Chapter 3
Valentina Denaro
Exhaustion tugs me toward the floor , but I shake my head and tighten my grip on the stationary bike’s handlebars.
The sensation of eyes watching me, which hasn’t faded since we first came to New York almost two months ago, pulls my attention to the security cameras in the corner of the room, but I yank my focus to the mirrored wall and grimace at my reflection.
I look like shit. I feel like shit.
I haven’t gotten a solid night of sleep since I visited Central Park the day after we arrived in the Big Apple.
A part of me refuses to believe I saw Mario Luciano. The man I bumped into looked much more weathered than the memories I have of my uncle and the hatred in his amber eyes glinted with otherworldly intensity, so I don’t blame myself for being confused.
I’m too afraid to mention it to my father. He’s been occupied with business meetings, and every time I try to talk to him, he reiterates how important my marriage to Romeo Yovanni is before dismissing me, so I’ve been pouring my focus into wedding preparations.
But each time I stop, my mind replays the moment I met Mario’s furious eyes in the park.
Hence my late-night escapade to the gym.
I push the pedals faster, hoping one last burst of effort will give me enough adrenaline to carry myself back to my room safely before I drop on the bed and pass out, but instead, when I peel my feet out of the straps, my heels drop to the ground like lead and my arms turn to rubber.
After a moment of heavy breathing, I wipe the sweat from my face with the towel draped around my nape and swing my leg over the bike.
I stumble as my muscles struggle to accept my weight.
I’m tired. So fucking tired. Between planning the wedding, shopping, and attending countless clubs and activities for the super-rich socialites of the city, I haven’t had any time to spend alone.
Which is good, because every time I am, paranoia creeps into me. I swear someone has had their eyes on me every second since I ran into my uncle in the park.
With my lungs burning and head swimming, I pick my way through the machines and steal a glance at the security camera.
Of course I feel like I’m being watched; I’m in a public space with CCTV.
So why when I shut my hotel door behind me does the feeling stay? I turn the lock and lean back against the closed door, thumping my skull onto the wood.
With my lashes halfway lifted, I study the ceiling as I battle a wave of hopelessness. My attention snags on the air vent over my bed.
Urgency sweeps through me. I want to climb onto the bed and yank the vent cover off the hole to check for a camera, but if I act crazy and the staff gossips, then my father will hear about it. The adrenaline I longed for downstairs floods my system and buzzes in my ears.
Maybe if I tell my father I feel unsafe without mentioning Mario, he’ll listen to me and investigate my room himself.
It’s risky, but fabricating a story and making him think the police have a tail on me might push him into action and not make me look insane.
Wild accusations of a man coming back to life and stalking me almost three-thousand miles away from where he died sounds preposterous even to me, and I saw him with my own eyes.
I shut myself in the bathroom, turn on the fan for extra noise, and eye the vent in the ceiling.
Deciding I don’t care if it makes me look crazy, I grab a hand towel, climb onto the counter, and stuff the ends into the vent slats until it stays.
After nearly landing on my ass from overestimating my abilities and hopping off the counter, I brace my shoulder on the wall and turn on the vanity lights.
I plug the tub drain and adjust the water temperature before yanking my hygiene bag to the center of the counter and rifling through it.
I pause when a feminine pad slips off the stack and lands on top of the box of hair dye.
Since we arrived in New York City two months ago, I had two very mild menses. They were more like spotting than an actual shedding of the lining of my uterus.
When I realized other girls in school didn’t suffer like I did, I began researching, but it’s been an agonizing process.
Embarrassment and shame wriggle through me. My own body betrays me. I hate it.
It’ll probably choose the least opportune moment to start bleeding, like tomorrow, during the largest wedding of the year.
Not my wedding. Camilla Vivaldi—the woman I bumped into in Central Park two months ago—is marrying Dimitri Volkov, the assassin for Russia’s most powerful Bratva family.
I grab the hair dye and turn off my mind, moving through the familiar motions of preparing it, smearing baby oil on my forehead and ears so my skin doesn’t stain, then working the product over my scalp and wrapping plastic around my head before pulling off my clothes and stepping into the bath.
I soak in the hot water for a few minutes before opening the drain, rising, and turning on the shower.
