16. Valaria
Valaria
Idon’t cry. Ever.
Not in public.
Not in marble hallways lined with oil paintings and secrets.
Not in stiletto heels that cost more than my first car.
But I come close.
I duck into the powder room and brace my hands against the sink. My reflection is too composed. Too perfect. Only the eyes give me away—stormy and wild, like I’m seconds from hurling a champagne flute at the nearest column.
I should have known.
He’s a trained operative with a past darker than a bottomless pool. He has scars he never talks about and secrets he never shares.
And still—still—I let him in.
I gave him my body, my trust, my truth—I thought he’d done the same.
But men like Pietro don’t hand over their hearts. They hand you a gun and say, Trust me.
And then they disappear when the smoke clears.
I take a breath. Fix my lipstick. Raise my chin.
I don’t fall apart.
I retaliate.
Back in the ballroom, I find the Minister of Foreign Intelligence who’s been briefed on the sting. He’s swirling a glass of wine and trying not to look bored. He’s a snake, but a useful one. And tonight, I need venom.
“Minister,” I purr, sliding into his line of sight. “Funny who you see slithering around when the music starts.”
He arches a brow. “Ms. Serrano—I mean Carlotta. Always a pleasure. What brings you to my shadow?”
“I’m curious,” I say, toying with my clutch. “Let’s say a high-value operative on a Crown sting went rogue. Let’s say he got compromised by a mark. What would happen to him?”
The Minister’s smile is slow and sharp. “He’d be blacklisted. Silenced. Sometimes permanently.”
“Even if the mark wasn’t the one doing the compromising?”
“Does it matter?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “Suppose not.”
“A mistake, perhaps?” He inclines his head, lifts his glass—a silent toast.
I walk away before he can ask more.
Because this?
This is bold.
This is a mistake.
The sick hollowness in my chest makes me want to turn back—spin the minister the other way around.
Even if Pietro betrayed me, I’ve just betrayed the man I love. He betrayed my love—used me for what?
Anger courses through my veins.
I’m not going to back down or break down. I’m going to burn it down.
I seek out Luca under the guise of PR logistics. Nod to Emma. Pull him aside. I slip in a question.
“Do you still have the clearance codes for the Intelligence Directorate’s off-grid logs?”
He pauses. “Not on me. Valaria… why?”
“I need to know if someone close to me is a threat.”
“You mean Pietro?”
I don’t answer.
I find my post. Do my duty. As the guests disperse, I encourage them into happy poses. Photos for social media. They are happy to oblige.
Emma and Luca are secured in the villa’s royal suite. I see Pietro giving orders to the security detail. The perimeter will be protected tonight.
I climb the stairs. This can’t wait.
I search Pietro’s room.
Yes, Cucinotta’s soft—he left back door codes on the bedside table.
Back in my room, my nails—the color of dried blood—click the keyboard with fury.
Locked out.
He must have new ones.
I return to his room and rifle through his desk. I find them taped to the underside of a drawer. He is soft. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.
It’s an easy in with the new codes.
And when I dig?
I find the file.
Classified. Red-stamped. Directive issued five weeks ago.
Subject: V. Serrano. Internal asset assessment. Threat potential: Moderate. Emotional leverage: High. Handler assigned: Agent Pietro Cucinotta.
I freeze.
The walls spin.
So, he was sent for me.
To monitor. To manipulate. Maybe even to use me.
I shut the laptop.
I can’t breathe.
Because it was just sex.
It was just cover.
But I thought it was him. And me. And the lie I let myself believe— that he chose me because he wanted to… not because he had to.
My heart fists in my throat.
The mission is far from over. Once the villa is clear, I slip into my room and lock the door. Before dawn, we fly back to Evarra. The coronation gala is tomorrow night. I have many more breaths to fake my way through at his side. It will take both of us to protect Luca and Emma.
But—a little game of cat and mouse—before I kill him.