Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
VALENTINA
I ’m lying on the bed, trying to summon an ounce of sleep. I toss to my left and then to my right. Huffing, I roll onto my back. My chest constricts as I think of Mom, Violette, Marcello, and Monica. I really hope Dad hasn’t taken out his anger on them. My eyes begin to sting, and I rub them with the heel of my palms. Sighing, I sit up and throw the covers off. I’ve showered, changed the clothes I had on from Doctor Callahan, and I still can’t sleep.
I look over to the balcony window, debating whether I should go out there. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slide the balcony glass doors open. A cool breeze drifts in, cooling my hot cheeks. It smells like rain, but it hasn’t rained today, which means the clouds are brimming with rain droplets. I step out onto the cool surface of the glass balcony. I can see that the garden is an array of lush oranges, browns, and reds, even in the middle of fall, when everything is dying and nothing seems to be as beautiful. Resting my elbows on the rod of the balcony, I wonder if I’ll ever get this sense of peace ever again. Even if I am in enemy territory.
My hand snaps to my cheek as I feel a singular wet droplet land on my cheek. I’m not crying again, am I? I feel my other cheek to see if I have started to cry without realizing it, but my cheek feels dry. I look up, and once I do, it begins to drizzle light rain. I don’t go back inside. I stay out on the balcony and let the sensation of feeling rain cascade down my body. The smell of grass in my lungs and my hair sticks to the sides of my face. Rain begins to pound on the ground harder, soaking the garden, and slowly a mist forms in the air. I take that as my cue to go back inside. A shiver slithers down my back and goosebumps pepper my arms. I rub my palms over them, trying to make them go away. When it doesn’t work, I decide to go take another shower. Afterwards, I slip back into the bed, the bed creaking as I readjust for the third time, but sleep continues to evade me even as I close my eyes and count to three hundred. I give up, trying to fall asleep when I notice the first rays of sunshine peeking through the balcony doors. Looking at the bedside table that has an alarm clock on it, it reads six-thirty in the morning.
Sitting up, I rub my palms over my face and groan loudly. Frustration doesn’t even cover the level of pissed off I am. I quietly tread toward the door and flip the lock open. The door is silent as I carefully lower the door handle and open it an inch. “Go back inside, miss.” Fuck. That asshole was serious when he said he’ll put a security guard outside. Shutting the door with a thud, I turn the lock. I lean against it before walking to the small armchair and coffee table in the corner.
It’s not until around seven-thirty that there is a knock on the door.
“Hey, Valentina, it’s me, Mariana. I’m here to check on you and to see if you’d like to come down for breakfast,” Mariana says. I hesitate to open the door when I reach it, but my hesitation quickly dissolves when my stomach growls and I feel a dull pain in my lower abdomen. Mariana stands a couple of steps away from the door with a small smile gracing her face.
“Morning, how did you sleep?” she asks, and I plaster on a smile.
“Well, thank you.” The lie comes out smoothly, and a flicker of guilt nags me before I douse it. I can see the bodyguard at my door, standing in the far corner of the hallway with his eyes on us, unwavering. It sends an uneasy feeling settling into the pit of my stomach. I shake it off when an arm loops through my own and drags me toward the staircase.
“I didn’t know what kind of food you like to eat for breakfast, so I had the chef make some pancakes, eggs, sausage, a fruit salad, and some other things.” She waves her hand around as she tells me what to expect at breakfast. Mara, and another woman, and two other young men are sitting at the dining table. They seem to be engaged in a conversation.
“No, I don’t think that’s fair because you guys can do whatever you want, and when I try to go out with my friends, you guys flip your shit.” Mara spears her pancakes after she finishes her statement. Mariana clears her throat.
“This is Valentina. Valentina, that's my sister, Clarissa, and those two are Matteo and Lucio, my sons. You’ve already met Mara, I suppose.” She points at the woman on the right of Mara and the two boys who sit on the opposite side of the table.
I nod at everyone and mutter, “Hello.” Mariana all but drags me toward the two empty seats beside Mara. She motions for me to take the seat between her and Mara.
There is a beat of silence before it is broken by the voice of one of the boys.
“So, are you going to be a part of the family?”
I look up with my eyes darting between them. Only one of them is looking at me, and he’s the one with the long lashes and strong jaw. His eyes are eager and teasing. I deflate a little when I see that he’s just messing with me.
“No, I’d rather be burned alive than join the Camorra.” I bite my tongue as soon as I realize how ungrateful I sound to the women around me. When my eyes dart to Mariana, I find that she’s just giving me a sad smile. I open my mouth to apologize, but she just shakes her head.
