Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Valentina
“Talk?” I tip my head to the side.
“You want updates. You’ve earned them.”
For a moment I simply stare at him. His words in my chest where relief and suspicion twist together in uneasy partnership. Updates. As though my life has become a situation report delivered at the discretion of the man who now controls every wall around me.
Still, the promise of answers pulls at me with undeniable force.
“You’re willing to share them now?” I ask quietly.
His hand still rests over mine, warm and unyielding where it holds my phone between us.
Up close I can see the faint shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw that never quite disappears even when he’s smiling.
“I said we need to talk.”
“And you’re choosing this moment to become generous?”
Something flickers in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or the faintest hint of admiration for the challenge in my voice.
“We’ll talk downstairs.” His mouth curves slightly. “Lucia, our chef, has prepared lunch for us.”
I realize I’ve barely eaten anything since he stole me off the rooftop. This morning’s coffee and bubbly weren’t exactly a breakfast of champions.
I nod.
He releases my hand, and the sudden absence of his touch leaves my skin strangely aware of the space between us.
While he turns away to reach for a pair of dark jeans, I open my phone. Not surprisingly, the battery is almost dead.
But Moretti has not deleted my data.
I couldn’t be more shocked.
Quickly I scroll through the missed calls.
A couple from Chiana. Dozens from my family and security.
There are text messages, too. Including this morning from my brother, telling me he was in Houston.
I glance at Moretti again, and I look at the bruise that’s formed on his hand.
“At lunch,” he says again, reading my expression perfectly. “I’ll answer everything then.”
But instead of waiting, I reply to my brother’s message, asking what happened.
Surprising me again, Moretti doesn’t ask to see who I texted or what I said.
But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t listened to each message and read every single word on the phone.
His back shifts as he pulls the denim over his hips. For a moment I watch him, the quiet confidence in every movement making it impossible to forget exactly who—and what—he is.
My husband.
The word still feels foreign—and unwanted.
He fastens the button, drags the zipper up, and then reaches for a charcoal henley folded neatly on a shelf.
The soft fabric stretches across his chest as he pulls it over his head. Then he casually pushes the sleeves up his forearms once they settle into place.
After putting on socks and boots, he reaches for the holster.
The motion is so practiced it’s almost invisible—gun secured just behind his hip, concealed in its holster, beneath the fabric of his shirt, the shape of it disappearing.
Violence, neatly concealed.
I shake my head to break myself out of my trance.
Instead, I focus on the rack holding sundresses.
Now that he’s dressed, I expect him to walk out of the closet, but he doesn’t.
For the first time ever, I feel intimacy between us. He’s behaving like someone in a real relationship might. And I’m not sure I like it. “You could give me some privacy.”
He rests a shoulder against the doorjamb again. “I could.”
“But you’re not going to?” Infuriating man.
“No.” His answer is easy and final. “I enjoy looking at my wife.”
Turning my back to him, I pull panties and a bra from a drawer. Then I slide the robe from my shoulders.
Pretending that he’s not there, that my cheeks aren’t burning from embarrassment, I slip into the lingerie and reach for a pale sundress that feels light enough for the Texas heat.
The fabric falls easily over my head, but the zipper catches halfway down my back.
I try once, then twice. But the metal teeth refuse to cooperate.
Moretti pushes himself upright and takes two steps toward me. “Hold still.”
His voice is low, close enough that I feel the warmth of it brush my neck.
I freeze as his fingers find the zipper, the brief contact of his knuckles against my spine sending a thin ripple of awareness through me before he pulls the fabric smoothly into place.
God, I wish I didn’t react to him the way I do.
“There.”
The word is quiet.
Too quiet.
For a moment neither of us moves.
Then I clear my throat and reach for my sandals before the silence becomes something neither of us can easily ignore.
When I straighten, he sweeps his gaze over me.
“Beautiful.” He traces the V of the neckline. “Mine.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as awareness rushes through me. Impossibly my body craves his touch.
He tucks a loos strand of my hair back.
The stylist did an amazing job with her dozens of pins and gallons of spray. Not only has my updo survived the wedding, it made it through the helicopter ride, his intense lovemaking, and a shower.
“Shall we?”
Anything to get out of this tiny space and regain some sense of control.
As I slip my phone into a pocket, I follow him from the closet and back into his bedroom.
No.
Not his bedroom.
Ours.
If I want it.
This time, as we move through, I notice the details. The wide windows overlooking the rolling vineyards beyond the property, the soft neutral tones of the design, the faint scent of fresh linen drifting through the air.
Moretti bought this house as a retreat, near one of my favorite towns.
He leads the way down the hallway, and he stops at the first door.
“I thought this might make an excellent nursery.”
I miss a step.
He turns the knob. The room beyond is small and sunlit, painted a soft buttery yellow that seems to gather the light from the wide window overlooking the vines.
A white crib sits against one wall, its curved rails polished to a gentle sheen, and beside it stands an exquisite rocking chair upholstered in pale linen.
