Valentina
CHAPTER THREE
The marble floor echoes beneath my heels as I’m led through the Vitale estate like a prisoner being escorted to her execution.
I almost never wear heels to work, but I decided to make a little extra effort. Purely for professional reasons. And maybe a tiny bit in case the mystery man came back.
Now I’m here, following a man in a suit through hallways that look like they belong in a museum, and all I can think is that I should have worn my loafers.
"Wait here." The guard gestures to a leather chair outside massive double doors. His face is blank, professional.
I sit because my legs won't hold me anymore.
The chair is obscenely comfortable. Soft Italian leather that probably costs more than most people make in a year. Certainly, more than I do.
Lindsay once dragged me into one of those high-end furniture stores, the kind most people only pass on their way to somewhere affordable. We saw a chair there, nothing nearly as nice as this one, that cost as much as a gently used car.
Which means this one… this one must cost a fortune.
The guard walks back out, steps aside, and positions himself in front of the doors, pulling me out of my thoughts and sending a rush of panic through me.
Whatever my father apologized for was bad enough that the Vitale family came for me.
My hands start shaking. I press them together, hard, trying to stop the trembling. Trying to hold myself together when everything inside me is screaming to run, run, run.
A man emerges. Younger, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and sharp features. He studies me with uncomfortable intensity.
"Valentina Marino." His voice is calm, measured. A statement, not a question.
I force myself to stand. "Yes."
"Elio Vitale. The Don's youngest brother. He’s ready for you."
No preamble. No comfort. No mercy.
He pushes the doors wider, and I'm looking into what can only be described as a throne room disguised as an office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Dark wood paneling. Dark leather furniture "That's fitting," I think to myself. Original artwork on the walls. Is that a Caravaggio?
A bar cart stands nearby, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid that I assume is whisky.
And behind a massive mahogany desk, sitting like a king surveying his domain is… him.
Sal?
My brain short-circuits completely.
He stands, watching me the way he watched me in the history aisle.
"You." The word comes out like an accusation and a question at the same time, barely above a whisper.
"Miss Marino." His voice is exactly the same. Deep. Controlled. That same quiet gravel underneath. "Please, sit."
It's not a request.
I don't move at first, but my heels remind me that I can be upset from the chair.
My mind is scrambling through the afternoon, rewinding every exchange, every glance, every carefully chosen word. I wanted something specific, or should I trust the librarian? Already found what I was looking for. I wasn't only talking about the book.
Every single moment of it. The warmth, the charm, the way his thumb grazed my hand like it meant something, it was all planned.
The rage that moves through me is so white-hot and clean it almost steadies my hands.
I walk to the chair. I sit. Spine straight. Chin up.
Elio closes the doors behind me. The soft click might as well be a cell door locking.
"You came to the library." My voice is steadier than I deserve credit for. "Yesterday. That was on purpose."
"Yes."
“Why?”
“I wanted to see you.”
I hold his gaze even though every instinct screams to look away. "You wanted to see me before you had me taken?"
Something unreadable crosses his face. "I wanted to see you before I made you, my wife."
"Before what?"
The absurdity of this conversation of sitting across from the man who made my pulse stutter in a library aisle two days ago, who now sits behind a mahogany desk like a king receiving tribute, is so enormous I can barely hold it all at once.
“Look, if you plan to hurt me in any way.”
That depends entirely on you. Your cooperation. Your obedience.
The way he looks at me when he says it, makes my breath hitch. “Okay?” he asks.
“Okay.”
I take a deep breath to keep from panicking.
The slight tilt of his head, like I'm a puzzle he's still turning over.
The complete stillness of his body. The faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow that I didn't notice the other day, or maybe I was too distracted to look closely enough.
The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.
He looks the same.
He is something completely different.
"You look like her," he says finally.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Your mother. Maria." He leans back in his chair, and somehow that makes him more intimidating, like he needed to exude any more power. "You have her eyes. Her bone structure. Her mouth."
The mention of my mother sends ice through my veins. "Is she—" I can't finish the question.
