12. VALENTINO
12
VALENTINO
I swear, women have some kind of superpower.
How else could I explain the absolute torture I was going through right now?
Layla sits next to me in the passenger seat of my car, her legs crossed, her dress riding dangerously high on her thighs. The silky fabric clings to her body like it was made for sin, and every time she shifts, my control unravels just a little bit more.
I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white.
I’m not the kind of man who loses composure over a woman. But damn it, Layla Gallo was built to test me.
I flick a glance her way. Big mistake.
She’s biting her lip. Biting her damn lip.
She’s nervous about tonight.
“Who got you that dress?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She turns to me slowly, arching a brow, her lips curving into a wicked little smirk. “Why?”
A sharp jolt of possessiveness surges through me. I don’t even try to mask it. “If it was an ex, I just need to know so I can throw the damn thing in a bonfire.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Relax, caveman. It wasn’t an ex.”
I exhale, somewhat satisfied, but not entirely.
The idea of another man buying Layla something as intimate as this dress makes me want to wreck something.
She studies me for a moment, amusement flickering in her gaze. “You could just admit you like it. Why the interrogation?”
I drag my eyes over her slowly, from the elegant curve of her neck to the way the dress hugs every perfect inch of her.
“Oh, I like it.” My voice drops, dark and rough. “Maybe a little too much.”
Her breath hitches.
I see it, the quick flicker of heat in her eyes before she looks away, pretending like that didn’t just affect her as much as it did me.
Damn it, Layla. We’re playing a dangerous game.
“You ready for tonight?” I go for breaking the thick tension between us.
She sighs dramatically. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Relax. My family is actually pretty great. You’ll get along with them just fine.”
She side-eyes me. “Right. The notorious Marchettis. I’ll take your word for it.”
I chuckle. “We just need to put on a good show. Just make it sound like you’re crazy in love with me.”
Layla lets out a snort. “It might be easier to prove that the Earth is flat.”
I grin. “Then you’d better brush up on those acting skills, baby. We’ve got a point to prove.”
At the word baby, she blushes slightly, barely noticeable, but I catch it.
And it damn near wrecks me.
Before I can tease her about it, we arrive at my father’s estate.
I step out of the sleek black car, reaching for Layla’s hand as we walk up the stone path leading to my father’s newly built home.
The moment our fingers brush, a slow burn travels up my arm.
This woman is going to ruin me.
Layla looks in awe, the countryside stretches endlessly around us, rolling green hills kissed by the last golden rays of the evening sun. The air smells of fresh earth and lavender, the kind of scent that settles deep in my lungs, pulling me back to childhood summers in Tuscany, barefoot, wild, running through the vineyards without a care in the world.
But this house, this is something new.
Every time I visit, it still takes me by surprise. My father spent years designing it with Quinn, blending the old-world charm of Italian architecture with modern luxury. A fresh start, a new chapter, one that, somehow, feels right.
I push open the heavy wooden doors, and the grand foyer unfolds before us, bathed in the soft glow of a chandelier that hangs like an art piece from the vaulted ceiling. The polished marble floors gleam, catching the flickering light of candles lining the curved staircase. The walls are adorned with rich, earth-toned frescoes, a tribute to tradition, while sleek glass railings and contemporary furniture strike a perfect balance between past and present.
Beside me, Layla inhales sharply.
"Wow." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
When I turn, I catch the awe in her eyes as she takes it all in, the intricate carvings in the stone archways, the warmth of the wooden beams stretching across the high ceiling.
"You like it?" I already know the answer, but I want to hear it anyway.
She turns to me, shaking her head slightly, like words aren’t enough.
"Valentino, this is… breathtaking. It’s not just a house. It feels like a story."
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "That’s my father for you."
Pride settles in my chest as I lead her deeper inside.
My father spent years mourning my mother. And for a long time, I thought nothing could ever fill the void she left behind. But then came Quinn, fiery, unexpected, full of a kind of love that doesn’t erase the past but makes space for something new.
And that’s the thing about this house, it isn’t a replacement for the villa where I grew up. No, my father made sure my mom’s memory is still here, woven into the very bones of this place.
