Chapter 12 #2
I remember the way she’d hum old Italian songs while she worked, and I’d try to capture the light on her cheekbones or the way the bougainvillea spilled over the trellis outside.
But the memories are surprisingly hard to deal with, and I shake my head and focus on the roses on the table instead of him.
“Where did the interest come from?”
I could say something believable. Like a school art class. Instead, I admit the truth. “My mother was passionate about painting.”
“She’s gone.”
It’s a statement more than a question. I have no doubt he’s studied my family. Not only did he plan the kidnapping, but as Matteo Moretti’s underboss, knowledge of rival families is his job.
Since he probably knows as much as I do, I don’t reply.
And for a long moment, he’s silent.
Then his fingers tighten fractionally around the stem of his flute.
The tiny betrayal of emotion surprises me. If he’s not careful, I might begin to think he’s somewhat human.
When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher at the edges.
“My father loved the water. Galveston, mostly. He’d take us out on the boat at dawn, just him, my mother, me, and my brothers along with the gulls and pelicans.
Soldiers were in another boat. Close. But far enough away that we had the illusion of freedom. ”
It’s as if I’m seeing someone else.
“He taught me to read the tides, to listen when the sea went quiet before a storm.” He pauses, gaze distant, and for the first time, I see the grief there—not soft, not vulnerable exactly, but real, carved deep like the scar on his temple. And the fresh wound I’d put on the other side.
I wince.
He believes—wrongly—that my family has something to do with his father’s death. Making me suffer is part of his revenge.
“There are things he needs to know, and I still reach for my phone to call him. Still expect him to sit at the head of the table for Sunday dinners.” The words hang between us, raw with pain. “Then I remember he won’t be coming.”
For a heartbeat, I see him differently—not just as the man who drugged me, who locked me away, who chose a gown that made me feel seen in ways that terrify me. He’s also the son who lost the father he loved. The knowledge of how deeply he cared makes me shift.
And still… We’re enemies.
If we weren’t, I wouldn’t be sitting across from him.
And that reality will never go away.
Thankfully, shattering the moment, our food arrives. As expected, my fish is perfectly seasoned, while his steak is perfectly rare.
Though he finishes his champagne, I don’t touch mine.
When he turns to the business at hand, I lose what little appetite I have.
He tells me our wedding will be at ten a.m. the next morning.
My brother is aware and will be in attendance.
A few of his friends will also be there, along with his family.
“Your older brother, and his wife, Alessia. They’ve been married for a few months. Nico—your consigliere—and his wife, Bella. He’s apparently doing a fine job after Roberto’s death, despite his age. Also, I assume I’ll meet Dario. Your brother and the family CFO who has”—I smile—“certain tastes.”
He raises an eyebrow.
To his credit, he doesn’t let on that I know something I shouldn’t.
“Your mother, as well, no doubt. Gina.”
He lifts his glass and tips it in my direction.
“But you’ll limit it to that. Your priest is no doubt grateful for your family’s tithes.
You contribute the full tithe, plus you give generously to fundraising efforts.
Maybe there’s even a hall or something named after one of your ancestors.
So he’ll sign a date that’s sometime in the future on the license.
To be sure we waited the required amount of time before getting married.
Keeping you on the right side of the law. ”
He doesn’t argue. Probably guessing that my family has the same sort of arrangement, which we do.
“It’s my hope that you can be equally as beneficial in your role as my wife.”
I take a sip, and I smile broadly. “No chance in hell, Moretti.”
His lips tighten.
Good.
He deserves that after what he said to me on that platform. “And until you believe that my family had nothing to do with the assassination of your father—that we were stunned when we heard the news—there’s nothing at all I have to offer you.”
Before he can respond, a complimentary dessert and coffee are brought to the table.
Even though I want to resist the double chocolate confection, I can’t. And a single bite of the perfection is completely satisfying.
No bill is delivered.
And we leave after Moretti thanks the owner.
The ride to the Harris County Clerk’s Office is way too short, the city blurring past while his knee presses against mine.
