Valentina #2
Lindsay: Good. Saturday. Our spot. 7pm. Wear something cute. We're getting wine drunk and you're spilling EVERYTHING.
I stare at the phone for a long moment.
Saturday is four days away. Four days to figure out how to explain to Salvatore Vitale that I need a night off from being his prisoner to get wine drunk with my best friend, who happens to be an assistant district attorney.
This should go well.
I read until I start to get tired but as I fall asleep, my mind drifts to Salvatore.
I know without a doubt, I’m diving into dangerous territory, but my body betrays me anyway.
I think about him pressed against my back, about the way his touch found my center and set every nerve screaming. I think about how instinctively I moved toward him when he was in pain, how my first impulse wasn’t fear or resistance, but care.
A shadow passes the door. My breath stills.
Rosa, I assume. Checking in. Making sure she hears movement, proof that I’m still where I’m supposed to be. Or maybe, now that Salvatore is recovering, she’s locked the door again, the way she did the first few days when I wasn’t allowed to roam the house after dark.
What would be the point?
Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t. Not if it meant putting my family in danger.
But then my mother’s voice surfaces in my mind, soft but urgent. We can leave. Me, you, and your sister. If you see a chance, take it.
My pulse quickens. Is this my chance?
The guards keep a black car stationed out front at almost all hours. I’ve noticed it. Memorized the patterns. I wonder if the key is still inside. I know I could be gone in minutes. Slip out, get to my mother, disappear just like she promised.
I grab my phone. I’m sure it’s tracked, but I can ditch it on the road after I call her. Even if he’s listening, even if he realizes what I’m doing, he won’t reach me in time, not with his recent injuries. He’s better, but a wound like that doesn’t heal in a week.
I wait. Count my breaths. Make sure the hallway is quiet.
Then I step to the door, half-expecting resistance, half-expecting the click of a lock.
I turn the knob and the door opens.
No resistance. No alarm. Just the soft click of the latch releasing, and suddenly I'm standing in the dark hallway with my heart slamming against my ribs.
This is it. This is your chance.
My mother's voice echoes in my head again. If you see a moment, take it.
I slip off my shoes and carry them, padding barefoot across the cold marble. Every shadow feels like a threat. Every creak of the old house sounds like a gunshot. I know the guard rotation by now, I've been watching, memorizing, waiting for exactly this opportunity.
The east wing is empty at this hour. Rosa retires early. The guards do their rounds at the top of every hour, which means I have approximately forty-seven minutes before anyone notices I'm gone.
Forty-seven minutes to disappear.
I make it to the main staircase without incident. My phone is in my pocket—I'll ditch it once I'm clear of the property. Let him track it to some dumpster on the highway while I'm already three towns away.
The front door is too risky. Too exposed. But the service entrance near the kitchen? That one leads directly to the garage where they keep the cars.
I've seen them leave the keys in the ignition. Arrogant bastards. So certain no one would dare steal from them.
My bare feet are silent on the stairs. One step. Two. Three.
I'm halfway down when I hear a door opening somewhere above me.
I freeze, pressing myself against the wall, heart hammering so loud I'm certain it can be heard throughout the entire mansion.
Heavy footsteps.
Salvatore.
No. It can't be. He's supposed to be recovering. Supposed to be in bed.
"Going somewhere?"
His voice comes from the darkness above me, low and dangerous, and every muscle in my body locks.
I don't turn around. Don't move… Don't breathe.
"Valentina." My name is a command. "Look at me."
Slowly, I turn.
He's standing at the top of the stairs, one hand braced against the banister, the other pressed to his side where the wound is still healing. He's wearing long pajama pants and nothing else, and even in the dim light, I can see the pain etched into his features.
He shouldn't be standing. Shouldn't be walking. Shouldn’t be confronting me in the middle of the night. And yet here he is.
"I asked you a question," he says.
"I was..." The lie dies on my tongue. What's the point? He already knows.
"I was leaving."
I can see the look of disappointment flicker across his face. Not anger like I expected.
"Were you."
It's not a question.
He descends the stairs slowly, each step controlled, despite what it must be costing him. I watch the way his jaw tightens with every movement. The way his hand presses harder against his side.
He's hurting himself to stop me.
Good, I think viciously. Let him hurt.
