Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Valentina
My mind spins in a whirlwind of outrage as cold dread collides inside me. The word married echoes through every nerve, carving deeper with each repetition, like a blade etching into stone.
Dante Moretti stands there, arms folded across his massive chest, his expression as unyielding as the walls trapping me in this room.
He’s not just my captor anymore—he’s positioning himself as my future husband, a twisted, depraved knot binding our families to prevent the war he’s ignited with this abduction.
And at what cost? My freedom, my choices, my life—all sacrificed on the altar of his vengeance.
I sink deeper onto the edge of the bed, the cool sheets, a stark contrast to the heat flushing my skin.
My bare feet press into the floor, and a sharp sting reminds me of the glass shard I stepped on earlier. Ignoring it, I force my thoughts to sharpen.
Diplomacy is my weapon now, the only one left in this gilded cage.
If I play this right, I can buy time, find a crack in his plan. Refuse, and he’ll drug me again—that much is clear from the steel in his eyes. Compliance, strategic and measured, might give me leverage.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.
The air between us thickens, charged with the remnants of our earlier struggle—his blood smeared on his jaw, my wrist still tingling from his grip.
“Fine.” My voice emerges steady, laced with the resolve I’ve honed at my father’s side.
“But if you want this call to go smoothly, give me my phone back. There’s a better chance he’ll answer that way. ”
He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile curving his lips, not reaching his eyes. It sends a shiver down my spine, part predatory, part amused, as if he’s anticipating my every move. “Oh, he’ll answer.”
The words hang there, simple and absolute, underscoring his control. My father, the man who rules Dallas with an iron fist, reduced to a pawn in Dante’s game.
His phone feels heavier than it should be.
I curl my fingers around it, the cool metal grounding me as I weigh my options. I wanted my own phone so I could signal that I was in trouble.
But Moretti is right. Fabrizio Russo won’t ignore his call.
Especially if he knows I’m gone.
But does he?
I have no idea if Santo knows anything.
As it is, I’ll have to navigate this conversation under Moretti’s watchful stare, every word supervised, every inflection a potential betrayal.
I exhale slowly, the breath steadying the frantic beat of my heart.
Strategy first: confirm I’m alive and relay the marriage demand.
“Do it, Valentina.” Dante nods toward the phone, his posture unchanging.
What choice do I have?
In any of this?
My heart pounding, I begin to dial the only phone number I know by heart.
For a moment, I hover over the final digit.
The screen’s glow casts a pale light across my knuckles, illuminating the faint bruises blooming from our earlier tussle.
The room’s silence presses in, broken only by the distant hum of air conditioning.
My pulse thuds frantically in my ears.
And finally, I press that last button.
The line connects with a soft click, the ringtone echo tinny through the speaker.
One ring stretches into eternity, making my breath catch.
Two rings, and my mind races through scenarios—my father ignoring it if he sees Dante’s name or answering with calculated calm, masking whatever storm brews beneath.
On the third, doubt creeps in. What if he doesn’t pick up?
Finally the call connects, and the line crackles to life with a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
There’s no immediate greeting, just a heavy silence that tells me he’s there, waiting, assessing.
My father’s voice finally emerges, low and edged with the wariness of a man who’s navigated too many traps. “Russo.”
His voice is neutral, guarded—no hint of recognition or alarm, as if this could be any late-night business call.
But beneath it, I sense the coiled readiness that I’ve witnessed in countless negotiations.
He knows.
I clench my free hand in the sheet. “Papa, it’s me.” The words escape in a rush, but my voice is steadier than I feel.
I’m his daughter, through and through.
“Valentina.” His voice cracks open, raw urgency bleeding through, the paternal instinct overriding the don’s composure.
Suddenly my eyes sting with unshed tears.
This is his worst nightmare come true.
“I’m…” I pause, the word hanging heavy, my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth. Dante continues to watch me; his regard is as cold as it is calculated. “I’m safe.”
“Are you hurt? I’ll send—”
“I’m fine.” I cut him off, the interruption sharp, my breath hitching as I force the words out, each one a calculated step on this precarious tightrope.