Though he’s checking his phone, possessiveness radiates from him.
When we enter the cool lobby, he keeps me close, his palm at the small of my back again.
At the counter the clerk smiles professionally, and Moretti produces his ID as well as my own.
The sight of my driver’s license—neatly tucked beside his black credit card—ignites a wave of fresh irritation.
He’s had it since the rooftop incident, of course, along with everything else, but seeing it now, handled so casually, is a reminder of his power and my helplessness.
The clerk processes everything efficiently.
I can’t help but notice that Moretti is always on guard. He angles his body to shield me from the handful of other people in the room, as if he’s staking his claim.
When the marriage license is issued, he tucks it inside his suit coat and returns our IDs to his wallet, his gesture so proprietary my pulse spikes again.
“I want my phone back,” I tell him when we’re once again in the vehicle, with him typing into his device.
He meets my gaze. “I’m sure you do.”
I grit my teeth.
With every mile that passes, bringing us closer to his house, my pulse pounds harder.
Being in the car, at lunch, the clerk’s office, the bridal shop, with him dictating my life, is maddening. But being alone in his bedroom is awful. And having him in the space is even worse.
When we reach his Houston compound, he escorts me straight upstairs, hand firm at my elbow, past the guards who don’t meet my eyes.
The hallway feels narrower, the stairs endless, each step pulling the dress across my skin and reminding me how exposed I still feel.
At the door to what is now our room—my prison—he pauses.
I stop beside him, the words rising before I can swallow them. “You’re seriously going to keep marching me around like this? Your prisoner in silk and heels?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
Once we’re inside, he shuts the door. Outside, a lock is clicked into place.
I move away from him, putting as much distance between us as I can.
He remains just inside the threshold and folds his arms across his ridiculously broad chest and looks at me with eyes gone cold and hard. “A prisoner? Yes.”
His terrible expression leaves me breathless.
“In silk and heels?” He shakes his head. “No.”
Confused, I frown. “Then…”
“Strip for me, Valentina.”
The command lands like a slap. My heart stutters, then races. “Are you out of your mind?”
Slowly, deliberately, he sweeps his gaze over me, from my lips to the neckline of the dress then lower, lingering where the fabric clings to my breasts, the very place his hand had been earlier. “Prisoners don’t get pretty dresses.”
Heat floods my face, equal parts fury and something darker. The memory of his fingers inside the bodice of my wedding gown is still far too vivid. My nipples tighten again, betraying me, pressing against the thin material.
But I don’t panic. Not yet. I have access to his closet.
As if reading my mind again, he glances in that direction. Then he smiles. “I installed a lock.”
I blink. “You…”
“You’ll earn your privileges.”
Stunned, though I’m not sure why, I gape. “You’re seriously going to keep me as your prisoner, naked?”
His expression stays hard, carved from the same stone as his will.
His unspoken answer hangs thick in the supercharged air.
Then he takes one step forward, closing so much of the distance between us that I can feel the heat that rolls off him.
“Take off the dress.” Another step, until his shoes brush mine and his presence fills every inch of my space. “Unless you want me to do it for you?”
The air between us crackles, my emotions a storm—rage at the control, the humiliation, the way my body still aches for the very hands that stripped me of everything else.
Yet beneath it pulses that reluctant thread of intimacy from lunch, the glimpse of his grief, the way he’d listened when I spoke of my mother.
I stand before him, my chest rising fast, my insides knotted so completely by him that I don’t know where fury ends and need begins.
And the worst part—the part that makes my fingers twitch toward the hem of my dress despite myself—is that some treacherous corner of me wonders what it would feel like to give in, just this once, and let him see all of me the way he saw the woman in the wedding gown.
But I hold my ground, breath shallow, the silk suddenly too heavy, too revealing, every heartbeat a reminder that Dante Moretti doesn’t just consume my waking moments.
He’s rewriting the very shape of my desire, one merciless command at a time.
Then he’s done waiting.
He takes another slow, purposeful step toward me.
“Your time is up, Valentina.”