Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Valentina
The helicopter is loud enough to rattle my teeth.
The vibration hums up through the seat beneath me and settles somewhere deep in my ribs, a steady mechanical throb that makes it impossible to think in straight lines.
Less than an hour ago, I’d still been Valentina Russo.
But now…
A handful of strangers watched as Dante Moretti forced vows from my mouth and made me his wife.
As soon as the marriage license was signed, he grabbed my wrist, rushed me from the chapel, through a room that had balloons and champagne and a cake with our names on it.
He ushered me through a side door, into a waiting SUV, to a small, private airport for a short flight to Austin where a helicopter was waiting for us.
The moment we were sealed inside, along with machine-gun toting soldiers, we lifted off.
Dante hasn’t spoken a word to me.
For the entirety of the drive and both flights, he’s either been typing or talking on his phone.
A ray of sunshine catches the diamond in my engagement ring, momentarily blinding me.
“We’ll be landing soon,” he says, looking over at me.
The blood on his hand has dried in the lines of his knuckles, and I look away.
Below us, the Hill Country unfurls in long stretches of limestone and scrub oak, the land rising and falling in soft green swells cut through with pale roads and the occasional ribbon of vineyard rows so precise they look drawn by a ruler.
It’s pretty in an expensive way, curated and deliberate.
The helicopter banks, and beneath us, a villa comes into view.
A prison? Or a honeymoon?
Is there a difference?
The helicopter banks again, and the movement shifts the world beneath us.
The villa rises from the hillside in pale limestone and walls of glass, large enough to impress and isolated enough to alarm.
Terraces step down the slope toward an infinity pool flashing blue in the sunlight.
Cypress trees line the drive in dark, elegant rows.
Vineyards spread out beyond the house like a second kingdom.
For one foolish second, I understand the appeal.
Then I notice the SUVs.
Black. Several of them. Parked along the drive and near the lower terrace in the kinds of positions that are meant to look casual but aren’t. Men stand watch near the house, one on the upper terrace, another near the pool, two more farther down where the drive bends out of sight.
This house was staffed with security long before we left Houston.
Which means Moretti always intended to bring me here.
Of course he’d leave nothing to chance.
The house grows larger as we descend, its beauty becoming more oppressive with every passing second.
The terraces are too open not to be watched.
The long drive is too exposed not to be controlled.
Even the cypress trees feel strategic, tall and elegant and placed with purpose, because nothing about this man suggests he would spend money on anything that didn’t serve him somehow.
I’m sure some women would think this was romantic.
A private villa in the Hill Country, all limestone and vineyards and seclusion.
From up here, I can already see what it really is.
A fortified mansion where he can continue to imprison me.
I curl my fingers more tightly around the edge of the seat and force myself to pay attention.
When you can’t control the situation, assess it.
That lesson was drilled into me so early; I no longer remember learning it.
My father taught me to read a room before I knew long division.
Giovanni taught me which exits matter and which ones are decorative.
Between them, they made sure I understood a simple truth: panic is useless, but information can save your life.
So I take inventory.
The helicopter lowers another few feet, and the landing pad comes into view beside the house, a broad, pale circle cut cleanly into the stone. Dust swirls beneath us. The skids are seconds from touching down.
Only then do I let myself look at Dante again.
He closes the lid of his laptop, tucks it into the leather bag beside him, then watches me with that same unreadable steadiness, as if the morning hadn’t started with blood on his hands and ended with my life in ruins. As if this is nothing more than the next item on his agenda.
We drop the final few feet. Then the skids hit the landing pad with a jolt that travels through the frame and into my bones. The vibration shifts as the pilot throttles back. Dust surges upward in violent spirals outside the windows.
Before the blades have even slowed, the men inside the cabin move.
One soldier rises immediately, already reaching for the door. Another slings his weapon forward and steps out first, boots hitting the stone as he sweeps the perimeter in a practiced arc. The rest follow in a tight sequence that feels rehearsed down to the second.
By the time the door is pulled wide, the landing pad is already secured.
Dante pockets his phone and stands in one smooth movement, the low ceiling forcing him to incline his head slightly as he moves toward me. The space inside the helicopter seems to contract around him, as if the aircraft itself recognizes who’s in charge now that we’ve landed.
The door opens fully.
Noise and heat rush in together.
The wind from the blades whips through the cabin, tugging loose strands of hair across my face and sending the fabric of my dress fluttering helplessly around my legs. Dust skates across the stone outside in pale bursts of sunlight and limestone.
Dante steps down first and sweeps the terraces and perimeter walls with the same quiet authority he brings to everything else. The guards I noticed from the air shift subtly as he appears, tightening their positions along the property line.
Only after that quick survey does he turn back toward the helicopter.
Toward me.
For the first time since the wedding ended, something almost human flickers through his expression.
Not softness.
But something close to consideration.
He reaches up, one hand braced on the doorframe while the other slides around my waist.
The movement is decisive and surprisingly careful.
Before I can protest—or even brace myself—he lifts me cleanly from the seat and swings me down onto the landing pad as if the complicated sweep of silk and lace wrapped around my legs weighs nothing at all.
My heels touch limestone.
His hand remains at my elbow, steadying me for a fraction longer than strictly necessary.
Then he releases me.
The helicopter lifts away behind us almost immediately, the roar of the blades swelling again as the aircraft climbs back into the sky. Wind tears across the landing pad in its wake before fading into the distance, leaving the hilltop abruptly, almost eerily quiet.
Dante doesn’t speak.
He simply closes his fingers around my elbow and guides me toward the villa.
Not roughly.
Not gently either.
Just firmly enough to make it clear that this part of the day—like every other part of it—belongs to him.
Our footsteps carry across the broad limestone terrace as we cross toward the house.
The villa looms larger now, pale limestone walls glowing beneath the late morning sun. The infinity pool flashes blue to our left, its glassy surface spilling toward the vineyards below like a second sky.
Up close, the security presence is impossible to ignore.
Men along the upper terrace.
Another pair near the pool.
More stationed along the drive beyond the cypress trees.
After whatever happened this morning, there’s no pretense of subtlety.
Before we reach the front doors, they’re opened for us.
Cool air spills out across the terrace, carrying the faint scent of polished stone and fresh flowers.
Inside, the entry hall rises two full stories overhead, pale limestone floors stretching beneath our feet while walls of glass frame the rolling green hills beyond the villa. Sunlight pours through the space, turning the interior into a study in quiet luxury.
For a moment, I simply stand there, absorbing it.
The silence inside the house feels strangely heavy after the violence of the helicopter blades and the chaos at the cathedral.
Dante releases my elbow only after the doors close behind us.
Then he pauses a few steps away, his attention shifting briefly across the room, cataloging the space the way men like him always do. Exits. Sightlines. Corners that might hide trouble.
When his gaze returns to me, it’s steady again.
Intentional.
As if the entire morning—blood, vows, helicopters, armed escorts—has unfolded exactly the way he expected it to.
“This will be your home for the immediate future,” he says.
His voice is calm. Matter of fact.
Not unkind.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Something tight settles behind my ribs, a feeling that’s dangerously close to despair if I let it grow any larger.
I force myself to inhale slowly instead.
When I look back at him, I keep my voice quiet.
“And am I going to be locked in the bedroom?”
“Do you want to be?”
Chin tipped back, I meet his gaze.
Dante takes a step closer, not crowding me, just enough to shift the air between us again.
Then shockingly, he sighs. “Unless you try to escape, this whole place is your home.” He pauses. “Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Moretti.”