After a thorough scrubbing, I exit, towel dry, slather lotion over my skin, dress in the ugly nightgown, and braid my hair before tugging the hand towel off the vent and opening the bathroom door.
Worms crawl under my flesh as the sensation of being watched resurfaces. I check the lock on my door before turning off all the lights and opening the curtains.
At least with the cityscape glowing against the night sky, I feel less like a bug trapped under a boot or a science experiment stuck under a microscope.
I pull several pillows and blankets off the bed and curl up on the couch closest to the window. When my lashes droop over the view, I take a deep breath and whisper everything I wanted to tell my mother throughout the day.
I don’t know when I started the practice, but it makes me feel less alone and keeps my nightmares at bay. Even though I know she abandoned me, I miss my mama. She loved me the most in the world. Because of her, my childhood was perfect. Everyone doted on me.
Then Mario betrayed my father, my father lost faith in himself, and my mother left.
When I started talking my thoughts aloud, I tried praying, but the thought of some lofty god wasting his time on a nobody like me always felt stupid, so I naturally filled the space with the person I missed the most.
With my father constantly cursing my uncle, I was too afraid to utter—or even think—my uncle’s name for fear of losing my father’s affection.
He was the only family I had left, but my father’s bitterness made him seem further away than anyone else even though he was right there.
So I spoke my thoughts to my mother to stave off my loneliness.
She always supported me. Always loved me.
I slip into a doze mid-sentence and partially wake several times throughout the night but manage a few hours of decent sleep and wake feeling not quite refreshed but better than bone tired and on the edge of collapse.
My father has returned to San Francisco for a few day trips here and there, but he never offered to take me back. I’ve never been away from home this long before.
I suppose it’s to help me transition to living here as Romeo’s bride, but I haven’t seen my betrothed much. The entire situation has me feeling more unsettled as the days continue.
My escape is within reach. I’ll marry Romeo in a month. I can hold out that long.
After greeting my father and having breakfast, he assigns my tasks for the day and ushers me into motion.
I work out in the gym, visit the stores he mentioned, and attend a cooking class with several older ladies who gush over me for being a thoughtful, caring daughter who’ll be an amazing wife.
The entire interaction leaves me feeling raw and used, but I return to the hotel and begin the tedious process of preparing my body for Camillas’ wedding.
My father knocks on my door half an hour early. Nervous energy jitters through me and my palms turn clammy. Worry and dread eat at my insides, but I smile and hang on to my father’s arm as he leads us to the valet, impersonating the perfect companion he always expects at big events.
“Find Romeo and sit with him during the ceremony. I will be occupied and cannot sit with you. Capisci? ”
I expected as much, but disappointment washes over me. It hurts to be unwanted.
When we pull up to the venue, an attendant opens my door and offers me his hand.
Broad shoulders slip in and out of view behind him. My heart leaps in joy before terror ices my veins. I pause, certain my mind is playing tricks on me.
I did not just see Mario Luciano stride around the side of the building. Even if he were alive, he’d never show his face at such a high-profile event. My father made sure everyone knows of his deceit. Too many people hate him.
I hate him.
The reminder shouldn’t fill me with sadness, but it does.
I fill my lungs and offer the confused attendant an apologetic smile before accepting his hand.
My skin goes blessedly numb as I rise from the car and allow the man to lead me to the bottom of the stairs.
I wait until my father offers me his arm before matching his stride up the steps and through the ornate doors.
The afternoon passes in a swarm of faces. Clouded by a million scents and lost amid a thousand voices, I drift through the pre-wedding party as though I belong when I feel way out of my depth, but my father’s watchful gaze keeps me firmly in my princess persona.
When we finally meet with Romeo, my insides are as numb as my flesh. His hand as he cups my elbow becomes the only spot of warmth in an ocean of ice, but although the sensation is grounding, it’s too weak and nowhere near comforting.
My mind compares his gentle hold to the startling power behind my uncle’s fleeting touch.
A flash of heat rolls up from my toes. My insides clench.
I may have only locked eyes with him for half a second, but the raw emotion in them reached deep within my lonely heart and animated parts of me I thought long gone.