Chapter 34 Valentina #2
Tommy smiled faintly, almost apologetic, shaking his head. “Appreciate it, but I’ve got to head out already. Only stopped by because I had a layover.” He paused, glancing around the apartment with mild curiosity. “Had to get in touch with his emergency contact to even find his address.”
“Who’s that—his emergency contact?”
“Remy. His brother or something, I don’t know. Sorry excuse of one though. I try harder than that guy does.”
I blinked at Tommy and then blinked again, like somehow the words might rearrange themselves into a sentence that made sense. Remy? Marco’s brother? The Remy who’d helped me sift through the disaster that was Cillian’s estate back in Chicago? The guy who’d sat next to me in those cramped offices?
He was Marco’s emergency contact. Brother, emergency contact—hell, I hadn’t even known they were friends, much less family. Marco had explicitly said he had no siblings.
“Biological,” I reminded myself quietly. He’d been very clear about that distinction. Foster brothers then? Was that the story? Was there some hidden chapter between Marco and Remy, two men who seemed worlds apart?
I tried to picture them side by side sharing childhood meals or whatever foster siblings might share.
But all I saw was Marco locked up tight, so controlled you’d think he might implode if he unclenched for too long, and then Remy, the guy who felt so genuinely easy, so naturally empathetic, that even I—stubborn, messy, freshly widowed—couldn’t help but trust him.
Could two people like that really come from the same roots?
I guess stranger things had happened. Hell, look at me and Isabel.
Same parents, same house, same everything, and yet we’d turned out about as alike as ice cream and vinegar.
Still, Marco and Remy felt different. Because Marco never let anyone get close—at least, I thought he didn’t.
And yet Remy was his emergency contact.
Which meant, at some point, Marco had filled out paperwork and actively put Remy’s name on a form.
He’d handed over trust, responsibility, whatever.
He’d thought, “If something happens to me, call Remy.” That mattered.
That meant something. It meant Remy was important.
And if Remy mattered to Marco, then Marco was capable of caring—really caring—about someone after all.
The realization stung more than I liked.
Because Marco didn’t trust me with that. He barely trusted me to pick my own shoes or to wash dishes correctly, let alone to handle an emergency. And yet somewhere out there, Remy had earned Marco’s trust without even seeming to try.
It bothered me. Deeply. And suddenly, I was wondering if maybe I hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe Marco had been laying out pieces of himself all along and I’d just been too busy guarding my own messy feelings to notice.
I frowned, processing this new puzzle piece of Marco’s life. Of course Marco wouldn’t have bothered to tell me Remy was practically family. That would imply trust, vulnerability, openness—three things Marco was pathologically allergic to.
Remy seemed the same way, actually. Maybe that was why they got along—if you could even call it that.
I wasn’t sure if trading tense silences and irritated looks counted as brotherly affection.
But what did I know? My idea of family bonding involved passive-aggressive dinner parties and tense phone calls that ended in guilt trips and slammed receivers.
“Anyway,” Tommy said, interrupting my mental spiral and shifting toward the door, “tell Marco happy birthday. Or don’t. Either way, make it irritating for the tough bastard.”
“Oh, I intend to,” I said dryly. “Thanks for stopping by and ruining my ignorance.”
“My pleasure,” he said with a slight grin, pulling open the door. “Take care.”
“You too.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with Pauly D paused mid-scream on my TV and a sinking feeling Marco Grey was rapidly doing something to my chest. Was it irritation? Indigestion? Anxiety? Definitely anxiety. It had to be.
Whatever it was, I refused to call it by its name. Anxiety would have to do for now.
It took me less than five minutes to change and fly out the door, though I spent four of those five minutes mentally berating myself for caring so much. Seriously, what kind of self-respecting grown woman sprinted across the city because someone hadn’t bothered to mention it was their birthday?
Me, apparently.
The entire subway ride I rehearsed the perfect cutting speech I planned on giving Marco, complete with sarcastic remarks and enough passive aggression to put even my mother to shame. I practiced it on repeat, each internal run-through getting pettier and more satisfying.
Honestly, how could someone be so frustratingly private?
I’d shared everything short of my social security number with him, and I couldn’t even pin down something as basic as his birthday without an entire investigative report.
It was maddening. Either Marco had trust issues on par with an undercover spy, or he genuinely thought birthdays were beneath him, like carbs or Netflix.
