Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Valentina
Even a few days ago, there’s no way that I could have imagined that my life would look like this.
The Hill Country unfolds around us in slow, rolling waves of green and gold as the SUV winds along the narrow road toward Fredericksburg. Oak trees lean lazily over the shoulders of the highway, their shadows sliding across the windshield in long, shifting bands of shade.
Texas is much quieter here than it is in Dallas.
It’s not soft exactly—this is still a land of stubborn soil and hard sun. But there’s a kind of quiet that allows me to breathe.
Or maybe it’s because of the man sitting beside me.
The man I was forced to marry.
We’re in the back seat, and my hand is tucked inside his. And in this moment, the world feels strangely calm.
Almost normal.
Which is ridiculous, when I think about it.
Less than a week ago, I was acting as my father’s consigliere, helping him and my brother run operations.
And then I came out of my drug-induced stupor as a prisoner in Dante Moretti’s bedroom.
And today…
The big, bad former mafia enforcer is taking me shopping.
I shake my head at the absurdity of it all.
Dante catches the movement, and his eyes flick toward me, dark and watchful.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
Obviously not satisfied by my answer, he raises an eyebrow. “Valentina…”
The way he growls my name…
A shudder runs through me. “I was just thinking.” I meet his gaze. “Remembering.”
He was my hated enemy.
But the truth is, the moment Dante slid his wedding ring onto my finger and the helicopter landed at the villa, something shifted between us.
He is not less controlled.
Not less dangerous.
If anything, that coiled power sits beneath his skin more visibly than ever.
But with me? He’s different. Easier, maybe. And more accommodating.
Almost as if the act of claiming me settled something in his mind and his soul.
Moretti, I’ve learned, is a man who is happiest when he has his life exactly the way he wants it.
And apparently, that includes me.
If I am honest with myself, I’d admit that I’m not objecting the way I thought I would.
The SUV slows as we roll into Fredericksburg’s downtown strip, where storefronts painted in cheerful pastels line the street. Hanging flower baskets sway gently in the warm breeze.
The driver pulls to the curb in front of a charming little shop with wide windows filled with glass jars, handmade soaps, and rows of candles arranged like tiny sculptures.
Dante glances at the sign.
“Will this do?”
I lean slightly toward the window. Handmade cosmetics. Lotions. Bath oils. Candles.
Everything I realized this morning that he hadn’t thought to provide. This is exactly the kind of place that will have everything I want. And maybe more. “It’s perfect.”
After his men nod the all-clear, Dante steps out and offers his hand to me.
Previously I’ve ignored him entirely, but not now. I want his hands on me.
For a few heartbeats, he pulls me against him.
This man.
My husband.
A Moretti.
The man who made love to me so thoroughly, so completely that I’m no longer the same woman that I was.
When I spent time with my friends in Dallas, I heard stories. Long, detailed tales told over wine and laughter about men who were supposedly insatiable, relentless, impossible to keep up with.
I always assumed they were exaggerating.
Now I’m not so sure.
Last night, Dante had been raw and primal, even somewhat aggressive. He’d used clamps and fucked me hard.
And I’d enjoyed every moment.
Then after that, he’d made sweet, sweet love to me. He cocooned me, kissed me, and took me again and again all night long. Slowly, languorously, as if we had forever.
After breakfast this morning and the long hot bath that Dante had insisted on running for me, I thought the heat between us might settle.
Instead, he had taken me back to bed.
The thought sends warmth rushing through my cheeks.
Dante’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies my face. “What are you thinking about?”
I lift my chin a fraction. “Soap. I mean, can’t you smell the lavender.”
“Soap,” he repeats, clearly not believing me even for a second.
We exchange grins, a lighthearted moment unlike anything we’ve ever shared. Yeah… No matter how hard I might have tried, I could never have pictured a scene like this between us.
“Shall we?” He offers his arm, and I slide my hand through it.
Together we walk toward the shop.
The bell above the door chimes softly as we step inside, and the scent of chocolate, lavender, and citrus wraps around us like a warm cloud.
Shelves of handmade lotions, bath salts, candles, and oils fill the small space in careful rows.
For the first time in forever, I feel something dangerously close to normal.
And as I wander toward a display of glass bottles filled with golden bath oil, I realize something else.
I am enjoying this moment.
Enjoying the way Dante shadows me, like a silent gravity field, steady and watchful beside me.
Enjoying the strange, unexpected domesticity of it all.