But another part of me, the part I've been trying desperately to silence, wants to tell him to stop. To sit down. To let me help him back to bed.
I hate that part of myself.
"My men saw you leave your room," he says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. He's close now. Too close. "They alerted me immediately."
"Never any privacy."
"You have no privacy. We've discussed this."
"You discussed it. I had to listen."
“Are you always this defiant?”
“You tell me, don’t you have my resume?”
His lips twitch almost into a smile.
“You were going to run.”
He steps closer. Suddenly, he’s everywhere, towering over me, his body cutting off my air, my options, my sense of direction.
I never considered myself a short woman, at five-foot-five, but at six-foot-four, he doesn’t just stand in front of me; he looms. My gaze barely reaches the center of his chest, and I have to tilt my head back to look at his face.
He’s shirtless.
Completely, unfairly, shirtless with nothing but the bandage on his side covering the wound.
Dark ink sprawls across his skin, tattoos wrapping his arms, stretching over his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants like secrets I’m not allowed to know yet.
Every muscle is carved, powerful, made for violence and control.
His abdomen is hard, defined, a ridged plane of strength that makes my mouth go dry by standing this close.
I’m close enough to feel his heat. Close enough that my forehead could rest against his chest if I let it. Close enough that one hand from him would span my waist entirely.
My mind is screaming danger, desperately searching for an escape, for space, for distance.
But my body doesn’t care.
My body notices how small I am compared to him. How easily he could pin me there without effort. How natural it feels to be swallowed by his presence.
I swallow, forcing myself to remember why I was standing near the door in the first place.
His gaze drops, lingers, sharp and knowing, as if he feels the exact second my resolve fractures and he remembers why he’s standing here as well.
“Where,” he asks quietly, “did you think you’d go?”
"Away from you."
"And your family? Were you planning to leave them unprotected while you ran?"
"I’d figure it out," I retort.
His dark eyes bore into mine. "I don’t think you planned this out at all. You were thinking about freedom. About escape. About that normal life you keep pretending you still want."
"I do want it."
"Do you?"
He reaches out, and I flinch, but his touch is gentle. Just his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
"You could have left last week," he murmurs. "When I was bleeding out on that sofa. When the entire house was in chaos. No one would have stopped you."
I open my mouth to argue, but the words won't come.
He’s right, I'd had the perfect opportunity. Salvatore was in pain, the guards were distracted, and everyone was focused on saving the Don. I could have walked out the front door, and no one would have noticed until it was too late.
Instead, I'd stayed. I'd watched the doctor work on him. Stood there so he didn’t feel alone, and, put my hand on his thigh when his leg started shaking.
"Why didn't you run then?" he asks, and his voice is different now. Quieter. Almost vulnerable.
I don't have an answer.
Or rather, I have too many answers, and none of them make sense.
Because I was scared.
Because I didn't want to leave my family behind.
Because some twisted part of me wanted to know if you'd survive.
Why the fuck didn’t I try to leave then? It’s not like I hadn’t thought about escaping a million times.
"I don't know," I whisper.
His hand gently cups my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. In the darkness, his eyes are nearly black, endless, and consuming.
"Yes, you do."
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, feather-light. "You stayed because you know what I know."
"And what's that?"
“You belong here.” A pause. “With me.”
I step back, breaking his touch. "I don't belong to anyone."
"Not yet." He doesn't follow me. Just watches with that predatory patience that's somehow more unsettling than aggression would be. "But you will."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
We stare at each, the grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the darkness, measuring out the seconds of this strange standoff.
I could still run. The door is right there. He's injured, slow, and probably couldn't catch me if I sprinted.
But my feet don't move.
"Go back to bed, Valentina," he says finally. The command is gentle, almost tired. "We both know you're not leaving tonight."
I want to argue. Want to prove him wrong. Want to show him that I'm not the obedient captive he thinks I am.
Instead, I ask about his pain… something is seriously wrong with me. "You shouldn't be out of bed. Your stitches—"
"Are fine."
"The Doctor said,"
"Don’t worry about what Dr. Drew said." His expression is soft. "You're worried about me."
"I'm worried about what happens to my family if you die and your brothers decide to take their grief out on us."
The lie sounds hollow even to my own ears.
He smiles, and it transforms his face. I realize I had never seen him smile before. "Liar."