By the time the subway doors hissed open near Marco’s building, I had my argument perfected, complete with dramatic pauses and snarky comebacks.
And then I saw Max.
Great. Because this whole mess needed another complication.
His attention landed on me the second I walked in, and immediately, I knew what was coming. His expression shifted from mild boredom to something else—curiosity, irritation, possibly mild disappointment that I hadn’t vanished from the face of the planet yet.
“Mrs. Grey,” he drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I sighed dramatically, shifting the awkwardly shaped package in my arms. “Oh, spare me. I’m not here for you.”
Max gave me a look, lips twitching like he might laugh. I wished he would—it would make it easier to hate him. But whatever amusement he felt quickly vanished as he took a slow step toward me, his gaze dropping suspiciously to the package.
“Let me guess,” he said dryly. “Another distraction?”
I rolled my eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t roll straight out of my head and onto the polished lobby floor. “If, by ‘distraction,’ you mean ‘wife bringing something to her husband,’ then sure.”
Max hummed softly, shaking his head like I was some tiresome child who couldn’t behave herself in public. I briefly considered throwing the package at him, but I figured the front-desk security guy wouldn’t appreciate cleaning it up.
“I need Marco focused,” Max said, his voice slipping into that authoritative tone that set my teeth on edge.
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
“I’m serious, Valentina.” His voice dipped lower. “He’s exactly where I need him right now.”
“Right,” I drawled, leaning into sarcasm, because it was safer than acknowledging how much that irritated me. “Chained to his desk, making sure your precious empire doesn’t crumble?”
Max didn’t even try to deny it. He was shameless, calculating, and disturbingly self-aware—basically everything Marco wasn’t, except for their mutual allergy to basic human communication.
“He’s good at what he does,” Max said simply, as if that justified everything. “And I’d rather he keep doing it than deal with whatever chaos you decide to bring into his office today.”
I scoffed, pushing past him with more attitude than necessary, mostly because I knew it annoyed him. “Don’t be so dramatic, Max. I’m just delivering a package.”
He let out a short breath—the kind that wasn’t quite a laugh but held just enough condescension to be insulting. “You don’t ‘just do’ anything, Valentina.”
I smirked, refusing to admit he had a point. “Flattering.”
“Not meant to be.”
I rocked back on my heels. “You know, Rosalie has way more patience than I do. I have no idea how she puts up with you. She seems so . . . normal. Sweet, even. So I have to ask, how exactly does someone like her put up with someone like you?”
“No clue. I’d ask, but I don’t want to give her any ideas.”
“Smart man. She is known for running from you.”
“She tried,” he admitted, like it was just a fact. “Didn’t get very far.”
No, she hadn’t. Not for lack of trying though.
I’d tried for her.
I’d spent months trying to keep Rosalie away from him, doing everything short of shoving her onto a plane myself.
At first, I’d been subtle—nudging her toward other men, whispering little warnings when I knew she wasn’t listening properly.
Then I’d gotten desperate. I’d “accidentally” spilled a drink on her at a gathering once, hoping the ruined dress would be enough of an excuse for her to leave early.
I’d tried to get leverage on Max—something to make him back off and see that whatever game he was playing with Rosalie wasn’t worth it. I’d even gone as far as to threaten him outright, telling him to let her go, leave her alone, pick someone else.
But nothing had worked. Not threats. Not logic. Not even the promise of war.
Max had wanted Rosalie, and so he’d had her. No matter how hard she’d fought it. No matter how much I’d tried to intervene.
He was still standing in front of me like he hadn’t made my life infinitely more complicated.
And me?
Well, instead of being married off to some stiff-suited businessman in Chicago, I was tied to Marco Grey.
Of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, that hadn’t even been on my radar.
Crazy how one decision, one shift in power, could change everything.
Max studied me for a long second as if he could see every thought running through my mind. Then, with the kind of casual arrogance only he could pull off, he smirked.
“I guess not,” I finally said. “Not even death could keep her safe from you.”
He smiled gently. “Nothing could keep her from me.”
I laughed. He was serious too. He was mad, actually. One of the craziest, most psychotic men I knew. “Some men send flowers. You dug her out of a grave.”
“It was your husband who suggested I look there in the first place.”
That made me pause.