“No, I understand why you said what you just did. You have a right. My son hasn’t exactly brought you here out of your own will.”
I nod and give her a grim smile. The air feels so thick I can cut it with a knife.
The woman, Clarissa, speaks up, “I heard you’ll be able to come to the picnic today. Do you have any allergies we should be aware of?” A small smile graces her lips.
“No, I don’t, but thank you for asking.”
The rest of the morning is spent finishing breakfast and avoiding talk that might tread near sensitive topics.
* * *
My hands shake as I debate whether to go outside and see the garden. Instead of doing the right thing and heading back upstairs, I slide the glass doors open and step outside. A light fall breeze drifts over me and the sound of leaves rustling fills my ears. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I make my way toward the huge greenhouse. It’s made up of glass and foliage snaking the sides of the building, adding a beautiful edge to it. I peek my head in through the open door, the inside just as breathtaking as the outside. The floor is a mosaic of greens, blues, yellows, and oranges. When I step inside, the humidity feels like a layer on my skin and the earthy smell of the dirt fills my lungs. In the middle of the room, a water fountain with a marble bench, and a spiral staircase to the far back of the greenhouse.
“What are you doing in here?” a deep voice asks. I press my lips together, wincing before I turn around to face an infuriated Emiliano. “I asked you a question, Valentina. I expect an answer.” He’s standing by the door, watching through narrowed eyes, his fist clenched around what looks like gloves. He’s wearing some joggers and a wife beater; it’s kind of weird to see him in casual clothes.
“I…I just wanted to get some air.” I almost wince at the stupid explanation. Of course, I shouldn’t be exploring. This isn’t some friend's house. Emiliano cocks his head to the right as he regards me before he sighs and makes his way past me to the spiral staircase. He stops at the foot of the stairs and turns to look at me.
“Are you just going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to follow me?” he asks condescendingly. I give him the finger before making my way toward him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and I have to bend my head as I make my way up because of the dangling lavender flowerpots. Emiliano is standing near the top of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest when I finally approach.
“Here.” He extends his arm, gloves in his hand. Looking down, I get a better look at them to know that they’re gardening gloves.
“You garden?” That’s such a stupid question. Of course, he gardens. His answer is a raised eyebrow.
“Take the damn gloves, Valentina.”
I grab them as I look around the second floor. There's a lot of greenery in here, but there’s also the colors from the vibrant flowers that are planted around. The greenhouse is huge, big enough that it has a row of olive trees. When I look back at Emiliano, I find him still looking at me, this time with something akin to curiosity. He shakes his head and moves toward the cape bushes, dropping to his haunches. I follow behind him and watch him pull out dead leaves before he feels the soil.
“Aren’t you going to wear gloves?” I ask. He doesn’t turn around to answer me, so I walk closer till I’m close enough to see the side of his face.
“No,” he says as I pull the gloves on.
“Why not?” I pry. Emiliano sighs before looking at me from his position.
“Because I gave you the only pair I have.” Something in my chest warms at the fact he gave me the only gardening gloves he has.
“What about your hands?”
“You worry about yourself, and I’ll take care of myself. Any more questions, Miss Moretti?” His question is sarcastic, but it doesn’t do anything to diminish the gratefulness I feel for his kind gesture.
“No.” I shake my head, fighting off a small smile.
“Good. Now, would you like to plant something? Or would you like to cater to the plants that are already here?” Planting? That piques my interest. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of picking up gardening as a hobby.
“What can I plant, exactly?” I ask him. He stands up, which causes me to step back since he’s around a foot taller than me, maybe even more, and I’m just under 5’5”.
“There’s violet, cape bush, and bougainvillea seeds. There’s also thyme and some lavender seeds left over, if I’m not mistaken. I also have some zinnia seeds.” He counts off. I follow him as he makes his way toward a small cabinet near the olive oil trees.
“What do you suggest?” I ask. It’s a bit overwhelming, especially since I’ve never actually planted anything.
“The zinnia seeds are known to be one of the easier flowers to grow. So, I suggest those, unless you want to choose something else.” He turns his head to look at me, and I shake my head at him.
“Right, then zinnia seeds, it is.” He opens the top drawer of the cabinet and pulls out a medium-sized pot, placing it on the table that’s positioned near the cabinet, before turning back around to grab a small bag and a shovel. He sets them on the table as well. Emiliano opens the bottom drawer, which is bigger than the top, then pulls out a large bag of soil and puts it on the table. There’s a small spray bottle on the table as well, which is halfway full.
“You don’t actually need to have the gloves on for this specific process, but if they make you more comfortable, then keep them on.”
