Chapter 16
Mario Luciano
Utter silence greets me , and I freeze a moment before slowly pulling my pistol from its holster and creeping deeper into the townhouse.
Valentina neither texted nor called me today, but other than the initial text I sent before I left, I haven’t contacted her, either.
Although my disappointment grew every time I checked my phone, I figured she needed some time alone to process yesterday, so I never reached out to her.
The house alarm remains engaged and untriggered, so no one has broken in and she hasn’t snuck out.
But the place is too quiet.
I cross the living room, check the kitchen, and glance in the washroom before avoiding the creaky bottom step and climbing the stairs.
Since the second level is open concept, I pause on the landing and scan from one wall to the other and confirm no one is in the gym or game room.
The guest rooms on the third floor remain the same as when I left this morning.
I stop at the top of the stairs and focus on my adrenaline-sharpened senses.
A small sound comes from the master, and the central air conditioning whirs to life.
I clear the office before stalking down the hall and stepping into the master bedroom.
Valentina’s hair fans over the floor on the other side of the bedframe. I curse and rush forward. My heart skips several beats when I round the foot of the bed and see her tiny form curled up in the fetal position on the hardwood. Dark crimson coats her legs and puddles on the floor.
Pure terror steals my voice. She’s too pale. Too lifeless.
I grab her shoulder.
Her eyes snap open, revealing unfocused pupils, and she gives a lethargic swat at my hand.
“No, Daddy, stop,” she slurs.
I yank my hand away as fresh horror deepens the darkness in my soul.
“Look at me, paperotta . Only me,” I demand.
Her breath hitches. She grimaces and groans in pain, but when she opens her eyes again, she’s no longer trapped in horrible memories.
She whispers my name, but flinches when I reach out to brush her hair from her face.
“Don’t touch me,” she whimpers.
A single tear trails over the bridge of her nose and lands in her sweat-soaked hair.
I pull my hand back without touching her despite my desperation to comfort her. I fish my phone out of my pocket instead.
The blood comes from between her legs. She’s too tiny. I’m too big. I must have been too rough.
“No,” she mumbles.
Afraid she fell into a flashback, I look up from dialing 911 on my phone and meet her glazed stare.
“No doctors. I’m fine,” she says.
“You are not fine. I hurt you,” I snarl.
“You didn’t. This happens. No doctors.”
Her conviction, despite her weak voice, convinces me her mental state will suffer too much if I call an ambulance, so I stick my phone back in my pocket and shove my panic away. I turn off my emotions and slip into work mode, except this time I’m not ending a life, I’m saving it.
“You’re bleeding. A lot. You said this has happened before?” I ask.
She curls into a tighter ball and shakes as emotions barrel through her, but she answers through her tears.
“Menstrual blood. Just leave me alone. I—”
“This isn’t normal, little one. You need help,” I interrupt.
“Don’t touch me.”
Her panic-laced tone stops me with my hand outstretched.
It hurts to see her lying on the floor in pain, but I already triggered her once and don’t want to do so again. I almost killed her last time.
“Okay, I won’t touch you, but I can’t leave you like this. Let me help. Capisci ?”
Another wave of pain hits her. She groans and mentally checks out for a moment before returning to me with fresh sweat on her brow.
“What do you need, Valentina?” I prompt.
“Knife,” she whispers.
I blink in confusion before I register her hand tangled in her hair and her other clenched in a fist around nothing.
Realizing she’s too distressed to think beyond her mental anguish, I rise, lean over her, and take the knife her father stabbed me in the back with from under her pillow.
I kneel, peel open her fingers, and slip the hilt inside. She closes her fist and relaxes for the briefest of moments before lifting her tear-clumped lashes.
The urge to lift her off the floor or pull her into my arms rides me hard, but I press my palms to the floor and lean into her field of view.
“What else do you need? Medicine? Water? Ice pack? Heating pad?”
She tilts her head side to side in a lazy shake of denial, never lifting it off the floor, but even that seems to take too much energy.
“Just leave me alone. I’ll clean up when—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the mess, Valentina. You’re hurting. How do I make it stop?” I demand.
“You don’t.”
“Like fuck I don’t. What have you tried before?”
