Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Valentina
Despite my best intentions, my pulse jumps.
“And you’ll learn to like it.”
The look he gives me sends a slow curl of heat through my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.
Then he removes the ring and studies another tray.
His attention sharpens as he scans the display, rejecting one after another with quiet authority.
“No,” he murmurs, sliding one aside. “Too ornate.”
Another.
“Too delicate.”
He pauses at a flawless emerald-cut diamond set in platinum—clean lines, ruthless elegance, nothing unnecessary.
Because it’s understated, I like it.
But with a quick wave, he dismisses it.
Then he studies another tray, gaze narrow on a ring in the middle. This one is quieter than the one he made me try on. It’s still elegant, a flawless emerald cut set in platinum, but it’s much cleaner.
Exactly his style. Clean. Ruthless.
Dangerous in its restraint.
A chill goes through me. It reminds me of him.
“Try this one.”
I hesitate.
“Don’t push me, Valentina.”
I’m smart enough to recognize the warning in his tone. If I go too far, embarrass him, there will be consequences that I don’t like.
He lifts it between his fingers.
Then, his dark eyes burning with a possessive intensity, he captures my hand and slides the jewelry into place.
The diamond settles perfectly at the base of my finger.
The size is perfect, as if it’s meant to be there all along.
Moretti’s gaze darkens slightly as he studies my hand.
“This is the one.”
The jeweler nods immediately. “An exceptional choice.”
I pull my hand back. “I didn’t choose it.”
Moretti leans forward.
Close enough that his presence fills the space between us, dark and overwhelming.
His fingers close around my hand again.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns my wrist so the diamond catches the light. “Look at it.”
I glare at him.
“Look, Valentina.”
Compelled to obey him, I drop my gaze to the stone.
The stone flashes, simultaneously fire and ice.
Very deliberately, he presses his thumb against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse.
He can feel exactly how fast it’s beating.
“It’s perfect for you,” he says quietly.
My breath tightens.
“Perfect,” he reiterates, lifting my hand slightly.
I hate that he’s right. And I refuse to give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Then he brushes his lips against the inside of my wrist.
It’s not quite a kiss.
Something quieter. More dangerous. A promise wrapped around a warning. And before I can stop it, heat floods through me.
“When people look at you, they’ll know exactly whose wife you are.”
I bring my head up as his words hit me. Like a challenge. A Moretti claiming territory in a language every family in our world understands.
Russo.
Moretti.
Two names that have spent decades circling each other like wolves.
And he wants me to be the bridge between them.
I yank my hand back. “I belong to no one.”
His slow smile is pure predator.
Then he stands.
The jeweler straightens instantly with a small smile.
“We’ll take it,” Moretti says.
And just like that—my future sits on my finger like a platinum trap.
He has the jeweler provide us with a wedding band that matches. But he refuses one of his own. I’m slightly surprised.
He wears cufflinks and a signet ring. So I expected him to agree to a marital one.
But then again, maybe it’s about the power he exerts over me more than anything else.
I start to remove the stone, but he clamps his hand on mine, just hard enough to hurt. “It stays.”
I yank my hand back.
But after the transaction is complete, we emerge into the heat and humidity.
The ring blazes to life beneath the sun.
I’ve had so many friends proudly show off their rings. This is equally as spectacular as anything I’ve ever seen, but it leaves me cold.
Within seconds, I’m back inside the vehicle with its perfectly chilled air swirling around.
Once again, I have no idea where we’re going, and the drive passes in charged silence.
By the time we pull up to the private entrance of Le Jardin, an exclusive French bistro tucked behind ivy-covered walls in the Galleria, I’m a knot of fury and unwanted hunger, emotions twisting so tight I can barely breathe.
Moretti insists on helping me from the car, his fingers lingering on mine longer than necessary, thumb brushing my knuckles in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my breath catch.
Inside, the ma?tre d’ greets him by name, voice warm with recognition.
“Mr. Moretti, your usual private room is ready. And congratulations are in order, I hear.” The man’s smile includes me, polite, deferential, as if this is normal, as if I’m not the kidnapped Russo princess wearing a dress selected by my captor.
Dante’s hand stays at my back as we’re led through the hushed dining room, past tables where Houston’s elite murmur over crystal and linen.
The private salon is all cream silk walls and late morning light filtering through sheer curtains. There’s a single round table set with roses and heavy silver.