The phone warms in my grip, a lifeline that’s also a chain under Dante’s watchful eyes. “I’m with Dante Moretti.”
A sharp inhalation ricochets across the distance. “What the—” He follows with a string of low, venomous profanities in Italian. “That figlio di puttana. I’ll have his head—”
His fury is a living, breathing thing.
“I’m unharmed.” That’s mostly true. The cut on my foot is a minor sting compared to the bruise on my soul and the self-recrimination bouncing around my head.
How the hell could I have been stupid enough to let anyone—especially a Moretti—get so close to me?
As if caught in his spell, I glance up at him.
His arms are still crossed, as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
But his eyes…
Damn him.
They’re gleaming with predatory intent.
The air between us thickens again, charged with unspoken threats, and I swallow hard, the motion pulling at the dryness in my throat.
“Where are you?”
I don’t know. Houston is my guess. But does it really matter? “This is about preventing war.”
“He just fucking started one.”
“Papa…” My heart hammers against my ribs, and each moment amplifies the chasm between who I was yesterday and who I am now.
Moretti’s property.
My father continues ranting, and this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve seen him out of control. “Papa. Stop. Please.”
That gets to him. Finally.
“He’s proposing a marriage between us.” The word marriage lodges in my chest, heavy and foreign, sending a fresh wave of heat flushing my cheeks.
My father’s silence stretches, fraught and heavy, and I picture him in his study, fist clenched on the desk, veins bulging in his neck as he processes the outrage.
“Marriage?” He repeats it like a curse, disbelief warring with rage, his voice dropping to that dangerous low timbre I’ve heard before hits are ordered.
The ache in my chest deepens to a hollow throb that mirrors the pulse in my temples.
But I push through, steadying my breath as I infuse my tone with consigliere precision, acting as his most trusted adviser, rather than as his daughter. “This makes sense. It’s the path to peace. There will be no blood spilled.” Except for the satisfying trickle down Moretti’s temple.
Still, my reassurance is for my father’s sake, to temper the storm I know is building in him.
“You expect me to stand by while he—” His words cut off, a ragged breath filling the line, and I feel the fracture in him, the paternal protectiveness clashing with pragmatic calculation.
My eyes are burning now. And the room blurs slightly at the edges.
I blink back my tears.
I am a mafia princess. And I refuse to let a Moretti scumbag see me crumble.
“Valentina—”
“Listen to me.” I straighten my back and force a firm note into my voice. Each syllable is deliberate, and my words are clearly enunciated. “I’ll do this.” We both hear the lie in my words.
Every part of me will work to be sure I never walk down the aisle toward my hated enemy.
My first step is to buy time, giving me a chance to escape, find a way out, or for my family to rescue me. “I’ll call you when the date has been arranged.”
Dante speaks for the first time. “He’s not invited to the wedding.”
I blink?
Not invited?
“You may have one emissary.”
I stare at him unblinkingly. Bastard.
When he raises an eyebrow, I mouth the words, “Fuck you, Moretti.”
Unbothered, he grins the same way he had when I tried to clobber him. And since he has zero remorse, I’m just waiting for my opportunity to try again.
I relay Moretti’s demand. “I’m allowed one emissary.”
“Giovanni.”
My oldest brother.
For now, I have to act as if this unwanted marriage will happen.
“Figlia mia...” The endearment softens his tone.
And it’s laced with pain that mirrors my own, sending a shiver down my spine despite the room’s warmth.
His love wraps around me through the phone, a fleeting comfort amid the chaos, but it only heightens the sting of what I’m asking. “I won’t abandon you to this.”
I know he won’t.
No doubt things are already in motion. A call from the Moretti consigliere to ours. And my brother will be assembling a trusted crew.
No matter what, I can’t allow retaliation to happen.
The emotional toll suddenly crashes against me, and I draw in a breath.
I have to remain strong. Now more than ever. “I love you, Papa.”
His final curse echoing in my ear, I end the call.
Silence rushes in, and I lower the phone.