The gloves are huge, so I opt to take them off; they’d only be an obstacle instead of helping. He watches me take them off before he turns toward the table.
“You’ll need around three quarters of the pot to be filled with soil.”
I grab the shovel, and when I try to move the soil bag close to me, it only moves a couple of inches before Emiliano pushes it with the palm of his hand till the bag is closer to me.
“Thank you,” I mutter as I shovel the soil into the pot until it’s three-quarters full.
“The soil needs to be tamped, but not to the point that the water runs out from the bottom of the pot.” He grabs the small spray bottle and spritzes the soil three times, then reaches his hand and feels the soil. Emiliano sprays it again once before putting the bottle down.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask as I grab the small bag of seeds and pour out three small seeds.
“That’s a question in itself,” he points out, before sighing, “Only if I can ask you questions.”
“Fine. Why do you guys live in New Hampshire if the heart of the Camorra is New York?” I ask. Emiliano grabs the shovel again and puts some more soil in the pot, covering the seeds.
“New York is our home, and it was where we lived before the attack in Ohio, but after my Pop’s death, it became too dangerous to keep my ma and sister down there. We didn’t know who was an enemy and who was an ally.”
“But why did New York become too dangerous if the attack was in Ohio?”
His eyes make their way to my face before an amused gleam enters them.
“It’s my turn to ask. Why are you trying to get close to my family?” he asks. I turn my head back to the pot, grabbing the small spray bottle.
“I’m not. Not in an intentional or malicious way, at least. They’re very kind and have been strangely warm toward me,” I tell him as I spritz the soil.
“To answer your other question, my Pop died in Ohio because he had gone down there to cut off the Outfit’s deals with the Russians there. It seems like your little cousin had wanted to become a hero in the eyes of other Made men and decided to attack our territory.”
Emiliano seems to be apathetic towards his dad’s death.
“Were you guys close? You and your dad?”
His fists clench as he shakes his head.
“When I was younger, maybe. But once I became a Made man, he…changed.” He grabs the pot and feels the soil. “What about you? Are you close to your Pops?”
I slightly cringe at his question, and my body goes still. He notices the change in my mood and turns his face to look at me.
“No. No, my dad and I have never been close… It’s complicated, my family is complicated.” I sigh as I try to avoid talking about my dad's abusive nature. Emiliano looks like he wants to probe some more, but instead, he simply nods.
“Why do you like to garden?” His veiny hands flex as he tends to the soil, and it strangely looks sexual. Jesus, I need help.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re practically surrounded by death and destruction. Bringing life to something, even something as small as a plant, makes me less inclined to believe that there is only evil in this world. It also relaxes me. I don’t have to think while I do this.” Emiliano doesn’t give me much time to process what he just said because he moves on to the next question.
“What’s your favorite color?” I give him a look. It’s my turn to ask the question, but I let him have this one. He’s trying to change the topic, which I’m grateful for. I ponder for a couple of seconds.
“It doesn't take that long to know what your favorite color is.”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
“Don’t think too hard, you might pop a vein,” he teases, and I wrinkle my nose. He’s awfully impatient for someone who should be making important decisions.
“Red. Yours?” I counter.
“Mine? I don’t know if you’ve noticed a theme, but green. Green is my favorite color. Favorite movie?”
I don’t have to think about that one.
“ Pride and Prejudice . Yours?”
“Really, Pride and Prejudice ?”
“Yes, really, what’s wrong with Pride and Prejudice ?” I ask. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Nothing, but that seems a bit generic.”
“I’m not trying to be different, asshole. In fact, I prefer blending right in.”
“You can never blend in.”
My cheeks heat at the tone of his voice. If he had said it any differently, I would’ve thought he was insulting me.
I swallow down any nervousness and ask him, “What’s your favorite movie?”
“I’m warning you, it’s generic as well.”
I roll my eyes. Of course it is.
“What is it?”
“ Men in Black .”
“Have you read the comics?” I ask him as he grabs the pot and takes it near the violets. He bends on his knees and digs in the empty spot in the soil near the violets.
“No, I was never able to get into them. You need to go back inside.” He stands up and dusts the dirt off his hands before he turns back to me.
“Right, well, thanks for letting me plant something,” I say. He nods once, before we silently make our way back inside the house.
* * *
Emiliano had taken me back up to the room I’m staying in. He silently passed me a copy of Pride and Prejudice before he walked out. I sit by the coffee table, reading, when a knock at the door startles me. Mara stands on the other side. Her eyes widen as she bites her lip, trying to brush her side bangs out of her eyes.
“Uh…hi. I’m Mara,” she says. I puff out a small sigh before I smile.