Her fingers tighten around the hilt and fear and disgust fill her expression.
“ Dannazione, I don’t know what I said wrong, paperotta , but I’m sorry. If I promise not to touch you, will you let me try to help?”
I don’t care how pathetic I sound. She looks on the verge of death.
Another tear drips off the bridge of her nose.
Impatience roars through me, but I grit my teeth and wait for her to process my words as she works through the pain.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Relief spears through me even though I’m still at a loss about how to help her.
I rise, yank a blanket off the bed, and drape it over her as I ask, “What hurts, other than your stomach?”
“Head. Joints. Everything.”
I stalk into the bathroom and raise my voice so she can hear me as I retrieve the first aid kit.
“You’re on the floor. Did you fall and hit your head?”
“No.”
I squat beside her and open the kit.
“Are you allergic to any medicines?”
“No.”
I pop open the ibuprofen bottle, pour three onto my palm, open a sterile packet of gauze to use as a plate, and place them on the floor near her hand before cracking the seal on a sterile water bottle meant for flushing wounds.
“I’ll be right back, paperotta . Capisci ?”
When she nods, I rush down to the kitchen and find a paper-wrapped straw from a local delivery place and take the stairs three at a time.
She hasn’t moved. I unwrap the straw, stick it in the water bottle, and angle it so she can drink.
Water splashes onto the floor, but I ignore it and urge Valentina to take the medicine.
With agonizing effort, she puts the pills in her mouth, closes her lips around the straw, and manages a few swallows.
Watching her in pain is agony, so I snatch the acetaminophen from the first aid kit and give her a dose in the same way before taking her phone from the bedside table, opening our chat screen, and placing it within her reach.
“I’ll be downstairs for a few minutes, but I’m not leaving. Call, call out, or text if you need anything, si ?”
“’K,” she whispers.
Her eyes drift closed as though her lashes are too heavy.
I leave the door open and stalk down to the kitchen.
My hatred for Pietro Denaro grows with every second. I thought I couldn’t despise him more after he stabbed me in the back and left me for dead, but knowing he abused Valentina while she was at her most vulnerable increases my fury exponentially.
My stomach twists as the possibilities run through my mind. He could have hurt her in so many ways. Hell, just refusing her medical treatment is torture.
I end the train of thought before I either spontaneously combust or rampage through the city and kill her father slowly and painfully with my bare hands.
After breaking the seal on two water bottles and sipping a bit of the liquid out, I place them in the microwave for makeshift heating pads. As I wait for them to warm, I grab an insulated grocery bag and fill it with ice packs, cold water bottles, snacks, candy, and other odds and ends.
I check the microwave and decide to make the bottles warmer, so I start it up again and rack my brain for other ways to help her.
Softer washcloths from the laundry room, scented candles from the guest room, pain patches from the office where I keep them in easy reach while I’m working, a silky throw pillow from the couch—I stalk through the house gathering anything that might make her more comfortable.
When I return to the bedroom, she breathes easier than when I left but still lies curled in a ball of pain.
I set my armful of things on the floor at the foot of the bed, drop the insulated bag, and sit where I knelt before so she can see me.
The moment she recognizes me, the blind panic fades from her eyes.
I show her the hot water bottles wrapped in hand towels.
“Heating pads for your stomach. I’m going to lift the blanket, si ?”
I wait for her to nod before slipping it under the cover and resting it against her side, waiting for her reaction to make sure it isn’t too hot before wedging it between her thighs and her torso. The blade scrapes the floor as she shifts.
“Too much?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I prop the other against her lower back and tuck the blanket around it to hold it in place. Her soft moan gives me hope.
She accepts a few more sips of water before closing her eyes. I pull a cloth ice pack from the insulated bag and drape it over her temple.
When she fills her lungs for the first time in what feels like millennia, I do the same and lean back in hopes of disarming her further.
While still suffering, she no longer looks on the brink of death. Not wanting to disturb her as she slips into a doze, I ignore the rest of the items I brought and scoot closer to her.
After silencing my phone, I send a few texts before focusing solely on her.
I sit on the floor beside her for a few hours, only rising to change the ice packs or rewarm the water bottles, and work on rehydrating her and keeping medicine in her system.
