Chapter 32 Marco #3
She’d always been good at faking it. The slips she’d forged, the AA chips she hadn’t earned but carried around anyway.
I knew how cynical she could be about the whole damn process—the way she mocked the self-righteous optimism of people trying to better themselves.
But here she was, weeks after Max had stopped checking her slips, still attending meetings, voluntarily enduring what she’d once openly despised.
That bothered me. Not because of the lie.
Not even because of the stubbornness. It bothered me because it showed there was something underneath all her destructive tendencies.
Something genuine. Something she wanted badly enough to make her sit in that church basement and keep showing up even when no one was watching.
She’d never admit it, but Valentina was stronger than she let on. Stronger than the bottles she emptied or the slips she forged. Stronger than the role Max had shoved her into: the liability; the drunk who couldn’t keep it together.
And that, much as I hated to admit it, meant something to me. More than it should.
When I finally made it to her, I found her standing under the streetlamp holding her purse close to her chest. She stepped down from the curb and pulled open the passenger door.
“You’re late,” she muttered, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
I arched a brow. “I’m four minutes early.”
“Maybe I exaggerated.”
“Shocking.”
I pulled back onto the street, navigating the route home. It was quiet. I didn’t mind it. Valentina could fill a room with her mouth, but when she was quiet? That was when I paid the most attention.
She was thinking. Hard.
“You gonna ask?” she said suddenly.
I glanced at her. “Ask what?”
“How it went.”
I turned my attention back to the road. “You want me to?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”
“How was it?”
“It sucked.” She sighed, tilting her head against the window. “There was this guy, some ex-cop. Told me he’s been sober for fifteen years. That he lost his wife, lost his job, lost his life, and still, he never touched a bottle again.” She paused. “Made me feel like an asshole.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t lost anything yet, and I still want a drink.”
She was wrong. She had lost things—she just didn’t want to see them. She’d lost time. Lost herself. Lost whatever version of Valentina had existed before she had to be this one. She’d lost the luxury of innocence. Of trust. Of looking at something and not immediately trying to find the catch.
And she’d almost lost herself completely. She just didn’t know it yet.
I didn’t say any of that. I watched her fingers tighten in her lap, her nails pressing faint crescents into her skin.
“You’re doing that thing,” she muttered, breaking the silence abruptly.
I arched a brow, eyes still on the road. “What thing?”
“That silent, judgmental thing,” she said flatly. “Look, if you’re gonna judge me, at least have the decency to do it out loud.”
“If I said everything I was thinking, Valentina, you’d already be yelling at me.”
She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Because your silence is so much better.”
“Usually, yeah.”
“This is why I don’t talk to you.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Because the alternative was being murdered by the guy selling bootleg DVDs,” she shot back.
“Ah,” I said dryly, amused, “so I’m slightly better than homicide.”
“Only just,” she muttered.
I felt my lips curve slightly despite myself and turned my attention back to the road. “I’ll stop judging when you go to those meetings sober.”
She stiffened beside me, her fingers going still in her lap. For once, she didn’t snap back with a quick retort. “I haven’t had a drink in four weeks.”
Four weeks was a long time and not long at all. It was enough to matter—enough that she’d probably felt every hour of it—but fragile enough that one bad day could unravel it all.
She stared back, defensive, ready to argue, because she thought I’d dismiss it. Her fingers tapped against her knee. “You gonna say something?”
I leaned back, watching her. “Proud of you.”
She blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the sincerity.
Maybe she expected judgment again—the kind I usually met her with.
But the truth was, it took something real to hold on that long.
Strength that didn’t come easy, stubbornness that actually mattered.
I respected that kind of fight. Hell, maybe I even admired it.
Four weeks meant something. To her and, surprisingly, to me.
My foster mother had never lasted more than a week and a half, even with constant promises, constant apologies, and constant relapses.
She’d swear it was the last time, and by the next morning, the empty bottles would already be lined up on the kitchen counter.
It had made it hard, damn near impossible, not to judge people who depended on alcohol. Watching someone lose themselves, drown themselves slowly, over and over, had a way of souring the whole concept.
That was probably why I’d never even touched the stuff. Never wanted to know what it felt like to have something control me like that. Never wanted anything in my system strong enough to erase who I was, even for a moment.
And then there was Valentina. Reckless, self-destructive Valentina—exactly the kind of person I’d spent my life steering clear of.