"Safe. For now." His expression doesn't change. Clinical. Detached. "Your sister too. Sofia, isn't it? Nineteen. Art history major at Columbia. Pretty girl. Very talented. It would be a shame if something happened to her."
The threat is delivered so casually it takes me a moment to process it.
Then rage floods through me, hot and cleansing. "Don't you dare —"
"I haven't dared anything yet." He cuts me off. "But I will. If you give me reason to."
The rage dies as quickly as it came, leaving only cold terror.
"Please." My voice comes out smaller than I want. "They don't have anything to do with this. Whatever my father did we can fix it."
"Your father worked for me." Salvatore leans forward, fingers still steepled. "Did you know that?"
The room tilts. "What?"
"Marco Marino. Literature professor by day. But several evenings a week, he worked for the Vitale family. Managing books. Handling accounts." His tone is conversational like we’re just two people talking.
"I don't understand."
"Well, my brother Matteo needed your father's help with a project and he owes us so he... took care of it." His dark eyes never leave my face, tracking every reaction. "Until a financial arrangement required access to certain institutional accounts. Your father refused."
"He refused you?" My father spent his whole life avoiding conflict, staying invisible, keeping his head down. I can't imagine him saying no to this man. I can't imagine him being in the same room as this man.
"He said he wouldn't risk involving his daughter in our business. Very noble. Very protective." Salvatore stills, something cold settling behind his eyes.
Something sour coils in my stomach. His daughter. He was protecting me from a world I never knew he was part of, and now I'm sitting inside it anyway.
"Where is he?" I manage.
"If I knew that, maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation." Salvatore stands, and even that simple movement feels predatory. He moves to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. "Your father ran. Disappeared completely. Very thorough this time."
He turns back to me, silhouetted against the city behind him.
"This time?" I echo.
Something dark crosses his face. "Your father has made running away an art form, Miss Marino. This isn't his first betrayal of the Vitale family. But it will be his last."
"No, please don't hurt my father. Just tell me what you want from me."
He crosses back to the desk. Closer now. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, the same one from the library.
"Marriage."
I must have heard him wrong. The fear is making me hear things. "What?"
"Marriage," he repeats, opening a drawer and pulling out a thick folder. He sets it on the desk between us. "A contract, legally binding. You'll take my name, live in my home, and fulfill the duties of a wife."
This can't be real.
I'm going to wake up in my apartment, heart racing from a nightmare. This is too absurd. Too medieval. This doesn't happen in real life.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious, Miss Marino." He watches me with those dark, hungry eyes. "Your family’s debts die with this arrangement. Your mother and sister remain untouched. They keep their home, their lives, their safety."
He pauses, and the weight of his gaze is suffocating.
"All I require is you."
"Why?"
"Because I need a wife. And you need your family to survive. It's a practical solution."
"Practical." The word tastes like poison.
“Is that why you were at the library? You were interviewing me?”
“Of course. I had to make sure everything checked out. I’m not a madman.”
"You’re not? You're talking about marriage like it's a business transaction."
"It is a business transaction." His gaze doesn't waver. Doesn't soften. "I'm not interested in romance. I'm not going to court you or pretend this is anything other than what it is. I'm interested in stability, alliance, and legitimacy. A wife provides all three."
In the library, I thought he was flirting with me. I thought there was something between us, something real and unexpected and rare. I thought the way he looked at me meant something.
He wasn't flirting. He was evaluating.
"There are hundreds of women who would—"
"Who would want something from me. Money, status, access." He dismisses them with a slight wave. "You're different. You won't develop delusions about what this is. And you have enough at stake to ensure your loyalty."
He moves around the desk. Closer. I press back in my chair, but there's nowhere to go.
"But more than that." His voice drops lower. "You're exactly what this family needs."
The way he says it is weighted. Something that suggests this isn't as random as I thought.
"Read the contract," he says, gesturing to the folder. "Take your time. But understand, you'll give me your answer today.
My mother’s words echo in my head. Play their game.
My hands shake as I open it. Inside are dozens of pages of dense legal language. I scan the terms, and each paragraph is worse than the last.
Marriage duration: Minimum three years, renewable at Don's discretion.
Three years. Renewable. Like a fucking lease.