The house security alarm beeps as Noah drops off more supplies, but he comes and goes without detouring from the first floor.
When Valentina opens semi-alert eyes, I barely resist the urge to brush her hair away from her face.
“Any better?” I ask.
She nods and proves her response when she lifts her head from the floor to look around.
I reach for the throw pillow and hide my grimace as my scars burn from the stretch. Her gaze narrows on my face as I slip the pillow between her head and the floor, but the unexpected action steals her focus.
“Thank you,” she croaks.
“I brought snacks,” I say.
She scrunches her nose. I pull the bag closer to me and upend it onto the floor. Her eyes widen.
“You brought the whole kitchen,” she deadpans.
I scoff and scoop the pile of stuff closer.
“Wrong. I brought the entire house. What do you need, paperotta ?”
Tears shimmer in her eyes.
“You. Just you. Stay by my side. Please.”
Fucking hell, she’s killing me with her big blue eyes and startling honesty.
“I’m here, Valentina. Right here,” I vow.
She cries as I watch helplessly beside her, releasing emotions she bottled up for years made even more tragic for how quietly she expresses them.
When she calms, she sniffles but makes no move to dry her face. I snatch the tissue box off the bedside table and offer it to her. She closes her eyes, too spent to move.
“I want to shower,” she whispers.
“We can do that,” I say.
She shakes her head and half hiccups, half sobs.
“I won’t touch you, paperotta . Let me help,” I prompt.
I rise and wrap the blanket around her, creating a barrier between us, but when I position myself to pick her up, she whimpers and shakes her head.
“No.”
She’s too pale again. I pull my hands away and step back.
“What the fuck did that bastardo do to you?” I snarl.
I only say the words to express my anger, but Valentina shrugs, shakes her head, and answers in a whisper.
“He just… touched me.”
Every muscle in my body tenses in denial. Red hazes my vision as she pulls the knife closer to her chest and continues.
“It seemed innocent at first. He would brush my hair back and hold my hand.” The first hint of anger blips through her features.
“But that wasn’t enough for him.” She stops for a moment and closes her eyes before continuing with disgust lacing her tone.
“He progressively got worse, and even though he never touched my breasts or my sex, he couldn’t hide the hunger in his eyes, and I knew it was just a matter of time before… ”
Her breath hitches. A tear drips onto the pillow.
“I tried locking myself in the bathroom once, but he broke down the door and got in the tub with me.”
I growl and spin on my heel, needing to move so I don’t explode from anger. The need for vengeance boils in my blood as I pace from the dresser to the vanity.
“He would get disappointed when my cycles were mild and get this gross glint in his eyes when he mentioned my bad ones,” she recalls with revulsion in her tone.
Her breath hitches as her emotions swing from one extreme to another.
“I was so alone. First you became a traitor, then Mamma abandoned me, and Sienna said she never wanted to see me again. My whole world crumbled around me and then my father started touching me.”
I lower myself onto the floor beside her, aligning my head with hers and lying on my side even though there’s no room for my legs under the dresser.
“It was a battlefield in your own home, and after such a sweet and nurturing upbringing, you had no defenses. I’m partially to blame for not being there. I’m sorry, Valentina,” I say.
She releases her hair and presses her fingertips to my cheekbone. I welcome the touch even as her digits cool my flesh.
“But your world crumbled around you too, didn’t it? You had everything taken away from you in one night.”
She mourns for me. I’ve been too filled with hate and fury to process how deeply my loss cut me. Pietro sunk more than his blades into my flesh that night. He took away my family. My home.
Valentina swears to give back everything her father stole from me with her gentle eyes and caring soul.
My plans for my ex-best friend change. He will still watch his life implode around him. He’ll still lose everything.
But his misery will be much more violent. The bullet I put in his leg will look like sunshine and daisies compared to what else I’ll do to him.
I’ll fit two decades’ worth of pain instead of one into a few days because I’m not the only one who deserves revenge.
Valentina said she never wanted to see her father again, so I’ll make sure she never does.
I’ll avenge mia paperotta as I crush the man who hurt us both.
And I’ll enjoy every godforsaken second.