pietro. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But my peripheral vision spied him. He was lounging in the corner like a Roman god with a death wish—arms crossed, legs stretched out, eyes fixed on me like he was amused that I hadn’t combusted yet.
“Agent Cucinotta has worked dozens of infiltration missions and saved the Crown’s ass more times than I can count,” Caldris replied. “He’s the best we’ve got.”
“The best you’ve got?” I repeated, sweet as cyanide. “Lovely.”
Pietro grunted. “Flattered.”
Caldris didn’t flinch. “You two will pose as a high-profile power couple—recently reconciled after a dramatic public breakup. She’s handling PR for the gala. He's consulting security under diplomatic immunity. No one suspects lovers. They’re too loud, too vain, too volatile.”
“Volatile,” I muttered. “Sounds accurate.”
Pietro tilted his head. “You gonna tell me what color dress to match my bowtie to? Or just keep grinding your teeth until one of them breaks?”
I nearly leapt across the table.
“Enough!” Caldris barked. “You leave tomorrow for the venue—a mountain villa. You’ll have three days to prepare. You will not compromise this sting. Your oath to the crown is more than a promise, it’s a command. Understood?”
“Understood. Tell him that, would you?’
I rose, cool and composed on the outside, furious and flustered inside. Flicking a death stare at Pietro, I left.
His footsteps followed me.
I meant to intimidate him; to make it clear I don’t play games—not with men like him. I warned him. I told him to stay away. But Pietro didn’t back down. Never taking his hands out of his pockets, he stared me down like I was the mission.
That stupidly sexy smile, the low rasp of his voice. I wanted to kiss him again. Hard. Fierce. Like setting fire to everything just to feel something real again—danger—real danger.
Tomorrow, I move into the villa with the one man who makes me feel like my spine is made of lightning and my heart is full of bad decisions.
He looks at me like he belongs in my space. Like he’s waiting for me to admit I don’t really want him gone.
I don’t.
And that terrifies me more than any mission ever could.