The room suddenly feels smaller, and Dante looms over me, larger than ever. “Satisfied?”
Without a word, he comes in closer and extends his hand for the phone.
Reluctantly I place the lifeline in his palm. Our fingers brush, and I yank back my hand.
I hate what he does to me. Even more, I hate my response to him.
“Will it be so bad?” As he pockets the device, he captures a stray lock of my hair and slowly winds it around his index finger. “Being mine?”
In complete defiance, I bring my chin up. “I’ll never be yours, Moretti.”
He chuckles. Low, deep, and confident. “No? We’ll see, Valentina. We’ll see.”
Desperate to escape him, I scoot back, and I wince, unable to hide the sharp stab of pain that rocks through the arch of my foot.
I glance down and see a tiny smear of blood on the floor. The shard of glass must have embedded itself deeper when I shifted my weight.
Dante follows my gaze, and his jaw tightens. “You’re hurt.” Not a question but a statement. He removes his finger from my hair and crouches in front of me.
He’s an underboss who was the family’s enforcer. There’s no way he should he capable of moving with such grace.
I tense. “I’m fine.”
“At some point, you’re going to be spanked for all your lies.”
Gasping at his outrageous comment, I attempt to scoot farther away, but he grips my ankle hard. Then he lifts my foot, and his fingers feel shockingly tender against my skin.
“Stay still.” With a careful, exploratory touch, he examines the cut. “This needs tending.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Don’t try me, Valentina. That’s the only warning you’re going to get.”
He eases my foot back down but doesn’t release it entirely.
Instead, he brushes his thumb lightly over my ankle—a soothing gesture that contradicts every other thing he’s done to me.
An unwanted sensation ripples up my leg as my body betrays me by responding to the care in his touch.
Our gazes collide.
The spark of humanity in his eyes catches me off guard—a glimpse beneath the enforcer’s mask, perhaps regret or simple concern. It humanizes him, makes him less monster and more man, which terrifies me more than his threats. I don’t want to see layers. I want him as the enemy, black-and-white.
He eases my foot back down, and I exhale with relief.
Then he stands and grabs his cell phone.
Gaze still on me, he barks his orders. “Send up a first-aid kit. And glass needs to be cleaned from the floor.”
“I can handle this myself.”
“And?”
His kindness, his compassion, after the brutality confuses me.
“You’re mine to protect.” His words are simple and blunt.
A moment later, there’s a knock on the door.
“Don’t even think about trying to escape. Or I’ll tie you to the bed.”
I blink.
His jaw is set.
The man means exactly what he says.
“You’re a damn brute.”
“Oh, Valentina.” He leans in close, his lips inches from mine, close enough that his presence sizzles the atmosphere. “You have no idea.”
Again with his purposeful movements, he opens it to admit a woman I haven’t seen before.
She’s a soldier, no doubt. Professional to the core. “Would you like me to handle this, Mr. Moretti?”
He shakes his head.
While he takes the box, she cleans up the glass.
Moments later, the door clicks shut, leaving us alone.
He returns to me, kneeling again.
His proximity overwhelms me—the heat from his body, the faint scent of blood and sweat from our fight mingling with his cologne.
He opens the kit and selects tweezers with practiced efficiency. After sterilizing them, he issues a warning. “This might hurt.”
I nod, bracing myself, my hands gripping the sheets as he steadies my foot. The tweezers pinch, a sharp tug that makes me suck in a sharp breath.
He works quickly, extracting the shard, then presses a gauze pad to staunch the blood.
The sting fades to a dull ache as he cleans the wound.
Then, when he’s satisfied, he places a bandage on the wound.
When he’s done, he looks at me.
I refuse to thank him. After all, it’s his fault I’m in this mess to begin with. If he hadn’t abducted me, I’d be at home, sleeping in my bed after enjoying an evening with my friends.
After he’s done, he stands once more, looming over me, arms folded.
Despite reassuring myself that I’m not scared of this man, my heart thunders.
“Because I’m a generous man, I’m going to give you two choices, Valentina.”
I scowl. “Two choices?”
“Of where our marriage will take place.”