Her favorite flowers, lilies and roses, line the garden path outside. A grand piano sits untouched in the corner of the living room, gleaming, just like she used to keep hers. And in the hallway beyond the foyer, beneath the warm glow of wall sconces, hangs a portrait of her, painted in soft oils, her expression serene, as if she’s still watching over all of this.
Layla stops in front of it, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the frame. "She’s beautiful."
I swallow, nodding. "Yeah. She was."
And yet, as I say it, there’s no ache, no sharp edge of grief twisting inside me.
My father built something here, something lasting. He found love again, without ever forgetting where he came from.
I wonder if maybe that’s possible for me, too.
As we venture into the main dining area, all eyes turn to us.
Layla stiffens slightly beside me.
I lean in, my breath skimming her ear. “Relax. Just be yourself.”
I grab her hand, interlocking our fingers in place.
She nods once, then straightens her shoulders, masking her nerves flawlessly.
I scan the room.
Quinn is holding baby Mira, glowing with motherhood. Nearby, Alonzo is causing a ruckus, my father rushing after him to keep him out of trouble.
Dante and Alessio are among a crowd of six women, flirting shamelessly.
A few months ago, I would have been right there with them.
Tonight, my eyes are locked on one person.
Layla.
Luciana spots us the second we step into the main living area, her dark curls bouncing as she practically flies across the room.
"Finally." Her arms cross over her chest as she levels me with a knowing smirk. "I was starting to think you made her up."
I sigh, already regretting bringing Layla anywhere near my little sister. "Nice to see you too, brat."
She barely acknowledges me, her focus already locked onto Layla.
"So, you’re the mysterious girlfriend that’s tamed my workaholic brother. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Layla laughs, tilting her head. "That depends, what exactly has Valentino told you?"
Luciana pretends to think, tapping her chin dramatically. "Oh, just that you’re a ‘friend’ and this isn’t serious, blah, blah, basically, the same excuse he’s been using since he was fifteen."
Layla raises an eyebrow, turning to me with mock disappointment. "Wow. Fifteen? So, I’m just another name on a long list, huh?"
I shoot my sister a warning look, but she’s already grinning like she’s enjoying this way too much.
"Oh, please…" Luciana loops an arm through Layla’s like they’ve known each other for years.
"He’s never brought a girl home before. Not once." She turns to Layla, her grin widening. "That means you’re special, even if he’s too emotionally immature to admit it."
Layla bites her lip like she’s holding back a laugh, then leans in conspiratorially. "Trust me, I figured that part out pretty quickly."
Luciana cackles, and I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Great. Two of you."
Luciana pats my arm in mock sympathy. "Oh, relax, big brother. We’re going to get along just fine. In fact…" She tugs Layla forward, already steering her toward the bar set up across the room. "I think I need a drink, and you’re coming with me."
Layla glances over her shoulder, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You coming?"
"No," Luciana cuts in before I can answer. "He’s been replaced. It’s a sister-in-law bonding moment now."
Sister-in-law? What the fuck?
The phrase shouldn’t make my stomach flutter the way it does.
Layla just laughs, giving me a little wave as Luciana drags her away, leaving me standing there, watching as the two of them disappear into the crowd like they’ve been family all along.
She doesn’t need me to hold her hand. She can handle herself just fine.
But damn, I don’t like letting her out of my sight.
I drift toward Quinn, who’s bouncing Mira in her arms.
“She’s been a little angel.” Quinn smiles. “I’m happy you made it tonight.”
“You know I wouldn’t say no to Dad.” I glance toward the crowd, spotting my father deep in conversation. Then my eyes travel to the woman who hasn’t left my thoughts.
Quinn follows my gaze. “Is that Layla?”
I smirk. “The one and only.”
“My God, Valentino.” Quinn chuckles. “Dad said you were bringing a girlfriend, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Glad to know everyone has so much faith in me.”
She grins. “You’ve never introduced anyone before. You can’t blame us for being… skeptical.”
I don’t reply.
Because truthfully? I really can’t blame them.