“I know, you told me already.”
A blush creeps up her neck and she looks like she wants to book it out of here. I speak up again before she does, “Do you want to come in?” I widen the door to show that I’m being sincere, but she shakes her head.
“No, thank you. Um…I was actually here to see if you’d like to come help me bake some cookies?” she asks. My eyebrows reach my hairline. I must look reluctant because she quickly adds, “If you want to, of course. I’m not like my brothers, who think that they can order around everyone.”
I press my lips together to hold in a laugh.
“Sure, I’d love to help you, but are you sure that it’s okay?” I ask.
She hesitates for only a second. “Yep, it’s fine, I asked my mom about it, and she agreed.”
Her hesitation makes me wonder if she’s just doing this to spite her brothers. I shrug it off and shut the door behind me. My shoulders bunch up when I feel the gaze of the guard burn into the side of my face, but I don’t look at him. I ignore the uneasiness that has taken root in the pit of my stomach.
Mara loops her arm through mine and tugs me slightly toward the stairs. We walk in silence until we reach the second floor.
“Have you ever been in love?” Her question catches me off guard, and I nearly miss a step, stumbling.
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
She purses her lips together before turning to look at me, her gray eyes darkening into molten black.
“But you’re so pretty. Have you never had a guy ask you out?”
I nearly laugh at how ridiculous her question sounds, but then I remember that she knows nothing about what my Dad does if we don’t behave.
“No, I went to an all-girls school and my dad would probably chop a man into the smallest pieces possible before disposing of him in the ocean, if any man in the vicinity showed an interest,” I explain, and her lips form an O.
“Have you ever been in love?” I turn the question onto her.
“Yes, at least, I think so, but he’s so much older than me and doesn’t really see me like that.”
I narrow my eyes at the way she insinuates that he is someone she isn’t meant to look at, let alone have a crush on.
“How much older exactly?” I ask as we enter the kitchen.
She sighs dreamily before she replies, “He’s twenty-five years older.”
Jesus . I’m not saying that their age gap is a problem, but the fact that she’s barely legal is. I’m thankful he has no interest in her. I look around the kitchen; the walls are painted an eggshell white and the floors are a black marble with swirls of gold in them. Mara stands near the granite kitchen counters, fixing her hair.
“Mara, you know it’s a good thing he isn’t interested in you. You’re really young and you’re still developing as a young woman.”
Her eyebrows pull together before she waves me off.
“I know, I know. I just wish he wouldn’t treat me like I’m a piece of gum stuck beneath his shoes.” Her shoulders deflate as she moves around the kitchen, tying an apron around her waist before handing a navy-blue one to me with eggshells on them.
“Do you have a hair tie I can borrow?” I ask, and she pulls the one around her wrist off and hands it to me, before heading toward the cupboards to take out the ingredients we’ll need.
“We’re making cookie s’mores.” Her moves are graceful as she moves the flour, sugar, and other dry ingredients onto the counter.
“What can I help with?” I feel kind of useless just standing in the middle of the kitchen.
“In there, you’ll find milk and eggs.” She tilts her head at the two large fridges near a closed door. I look around, debating whether to try to escape. Once I reach the fridges, I decide against it, because Mara will be blamed and she’s just being nice. And the possibility of no guards being at the door is slim to none. So instead, I open one of the fridge doors and grab the milk and place it on the counter, before heading back and grabbing the egg carton. Mara eyes me, but she doesn’t say anything. I go and stand beside her and start pouring the dry ingredients into the bowl. I can see from the corner of my eye that she has moved to the edge of the counter and is pressing something.
A song comes on. I quickly recognize it. It’s “Fly Me to the Moon”
by Frank Sinatra. She wiggles her eyebrows at me as she sways from side to side. I laugh and shake my head at her and turn back to the bowl. The music floats around the kitchen, making my skin tingle and my stomach fill with butterflies. I whisk the dry and wet ingredients together as Mara continues to dance around while whisking a second batch. She spills some of the mixture on the floor, but she just steps over it and continues to dance.
By the time we’re done and have the cookies in the oven, we’re covered from head to toe in cocoa powder and Mara has some chocolate mix on the tip of her nose. We sit on the counters after we’ve wiped them down and mopped the floors. Our legs dangle as we talk about how different New York and Chicago are, when the absolute bane of my existence walks into the kitchen with his nose buried in his phone, his eyebrows pulled together so close he looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. Oh God, I really fucking hope he does.
An idea crosses my mind and I turn my head to look at Mara to see if she’s thinking what I’m thinking. The corners of my mouth lift in a twisted smile as we both nod and get off the counters with a thump. Emiliano’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow into slits once they land on me. I return his glare with my middle finger, at which he scowls before slipping his phone into his pocket.
