Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Valentina
“Moretti?” It should feel peaceful here—too peaceful, perhaps—but the tension that settles between us is anything but.
“Your brother arrived in Houston this morning.”
My fingers tighten slightly around the stem of my glass. “He texted me,” I say quietly. “He said he was in the city.”
Dante nods once.
“He landed at a private terminal and left the airport with a small convoy. Security vehicles, no doubt the usual arrangement for someone in your family.”
That much is predictable. “So why didn’t he come to the cathedral?”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Because his convoy never made it.”
The words land like a stone dropping into still water.
“What do you mean it never made it?”
“One of the vehicles was forced off the road on the way into the city. There was a crash.”
My breath catches.
“A crash?”
He nods again, his gaze steady on mine.
“Near the interchange outside downtown. Traffic was already heavy. When the lead vehicle went down, the rest of the convoy scattered trying to avoid the wreck.”
For a moment I can’t seem to breathe.
The words settle into the quiet space between us, and the soft rustle of the oak leaves overhead suddenly feels unbearably loud.
“A crash,” I repeat, though the word barely makes it past my lips.
Images begin forming in my mind whether I want them to or not—flashing lights, twisted metal, men shouting over the chaos of stalled traffic—and I press my fingertips harder into the stem of my glass as if grounding myself will somehow keep the worst possibilities from taking shape.
“Was anyone hurt?” I ask quickly, the question rushing out before the fear tightening in my chest can grow any larger.
“One driver,” Dante says, his voice steady, measured. “Not seriously.”
Relief rushes through me so abruptly my shoulders sag, but it lasts only a heartbeat before another thought takes its place.
“Giovanni?” My voice softens despite myself. “Where was he?”
“He wasn’t in the vehicle that went down.”
The knot in my chest loosens slightly, though it refuses to disappear entirely.
My brother has survived worse than a traffic accident, but the fact that he never arrived at the cathedral gnaws uncomfortably against every instinct I possess.
“Then why wasn’t he there?” I press.
Dante’s gaze holds mine across the table, dark and unreadable.
“Because the crash scattered the convoy,” he says at last. “Vehicles separated trying to clear the wreck. Communications went down for a time.”
“Meaning phones?”
“Yes.”
My mind races through the possibilities.
A simple accident could cause confusion for a few minutes, maybe longer in Houston traffic, but Giovanni Russo does not vanish from his own security team without explanation. Not when he’s traveling with men whose sole purpose is to keep him alive.
Something about this entire situation feels dangerously wrong.
Frantic, I grab my phone. There are no new messages.
And when I call Giovanni, I go straight to voicemail. “I’m going to try my dad.” And then every single contact in my phone.
Reassuringly he closes his hand over mine. “Your brother is safe.”
The tension leaves me so suddenly that I close my eyes for a brief second.
Thank God.
“His people got him out of Houston and back to Dallas.”
I narrow my eyes as I place my phone facedown on the table. Then, horrible, horrible thoughts race through my head. “You had something to do with…the accident.”
A dangerous pulse tics in his temple, and he doesn’t answer immediately.
His hand still rests over mine where it covers my phone, the weight of it warm and immovable, and for a moment I’m acutely aware of how large his hand is compared to my own, how easily he could close his fingers and prevent me from doing anything at all.
The silence stretches just long enough to make me swallow hard.
Slowly, deliberately, he removes his hand.
“You think I arranged that.”
It isn’t phrased as a question.
I lift my chin and knot my fingers into my napkin beneath the table.
“You kidnapped me because you have a weird idea that we had something to do with the death of your father. Then my brother’s convoy crashes on the way to the cathedral.
” I force each word past the anger simmering beneath my ribs.
“His comms go dark. His security scatters across the city.”
Trying to hold on, I tighten my grip. “And somehow all of that happens just in time for you to walk down the aisle with me.”
Dante’s gaze doesn’t waver.
For a heartbeat I see something flash across his face—something darker than irritation—and then it disappears behind the same calm mask he’s worn since we sat down.
“You think I’m a fucking fool?”
The quiet fury threaded through the words is far more unsettling than if he’d raised his voice.
I hold his gaze anyway.
“Did you have something to do with it?”
He leans back in his chair, dragging one hand slowly across his jaw as though forcing himself to rein in whatever response might be threatening to break free.
“I got exactly what I wanted this morning. The only thing I wanted.”