I watch as Quinn moves through the room with Mira snuggled into her chest, laughing softly at something my father whispers in her ear. There’s an ease to the way they fit together, the way she leans into him without hesitation, like she belongs there. And she does.
It took me a while to see it, really see it.
Quinn wasn’t the woman I expected my father to fall for. She’s younger than him, younger than my mother was when she passed. Hell, she and I are almost the same age.
And if the age gap wasn’t enough to stir up whispers, the fact that she’s the daughter of his best friend certainly was. People talked. They judged. Some still do. But none of them saw what I did.
The way my father came back to life around her, the way she pulled him from the shadow of grief he carried for so many years.
And she needed him just as much.
My father told me Quinn had been through hell. She was stuck in a marriage that drained the light from her, piece by piece. Her ex-husband never laid a hand on her, at least, not physically, but the way he spoke to her, the way he chipped away at her confidence, the way he twisted love into something cruel. It took her years to realize she deserved better. To finally walk away.
And my father was there when the time came.
Looking at them now, I get it. She makes him happy in a way I never thought he could be again. And maybe that’s the thing about love, you don’t plan for it. You don’t control who walks into your life, or when. It just happens, and when it does, you either fight it, or you take the chance.
He took the chance.
And I, for once, think he got it exactly right.
When Layla returns to my side, Luciana is already obsessed with her.
The two of them are laughing like old friends, and I don’t miss the way Layla’s eyes shine with the confidence of someone who belongs.
Damn.
She’s selling this way too well.
I spot my father the moment he begins to approach us, tall, composed, with the kind of presence that commands attention without having to ask for it.
He moves with effortless confidence, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, his dark suit crisp and perfectly tailored. The years have passed him by, they haven’t dulled him. If anything, they’ve only made him sharper. Stronger. Like a fine wine. A man who carries both loss and love with equal weight.
Layla stiffens slightly beside me as he approaches, her fingers curling into mine.
I can’t blame her. My father isn’t the kind of man you meet without feeling something, intimidation, admiration, maybe both.
Then, just as she straightens her posture, ready to greet him, his lips tug into a knowing smirk as he looks at me.
"I was beginning to think this day would never come," he says smoothly, his voice rich with amusement. "My son, bringing a woman home? I was convinced he’d grow old alone with nothing but his ego for company."
Layla lets out a surprised laugh, glancing at me with a raised brow. "Oh, so, I’m a miracle, then?"
"The one and only." My father extends a hand to her. "Enzo Marchetti. And you must be Layla."
She hesitates for only a breath before placing her hand in his, her expression shifting from surprise to something warmer, softer. "It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Marchetti."
"Please, call me Enzo."
Her smile deepens, and just like that, the moment of hesitation is gone.
I watch as my father studies her, his sharp gaze assessing, but not in the way most men do.
He’s not looking at Layla’s appearance, not sizing her up the way others might. He’s searching for something deeper, character, strength, maybe even the way she carries herself under pressure.
And from the glint of approval in his eyes, I can tell she’s already passed whatever silent test he’s given her.
"Well, son…" He turns to me with that same smirk. "I can tell already, she’s far too good for you."
Layla laughs, and I roll my eyes, exhaling through my nose. "Yeah, yeah. Get your jokes in while you can, old man."
Dad chuckles, then turns his attention back to Layla. "Come, let me introduce you to Quinn. I have a feeling you two will get along just fine."
***
Later, as the night winds down, Quinn approaches with a knowing smile.
“You’re staying, right?” Her gaze flicks between me and Layla.
I hesitate. I had warned Layla about the possibility of staying the weekend.
But now?
Now, the idea of sharing a room with her feels… dangerous.
I roll my shoulders, keeping my voice light. “That’s her call.”
Layla’s eyes dart to mine, searching for something.
She knows.
She knows what staying the night means.
She knows we’ll be alone, in the same bed, with no escape.
A small, shaky breath escapes her.
Then, she nods. “Of course. We’d love to stay.”
Quinn claps her hands. “Perfect. You two will be in the guest room.”
I exhale.
One bed.
One night.
With Layla wearing that damn dress.
I’m so screwed.