Mara and I each grab a handful of flour when he comes close enough. He realizes his mistake too late and growls as he lunges at us, now covered in flour. Me and Mara scream as we try to get away, but only Mara manages to escape out of the kitchen with her giggles drifting behind her. I try to move to the end of the counter nearest to the door, but he blocks me by going to the other side as well. I move left, he follows. I move right, he follows. I huff out a breath when we continue this little dance a couple more times.
“This isn’t fair, you let her go,” I argue. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“What isn’t fair, ragazza mocciosa, is the fact that I’m covered in fucking flour,” he growls.
I shrug my shoulders. “Come on, it's not that bad. Don’t be dramatic. At most, you're just dusted with flour.”
He clearly doesn’t like what I said because he lunges forward and is able to catch me off guard. Grabbing my wrist, he twists it behind my back, effectively trapping me between his body and the counter. I see his hand reach for the flour and scoop a handful of it. Oh my God.
I try to wiggle to get out of his grasp, but it’s no use. His laugh echoes in the kitchen, making my cheeks heat in the process as I watch his face break out in a breathtaking smile. Dimples digging into his cheeks make my breath catch in my throat. His usual dark and cold eyes are light and warm as he regards me with humor, and my chest constricts, an ache settling in between my breasts. Fucking hell. I’m not blind; he is an attractive man, but I cannot actually be attracted to him. A mischievous gleam enters his gaze and the corners of my eyes pinch as they narrow at him. He returns it with a smirk.
His hot breath is in my ear. “I wouldn’t call you dramatic if you were covered in flour by someone you barely tolerate, Valentina.” My name rolls off his tongue like a caress, and I like that way too much. I can feel his smirk as he presses his lips over my ear.
“Now, should I cover you in flour as well?” he purrs, and I shake my head feverishly. He lets out a breathless laugh and whispers, “I’m afraid that isn’t good enough. I need you to use your words.”
“No.”
“No, what?” he asks, and I grind my teeth.
“No, please, don’t cover me in flour.”
He sharply inhales a lungful of air.
“Why would I do that?” he asks, his hard body pressing into mine.
“Because you want to be nice?” I wince at the stupidity of my words. He huffs out another laugh. I try to get out again by wiggling, but he whispers harshly.
“Try that again, and I’ll drench you in flour and eggs, and then fry you in oil.”
I freeze, his flippant tone gone.
“This isn’t fair. I wasn’t the only one to cover you in flour.” I’m resorting to whining, and if that gets me out, then I don’t care about anything else.
An idea comes to me so prominently that I grasp it and act it out before thinking. I use my free arm to elbow him in the stomach, but all that does is result in him huffing out a breath. Before I know it, I’m twisted around and pressed up against his front, my chest heaving. I search his face for any hint of an explanation, but I’m rudely disrupted when he wipes the full hand of flour down the side of my face. My eyes widen, and he bursts out into laughter at my expression.
“This isn’t funny, asshole,” I admonish, but he just laughs harder.
He wipes the corner of his eye as he says between laughs, “No, it really is.”
His laughter dies down, his eyes searching my face, scrutinizing, before they dip to my mouth. A shallow breath escapes from my lips and his throat bobs, his eyes still fixated on them. My stomach tightens as I feel his fingertips dance across my back.
“You know that your fiancé must be devastated by you being kidnapped.” As his breath fans over my lips, I swallow, feeling my throat dry. He leans into me farther, and I involuntarily arch my back to be closer to him. Heat radiates off his body in waves.
“I don’t have a fiancé,” I breathe. With his lips hovering centimeters over mine, they slightly graze as I say each word.
“Not yet,” is all he says before his lips meet mine. My skin heats and my cheeks burn as my brain feels fuzzy. The kiss is savage, all I could ever want. I loop my arm around his neck as his hands roam over my body, every touch lighting me up inside. A gasp escapes from my mouth when he sinks his teeth into my bottom lip, before swiping his tongue to soothe, making my thighs clench. Cheeks flushing, he swallows my moan as his hand rolls over my hard nipple. I press myself into him, wanting more, needing more. He releases a groan when I grind into him, not breaking the kiss. God, if he could kiss like this, then how would?—
Is someone clapping?
“Well, this definitely wasn’t what I had expected to see when I walked into the kitchen.”
Someone’s voice causes us to rip away from each other. Emiliano’s chest heaves as he avoids looking at me. Breathless and heart racing, I look behind me to see Romiro smirking, his arms crossed over his chest.