Built-in shelves hold a scattering of children’s books—bright spines and well-loved classics arranged with surprising care, as if someone imagined small hands reaching for them.
A folded quilt rests over the back of the chair, the stitching delicate and old-fashioned, the entire space quiet and expectant.
Our gazes lock. “Moretti…”
“Of course, it could be repurposed as a guest room or office.”
But the darkness in his eyes say there’s not a single chance in hell of that happening.
Then it hits me.
We didn’t use birth control. I knew we didn’t. But everything else crowded out that thought until now.
My stomach tightens.
Could it happen that quickly? Could his child already be growing inside me?
The thought feels enormous and terrifying and strangely intimate all at once, and I hate that a small, treacherous part of me wonders what a child with Dante Moretti’s dark eyes might look like.
Thankfully he closes the door and shows me the other rooms, five in all. How big of a family does he want to have?
When he carried me up the stairs, I hadn’t noticed how wide they were, and how gracefully they curved.
Sunlight pours through the tall windows that line the back of the property, flooding the open living space.
Earlier I barely noticed any of this.
But now? Now I notice everything.
The layout of the rooms. Not just how exquisite the home is, but the positioning of the doors. The quiet efficiency of the men stationed near the perimeter windows.
One soldier I haven’t met before nods respectfully as we pass, his gaze alert but carefully neutral, and I recognize the subtle choreography immediately—men positioned where they can see every entrance, every stretch of glass, every vulnerable angle of the house.
Security without spectacle. Protection that feels almost invisible unless you know where to look.
Halfway down the hallway we pass a plain, closed door that looks no different from the others, but a low murmur of voices leaks through the thick wood, along with the faint glow of light beneath the threshold.
Moretti shows me the inside where men are watching screens, tracking movement across the property, keeping the invisible perimeter that surrounds his world firmly intact.
After that, we pass a set of double doors standing partially open, and I glimpse a room beyond that clearly belongs to Moretti.
A massive desk dominates the space, its dark wood polished to a mirror shine, and maps and monitors glow quietly along one wall.
Even from the hallway I can feel the gravity of it—his command center, the place where decisions are made and enemies likely learn to fear his name.
Another room surprises me entirely. Sunlight pours through a bank of tall windows onto a wooden easel standing near the center of the space, brushes and tubes of paint arranged neatly on a nearby table. The faint scent of linseed oil lingers in the air.
I stop.
“You remembered what I said about my mother.”
Moretti meets my gaze. “I pay attention to every single thing about you, Valentina.”
Emotion catches me off guard, tightening unexpectedly in my chest.
Painting has always been the one place I could disappear, the one place where the noise of family expectations and the politics of power fade long enough for me to breathe. Seeing the easel here, waiting for me, feels strangely like a piece of my old life reaching across the distance to meet me.
We continue toward the back of the house.
The kitchen opens before us in a sweep of marble and warm wood, wide enough to host a small army of cooks if necessary.
Copper pots gleam above a massive island, and sunlight spills across bowls of fresh herbs and baskets of produce that must have come straight from the surrounding countryside.
It smells faintly of bread and citrus, warm and welcoming in a way that makes the house feel unexpectedly alive.
Moretti leads me through the living room toward the massive doors that spill sunlight across a wide limestone patio.
Adriano, his man, is standing there, hands respectfully tucked behind his back. “Sir. Mrs. Moretti.”
Will I ever get accustomed to hearing that name?
He acknowledges me before returning his attention to my husband. “Everything’s secure,” he reports.
“Good.” Moretti gives a tight nod, then he guides me outside into the warm Hill Country sunlight.
The view steals my breath for a moment.
Rows of vineyard vines stretch across the rolling land beyond the house, their green lines rippling across the hills in careful symmetry.
A broad oak tree spreads its branches across one side of the patio, casting cool shade over a long wooden table already set for lunch.
As we near, a woman in a crisp white chef’s jacket welcomes us.
“Chef,” Moretti says.
She smiles warmly. “Everything is ready.”
And it couldn’t be more perfect.
This is like dining at a five-star restaurant. Gleaming silverware, beautiful plates, fresh flowers.
If I was designing my own hideaway, it would look a lot like this.
Moretti pulls out a chair beside the table and looks at me expectantly.
I haven’t expected his old-world manners. And they make my heart flutter, just a little.
He offers wine, and I’m tempted to say yes.
But what if his seed has already taken root?
I sigh. I’m not prepared for that. Not on top of everything else. But there’s a possibility, no matter how remote. “Pellegrino.”
“Excellent choice.” Since there’s a bottle of that on the table, he pours and squeezes fresh lime into my glass.
He opts for a deep ruby Syrah from the estate vineyard. The bottle has already been opened for him.
Once we’re alone, with exquisite, fresh-baked bread and a shallow bowl of emerald-green, first-press olive oil glistening beside a dish of flaky sea salt, I lean forward. “All of this is beautiful. But I want to know what happened this morning. And why was my brother not there?”