As I expect, the Moretti soldier stations himself just outside the door.
Still pretending to be a gentleman, Moretti pulls out my chair and makes sure I’m settled comfortably before taking his own seat.
He’s close enough that our knees nearly touch beneath the cloth.
“Champagne,” he tells the sommelier without looking at the list. “The ‘98 Krug. We’re celebrating.” His voice is smooth, assured, the same tone he’d used ordering the Sicilian Velvet that changed the course of my life.
The sommelier nods. “Excellent choice, Mr. Moretti.”
“I’ll be having a Pellegrino,” I tell the woman without taking my gaze off the man who wants to run my life.
A grin teases his lips, and he angles his head to one side.
Did I just win?
A few moments later, the owner of the restaurant appears, beaming. Moretti rises briefly to shake his hand.
Obviously the two are friends.
I notice the way the ring on his right hand catches the light. Then I look at Moretti’s hand. He’s wearing the same one.
I’d assumed Moretti’s bore the family seal, the way my father’s does.
But this is an owl, framed by laurel leaves. Twin emeralds wink from the bird’s face.
I narrow my gaze, hoping for a closer look, but I don’t get one.
“Congratulations, Dante. And this must be the future Mrs. Moretti.” The owner’s gaze lands on me with genuine pleasure. “Our best wishes for a lifetime of happiness.”
Even though I force a polite curve to my lips, I can’t make myself acknowledge the words. There will be no happiness in my lifetime.
When we’re alone again—save for the closed door and the guard beyond it—my future husband leans back, studying me with that unhurried intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Before too long, the sommelier returns, and Moretti approves the champagne.
Even though I’d asked for mineral water, my future husband nods toward my waiting glass. It’s filled quietly, and then his is topped off.
Once my Pellegrino is also in a glass with a slice of lime on the rim, the sommelier withdraws.
Our waiter tells us the day’s specials, and I once again ignore Moretti’s suggestion and instead select the blackened Gulf snapper with fresh veggies.
“You need something more substantial.”
“I’m very much aware of what I need.” After what happened after his kiss at the bridal shop, I am more aware than ever of my need to keep my defenses up around him.
He may think he controls my life. And to a point, maybe he does. But I will not allow him to make all my decisions.
Unlike me, he opts for a steak. But he does go for steamed broccoli as a side.
Then all too soon, it’s once again just us in the small room.
He swirls his flute once, the golden liquid catching the light, then sets it down and leans back in his chair, as if he’s royalty. “Tell me about you, Valentina.”
Scowling, I squeeze a slice of lime into my drink.
This isn’t the direction I expected the conversation to go, and I’m not sure I like it. I don’t want to reveal anything about myself to him. There’s no doubt he’ll use any information as ammunition against me.
But he’s persistent.
“Not you as Russo’s daughter. Or your family’s consigliere. Tell me about you.”
“Beyond that, there’s nothing.”
Not pushing, he waits.
His damn patience is more irritating than his bossiness.
Stalling, I trace the rim of my glass.
“I’m curious.”
I shake my head. What would I tell him? About my life before everything changed?
Afternoons spent in the sunroom at the back of our Dallas mansion where light poured through tall windows onto drop cloths and half-finished canvases.
I’d loved watching my mother paint, and I recall the way the sound of her laughter filled the space when she was happy. And the intensity when she was focused on nothing but the canvas, her brush moving in sure strokes while I sat cross-legged on the floor near her.
Eventually I’d been allowed to mix colors for her.
But then…
She was gone.
The illness was swift and merciless, leaving my father broken.
But after the funeral, he’d been visited by his head of security.
And when the office closed and his man left, everything was different.
My father was harder, harsher.
I’d been expected to take my mother’s place as his hostess, and my brother had been made underboss, removing the then second-in-command.
From my mingling, I learned thing that were useful. As time went on, my father and brother both counted on me for my opinions.
But somewhere inside, there’s a pang that never quite goes away.
“I paint,” I say quietly, the admission slipping out before I can weigh it. Why did I admit that?
“Do you?”
Surprising me, he sounds more interested than bored.
And since the topic is less loaded than some, I expand a little. And if his eyes roll back in his head because of too much information, it will be his own fault for asking. “Watercolors mostly. I haven’t had any formal training. But that doesn’t stop me from creating.”