His eyes rake deliberately down the length of me, lingering just long enough to send a flicker of unwanted heat through my chest before returning to my face.
“You.”
The single word lands with unnerving certainty.
“You standing at that altar. Saying I do.”
My stomach tightens.
“I had no reason to interfere with your brother’s travel plans.”
The statement is delivered so evenly that for a moment I don’t know whether to feel reassured or more suspicious than before.
“I wanted him to witness you belonging to me.”
More than anything, those are words I believe. “That’s convenient,” I mutter.
“Yes,” he agrees calmly. “It is.”
The breeze stirs the leaves overhead, dappling shifting patterns of light across the table between us.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks.
Then the question that’s been circling in my mind finally pushes its way free.
“If you didn’t arrange it,” I say slowly, “how do you know so much about what happened?”
Dante reaches for his glass of Syrah but doesn’t drink. Instead he turns the stem lightly between his fingers, watching the wine move inside the globe as though the answer requires careful consideration.
“One of my capos called.”
My brows draw together.
“Called you?”
“He’s responsible for monitoring movement along the highways leading into the city,” Dante says. “When Giovanni’s convoy came through, my men were already watching.”
The words land with quiet weight.
“Watching,” I repeat.
His gaze lifts to mine again.
“I had reason to believe your family might attempt to interfere with the ceremony.”
My pulse spikes.
“Even you thought your brother was coming to stop the wedding.”
I exhale. “I thought he might try.”
The admission sits heavily between us.
Which was why he was monitoring all the potential routes to the cathedral.
And his eyes on his city are second to none, which is no doubt how he knew I’d visited that art gallery, infringed on his turf.
We have similar precautions in place. Yet somehow Moretti slipped into Dallas without us knowing it.
Slowly, uncomfortably, what he’s saying settles into place. “You had nothing to do with the crash.”
He turns a hand palm up on top of the table. “No.”
“Then who did?”
For the first time since we began this conversation, Dante hesitates. “Could have been a random accident.”
Involving a high-ranking member of the Russo family in Moretti territory. Right before a forced marriage. Impossible. “You can’t believe that.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a heartbeat. “No.”
“So who did it?”
The million dollar question. And one that’s potentially explosive.
“And why?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Does my family believe you didn’t cause the incident?”
He shrugs. “We don’t know.”
No wonder my brother isn’t answering. They wouldn’t know whether they could trust anything I said. I might be under duress. Might believe I’d try to convince them of Moretti’s innocence.
No. Better that they keep me in the dark.
It’s a strategic move by our consigliere. Even though I hate it.
The bruising across Moretti’s knuckles has darkened to a deep purple now, the skin swollen where the bone must have struck something hard.
Or someone.
“What about that?” I ask quietly.
Dante follows my line of sight.
“Someone thought the ceremony was a good place to test my patience.”
At his cold words, ice slides down my spine.
“They were wrong.”
“Who was it?”
“An associate of your family.”
I can’t breathe. So there had been an attempt to save me from this hideous union.
“Not a very good one.” He looks at me. “Frankly I was disappointed that the effort wasn’t greater. One person.”
Unless my brother and the men he had with him were meant to be part of the rescue mission.
Still, would my father only have sent one man to the cathedral?
I would have advised him to send many more.
No doubt Moretti has considered that as well.
“Where is the man now?”
The answer isn’t immediately forthcoming, making me scoff. I’m no stranger to men like Moretti. “Hospital?” I guess. “Worse?”
“He had a knife.”
“At least he was in a place he could receive the last rites.”
Moretti raises an eyebrow. “Marrying you may be one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.”
“Or stupidest.”
“I don’t underestimate you, Valentina.”
“You would do so at your peril.”
He tips his head to the side in acknowledgment. “Nor do I undervalue you.”
Which was why he’d been watching, waiting for my family to make an attempt to save me. And why he’d personally stepped in to prevent it.
Moretti lifts his glass and angles it toward me. “No one fucks with what’s mine.”
His eyes are more intense than ever, and his jaw is set.
He’s the devil himself, and I belong to him.
I shiver.
“Nico and Dario will be here at nine tonight.”
When he was on the phone earlier, that’s the assumption I’d made. High-level talks are needed, but Matteo and my father should not be part of them. If they were, it would be a flat-out declaration of war.
As of now, the situation is tense, fragile.
The fact that I’m here, married to a Moretti, is possibly the only thing keeping the peace.