But four weeks meant she was fighting harder than I’d given her credit for—harder than anyone I’d ever known.
She was holding her ground even if it hurt.
Even if she felt like an asshole sitting in those meetings.
Even if she hated herself for wanting something that could wreck her life.
It wasn’t just the sobriety itself. It was what it meant. That she wanted to get better. That she wanted to fight—even if she’d never admit it.
And that scared the hell out of me.
If she actually stayed sober, I knew I was done for.
Her drinking had been the one thing—the only thing—that had made it easy to hold myself back from her.
I hated the taste of alcohol on her breath; hated kissing someone who tasted of drink and regret.
I hated knowing she wasn’t fully there with me even when she was looking right at me.
Alcohol kept her just blurry enough that I could convince myself she wasn’t what I wanted.
Without it, every lie I’d told myself crumbled into dust.
It wasn’t just terrifying—it was maddening.
Valentina, sober, meant confronting every dark corner I’d hidden from, every choice I’d justified. It meant standing under a harsh, unforgiving light and knowing she’d see every flaw, every scar, every selfish decision I’d ever made.
And there were plenty. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think otherwise. I’d spent years doing whatever it took to survive, and somewhere along the way, survival had turned me selfish. Not in the careless, everyday way, but the deep-down kind—the kind that stained everything I touched.
I’d never had much patience for sharing. Not the things that mattered. Loyalty, trust—those were reserved for very few, and even fewer had earned them.
Remy had.
He’d been the only exception I’d ever allowed myself; the only person who’d ever got close enough to matter. It was tunnel vision with him, a single point of focus, like nothing else existed.
I could feel that same instinct creeping in with Valentina—that familiar possessiveness I couldn’t shake. The feeling was insistent. The urge to keep her close, safe, hidden away from anything or anyone that could threaten her. Threaten us.
But Remy had left, and Valentina would too.
Anyone would.
If Valentina ever figured out how deep my hands went into the mess of her life, she wouldn’t just leave; she’d erase me completely, and that’d be worse.
I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready to lose another person who’d managed to get past the walls I swore were impenetrable.
The worst part was, I wasn’t even sure if what I felt was about protecting her or myself.
Probably both.
And that, more than anything, reminded me exactly who I was.
“Yeah?” she asked softly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glanced at her sideways. It hit me then, just how badly I’d let her in. She wasn’t a mere complication anymore, something to keep at arm’s length. She’d moved in closer, piece by stubborn piece, settling somewhere deep in my chest, right next to all those empty places Remy had left behind.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
She tipped her head slightly. “You ever tell anyone else that?”
“Tell them what?”
“That you’re proud of them.”
“No.”
“And you mean it?” she asked.
Some people needed to hear things. Needed to believe them. Needed to hold onto them like proof, like a lifeline. Valentina wasn’t one of them. She didn’t need me to mean it. She just needed to ask.
“Yeah,” I admitted gently.
“You don’t have to mean it, you know,” she said softly. “I’m not fragile. I won’t shatter if you lie.”
“If I wanted to lie to you, Valentina, I’d tell you I don’t give a shit.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Well, thank you.”
I stilled.
Those words shouldn’t matter—they were only words after all.
Common courtesy. But they meant something to me, because Valentina didn’t do common courtesy.
She didn’t thank anyone for anything. Not even when she should’ve.
Especially not me. She’d always been that way—stubborn, spoiled, incapable of gratitude even when it was obvious.
It drove me insane.
Because “thank you” meant something. It was acknowledgment. Proof someone recognized the effort, the sacrifice.
Proof someone had been paying attention to me.
I’d spent months waiting for it. Every time I got her out of trouble, cleaned up a mess she’d left behind, pulled her out of harm’s way. Hearing her say it out loud each time affected me more than it should. It caught me off-guard too.
“You’re welcome,” I finally said.
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. “I probably won’t say it again.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
But that wouldn’t stop me from wanting her to.
She turned toward the window, and the rest of the drive passed in silence.
Not comfortable silence—the kind that set your nerves on edge.
The kind you heard too loudly. Because underneath it was something else.
Something louder. A constant reminder of just how fragile this situation was. How easily it could break.
If Valentina ever found out the truth—if she ever figured out exactly who’d pulled the trigger on her husband—she’d have plenty to say.
And I knew damn well none of those words would be “thank you.”