Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Valentina
My chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing his forearm with every breath, the contact sending unwelcome tingles across my skin.
Emotions churn inside me—fury at my helplessness, curiosity sharpened by survival instinct, a thread of dread weaving through it all.
He’s bigger, stronger, but I’ve faced down men like him before, in boardrooms and back alleys, where a wrong word could mean a knife in the dark.
“Who am I?” He hesitates, his eyes narrowing as if deciding how much to reveal. The muscle in his jaw ticks again, and I feel the subtle tension in his body, the way his thigh still pins me, unyielding.
Heat builds where our bodies connect, a slow burn that I ignore, focusing instead on the cut at his temple, the way the blood has slowed to a sluggish seep. Good. At least I marked him, left a reminder that I’m not some fragile doll to be handled.
“Dante Moretti.” The name drops from his lips, simple and unadorned, but it lands like a grenade in my mind.
Moretti.
Oh God.
No.
The pieces snap into place—Houston, the Gulf ports, the Four Corners Alliance my father navigated so carefully. Raffaele’s son. The enforcer, now underboss after his father’s death.
Grief shadows his family.
There’s endless speculation about who pulled the trigger. My father swore it wasn’t us, and I believe him.
My brother believes it was the Russos. Even though they’ve been blamed, proof is thin as smoke.
My breath catches, a sharp inhale that makes his eyes flicker with satisfaction, as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
Emotions flood me—shock first, cold and numbing, followed by a rush of understanding that heats my blood.
It doesn’t matter what the truth is. What he believes is the only thing that matters.
And this is the Moretti revenge.
Fear tightens my throat, but I swallow it down, refusing to let it show. I’m Valentina Russo—daughter of Don Fabrizio, his advisor, his shield. I won’t crumble.
“You know who I am.”
As much as I can, I give a small shrug. “An underling, I assume.”
His grin is sharp. Predatory.
What the hell am I thinking in pushing him?
I continue to meet his gaze as my body remains trapped against the wall. The way his heat envelops me makes it difficult to think clearly.
One thing is clear. He knows who I am. Knew exactly what he was doing. Every part of his abduction was perfectly planned, every word and act expertly executed.
The man is the most challenging opponent I’ve ever faced.
The sweatshirt clings to my skin. I’m damp from exertion, and the drawstring of the pants is loose enough that they’ve slipped a fraction lower on my hips.
His thigh shifts slightly, the movement sending a jolt through me that I clamp down on. I force myself to focus on the ache in my wrist, staying grounded through my pain.
He exhales slowly, his breath warm against my cheek, stirring more strands of hair.
Dante Moretti’s eyes continue to hold mine. They’re unreadable, but I catch a flicker of something raw—pain, perhaps—that’s buried deep. “Your family took something from me.”
His words are measured, each one weighted with accusation, his voice rough around the edges, like gravel underfoot.
The pressure of his forearm eases a fraction, not enough to free me, but enough to let me breathe deeper, the air rushing into my lungs in a shaky inhale.
“It wasn’t us.” My denial slips out automatically, fierce and protective, my loyalty to my family a shield I’ve worn since childhood.
Emotions war inside me—defensiveness for my blood, a pang of empathy for his loss that I quickly quash.
I’ve seen grief twist men into monsters. Is that what he is now? My heart aches unexpectedly at the thought, but I push it aside, focusing on the here and now, the way his body cages mine, the way the scent of blood sharpens the air.
His laugh is bitter, short, vibrating through his chest into mine. “Proof says otherwise.” His thumb stops moving, and he loosens his grip just enough for me to feel the calluses on his fingers, rough from whatever violence he’s wrought in his role.
The contact sends a strange thrill through me—dangerous, unwanted—but I ignore it, my mind latching onto strategy. If this is about revenge, I need to talk him down, find the cracks in his armor.
“What proof?” I challenge, my voice gaining strength, each word pushing back against his hold. My free hand twitches at my side, itching to shove him away, but I hold still, calculating.
The room’s quiet presses in, broken only by our breaths, the distant hum of the house—perhaps guards outside, water running somewhere far off. My bare shoulder itches where the sweatshirt has slipped, cool air kissing my skin, contrasting the heat where our bodies meet.
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes tracing my face, lingering on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
Tension coils in my muscles, and every nerve ending is alive, waiting for his next move.
My emotions are swirling in a way they never have before.
There’s anger at his presumption, fear of what’s coming, a reluctant curiosity about the man behind the mask.
He’s not just brute force. That I could deal with.
But there’s intelligence in his actions, calculation and patience that makes him potentially lethal.
“Intercepted chatter. Dallas fronts moving pieces the night before.”
“There’s always chatter. And our business is always in motion.” He knows that as much as I do.