Right now, in this tiny shop in Fredericksburg, Texas, war feels very far away.
When I’m holding a ridiculous number of items, the shopkeeper brings over a basket that I fill. Then she happily takes it away and brings me a second.
“Should I just buy the shop?” Dante asks.
I look up at him as I lift the lid of a candle. “Might be less expensive for you.”
I take my time selecting the right fragrance and settle for one called Hill Country Memories. Even when we’re back in Houston, I want a reminder of this trip.
When I’m finally finished, the woman rings us up. While he turns over his credit card, an assistant carefully wraps all the breakable items.
“Sorry,” the girl says, unable to take her eyes off my husband. “I don’t want the bags to break.”
And she no doubt wants to prolong the exchange as long as possible. Not that I blame her. I can’t get my fill of looking at him either.
Shaking his head, Moretti takes several bags to the vehicle then returns to help me with the remaining ones.
“Are you sure you left anything for other customers?” he teases as we turn over the final bags to the uncomfortable-looking soldier.
“I’m hoping she has more inventory in the back.”
Next door is a café, and I’m sure my eyes light up.
The place looks like something out of a European postcard. A chalkboard menu leans against the doorway, written in looping white script—espresso, cappuccino, crepes, fresh pastries.
“Let’s go in,” he says indulgently. “I know you need caffeine after the way I kept you up all night.
He’s more than right. “You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least.”
Who is this man, and what did he do with my mafia husband?
A bell jingles as we enter, and I’m immediately pulled toward glass cases at the front. They glow beneath warm lights, and they’re filled with buttery croissants, fruit tarts, and pastries dusted with powdered sugar.
The air smells like temptation—roasted coffee and warm chocolate.
Unable to help myself, I study the choices. A crepe folded into perfect quarters catches my eye—its edges crisp, the inside layered with Nutella and strawberries that look impossibly ripe.
I hesitate.
Dante notices immediately. “Get it.”
“It’s enormous,” I say.
“You burned plenty of energy last night.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
His mouth curves in that slow, wicked smile that makes my stomach flip. “And you’ll need the calories if you plan on keeping up.”
“Moretti!”
His grin deepens.
“Drinks?”
Dante orders a double espresso while I opt for a flat white.
The barista asks for our names for the order. Dante answers without hesitation. “Marco.”
I blink.
He doesn’t even glance at me.
“And for you?” the girl asks.
“Anna,” I say smoothly, following his lead and not missing a beat.
The girl scribbles on the cups, then asks for our food order.
“Two brisket kolaches,” he responds. “And a Nutella crepe for my wife.”
“Moretti.” My mouth is watering, and I can almost taste the deliciousness, but it’s not something that I would normally allow myself to indulge in.
“As I said…” He leans close so that he can murmur directly in my ear. “You’ll burn off the calories.”
I’d argue or protest, except he’s left me tongue tied and turned on.
We carry our beverages to the back of the café. Of course he doesn’t sit at the bar facing the wide plate-glass window. Instead he guides me toward a small table tucked near the wall, where he can watch both the entrance and the street outside.
A mafioso through and through.
The coffee is incredible—deep and strong enough to wake every nerve in my body. Even he seems impressed by the quality of the espresso. And he would know.
When he leans back in his chair, I consider him. “How long has it been since you were in a café? Or done something relaxing like this?”
He’s quiet for a few moments before responding. “A few years ago On an island in the Caribbean.”
Freedom, I note again. The cost of our lifestyle.
“I’ll take you there.”
I’m quiet. More talk of a shared future.
Within a few moments, the food is delivered to us.
The crepe is warm, and when I cut into it, the melted hazelnut chocolate spread oozes onto the plate.
Dante doesn’t touch his plate.
The moment I take the first bite, I close my eyes.
“Oh my God.”
Dante’s gaze sharpens.
Not on the crepe. On my mouth.
Something dark and distinctly sinful flickers in his eyes. “I could watch you eat all day, every day.”
“This…” I blot my mouth with a napkin. “It’s so good. You have no idea.”
His gaze drifts slowly from my lips down my throat and back again. The look on his face tells me exactly what he’s imagining.
My cheeks burn hotter.
After lingering much longer than I’m sure he’s comfortable with, we carry the last of our coffee out into the warm afternoon and continue down the street, wandering in and out of little shops filled with antiques, art, and handmade goods.
One store stops me in my tracks.
A Christmas shop.