“And then there’s you, Valentina.” His voice drops lower, confiding almost, as if testing my reaction.
“Me?”
“You were in Houston. Walking down the streets as if you owned the turf. Testing the waters?”
Frantically I shake my head. “I was at a gallery opening.”
“Mmm.”
God, I am coming to loathe that response.
“Just as I was having a casual drink last night on a rooftop terrace in Dallas.”
“But—”
“Cut the shit, Valentina.”
His words hit me like whiplash.
“You had men with you.”
“Two.” And only because my father insisted. But he was with me the whole time.
“Five. And they were staking the territory.”
This time his words are more like stones, rippling through my thoughts.
Five?
What the hell?
I know our operations, the careful dance my father orchestrates. If there’s truth here, it’s buried deep, but doubt creeps in, cold fingers along my spine. Did someone in our ranks betray us? Or is this fabricated, nothing more than an excuse for his terrible actions?
I shake my head slightly, the motion limited by his hold. “That’s not enough. You’re starting a war over rumors.” My heart pounds harder, the reality sinking in—my family will be tearing the world apart looking for me, but if he’s moved me far enough, it might take time. “Why would we do that?”
“Why, indeed?” His expression hardens, and his eyes go dead.
Abruptly he releases my wrist. The absence of his touch leaves my skin tingling, but his forearm stays in place, keeping me pinned.
I flex my fingers, and blood rushes back in a pins-and-needles sensation, the feeling a reminder of my failed escape.
“This is all a mistake.” My voice is steady despite the storm raging inside me. “Don’t start a war, Moretti. No one will win.”
“On the contrary. One of us will most certainly win. And the other will pay.”
He steps back finally, his thigh withdrawing, leaving a cool void between us that I feel acutely. My body adjusts to the sudden freedom with a shiver.
He wipes the blood from his jaw with the back of his hand, smearing it across his skin, unconcerned. The cut has stopped bleeding, and there’s only a thin line now.
His motions controlled, he straightens his shirt, but the fabric is still rumpled from where I gripped it earlier.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, composing himself with effortless control.
The determined set of his jaw shakes me.
He intends for someone to win.
Him.
Escape is possible but not easy. There are guards, alarms, and my captor—the enforcer—himself.
“Look…” I’ve been involved in high-stakes negotiations for years. Diplomacy is my greatest hope, now that I know who I’m dealing with. “It’s not too late to undo this. I’ll call my father to let him know I’m safe.”
“Good first step.”
I frown. I hadn’t been expecting that response.
“Our consiglieres will work out an agreement.”
He reaches into his suit-coat pocket and pulls out a phone, offering it to me.
I blink.
“Call him.” He nods.
Still, I hesitate. This has been too easy. There has to be a catch.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and even. “Let him know we’re getting married.”
The words hang in the air—absurd, impossible—sending a shock through me that numbs my limbs. Married? To him?
Laughter bubbles up, hysterical and disbelieving, but I choke it back, my mind reeling.
My emotions crash into each other—outrage first, hot and blinding, followed by confusion, then a cold calculation. This is his strategy, a way to bind families and prevent war. But at what cost to me?
“You’re insane.” I step away from the wall, my bare feet crunching on a shard of glass, a sharp sting that I ignore. I focus on him.
My free hand trembles at my side, but I clench it to steady myself. The room spins slightly, the drug’s remnants or the revelation, I’m not sure.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. Just watches me with that unyielding gaze. “Make the call, Valentina. As you said, neither of us want a war.” His words carry the weight of inevitability, and my stomach drops, fear coiling anew.
“As I said, one of us will win.”
Married?
To my father’s enemy?
I’m overwhelmed by a desperate need to fight back, to fight him.
I lunge forward, not with violence this time but with words, my voice rising. “You think I’ll say yes? That I’ll stand there and make vows to you?” Love. Loyalty. My chest heaves, the sweatshirt shifting again, exposing more skin, but I don’t care.
His expression softens fractionally, almost regretfully, but his voice remains firm. “You will. It’s your only way out.”
His threat lands heavy, sinking into my bones, and I feel the trap close around me.
Everything in me fractures, and resignation creeps in against my will.
I’m angry at my powerlessness, the way he’s so expertly manipulated me.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the sheets cool beneath me, my mind whirling.
Married.
To Dante Moretti.
Each word echoes, each repetition carving deeper into my thoughts. What choice do I have? For now, none. But tomorrow? I’ll find a way out. There has to be one.
He can’t force me down the aisle.
I angle my chin as determination turns into icy resolve.
I’ll play his game, learn his weaknesses, and turn it against him.
He folds his arms across the broad expanse of his chest, his expression implacable. “Make the call, Valentina. Tell your father you’re going to be my wife.”