Chapter 35 Marco #3
She sighed dramatically, popping the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. “And now I’m stuck.”
“Seems that way,” I replied dryly, watching as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes turning thoughtful again.
“Do government checks do cash faster than inheritances?” she asked with a smile.
I watched her carefully. “Your pragmatism borders on alarming.”
“Says the guy who literally profits from organized crime.”
“Careful, Valentina,” I muttered. “That’s your Manolo fund talking.”
“My Manolo habit thanks you for your service,” she said sweetly, tapping her nails against her glass. “You know, this is exactly why I prefer older men.”
I glared at her. “I keep forgetting you’re a child.”
She was young.
Twenty-two.
I knew that. I’d known it since the first time I saw her, because how could I not know it?
Everything about her screamed it—the impulsiveness, the stubbornness, the way she did things just to see what would happen.
The way she acted like the world would always be interesting no matter how many times it tried to kill her.
“Don’t say that too loudly. I hear judges frown on child marriage,” she said as she popped a piece of crust into her mouth. “But relax. I’m sure this is the least concerning thing in your file, Marco.”
“My record is clean.”
“Sure,” she drawled. “And I’m the fucking Virgin Mary.”
“Bold claim,” I shot back, “given your reputation.”
Valentina smiled sweetly, unoffended. “Funny. You’re awfully judgmental for someone who makes his living off people who belong behind bars.”
I smirked. “At least I make a living instead of profiting off poor, miserable men.”
“And are you?” she wondered. “Poor and miserable?”
“Not as miserable as you’d like me to be,” I admitted.
Valentina laughed. “Give me time. I can be very persuasive.”
“I’m painfully aware,” I muttered dryly. “Usually to my detriment.”
She leaned back, amusement dancing in her eyes. “That’s because you’re too stubborn to admit you enjoy it.”
I arched a brow. “Enjoy what, exactly? Your talent for trouble, or the constant migraine?”
“Both,” she replied. “Admit it—without me, your life would be contracts, caffeine, and crippling loneliness.”
“My life was perfectly organized before you,” I countered.
“Organized,” she echoed softly. “Sounds riveting.”
“Some of us prefer structure.”
She smirked. “But you married the walking definition of disorder.”
“Temporary insanity,” I deadpanned.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dipping lower, deceptively innocent. “Insanity defense won’t hold up, lawyer. We both know you knew exactly what you were getting into.”
“Clearly, my judgment was impaired.”
She laughed lightly but didn’t respond. Instead she reached for something beneath her chair, pulling out a small, plain box. She set it casually on the table, sliding it toward me.
I eyed it suspiciously. “What’s this?”
She shrugged carelessly. “It’s for your birthday. I didn’t wrap it. Last-minute decision.”
I stiffened slightly, glancing from her to the box. “You bought me something.”
She sighed dramatically. “I did.”
I shook my head slowly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” she said impatiently. “Just open it.”
“Valentina,” I began cautiously, “I appreciate it, but—”
She rolled her eyes and stood abruptly, walking around to my side of the table. Without permission, she pushed my plate aside, making room as she set the box firmly in front of me. She leaned in to pull the lid off herself.
Inside was a mug. Bold, obnoxious letters stared up at me: World’s Best Lawyer.
I blinked, feeling something strange twist in my chest. It was ridiculous—exactly the kind of absurd gesture she’d mocked me for a few weeks ago, back when she’d asked sarcastically if I had any “World’s Best Lawyer” mugs hidden in my kitchen.
I’d almost forgotten that moment, but clearly, she hadn’t.
“You love it, don’t you?”
“Did you pick this out yourself?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral, eyes still on the stupid mug.
I let out a slow breath, running my thumb along the smooth ceramic.
The mug was cheap, deliberately obnoxious.
It was the kind of gift someone bought when they knew you—really knew you.
A joke, yes, but also proof she remembered details about me, even trivial ones.
It felt far too personal for something as simple as a mug.
“Obviously,” she admitted, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I set the mug down gently. “You realize I’m never going to use this.”
“That’s okay. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” she said with a smile. “And you should know, normal people just say, ‘Thank you,’ and pretend they like it.”
“And what would you know about thank-yous?”
“I know they’re usually wasted on people like you.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “People like me?”
“People who wouldn’t recognize gratitude if it slapped them in the face.”
Funny, coming from her.
“I recognize gratitude,” I countered evenly. “Usually, it’s just disguised as sarcasm coming from you.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Sarcasm is my highest form of affection.”
“How unfortunate.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly sensing the bait but stepping into it anyway. “Why’s that?”
“Because it means you must be deeply in love with half the city.”
“Jealous?”
I looked up at her. “Incredibly.”
“Well,” she said, as sweet as honey, “sarcasm is a hard habit to break. You’ll have to learn to share.”
“I’ve never been good at sharing.”
“An only-child complex?” she guessed lightly, leaning her weight against the table, curling her fingers around the edge.
“Something like that.”
“Don’t worry, lawyer. You can still be my favorite.”
“Your favorite?” I asked, leaning in slightly, brushing my thumb against her inner thigh.
“Yeah,” she said softly.
“Your favorite what?”
She paused, clearly deciding whether to give me a real answer or just another smart-ass remark. Either would have fit her perfectly, but somehow I found myself wanting the truth this time, or something close enough to it.
I wasn’t even sure what I was asking.
“Favorite” was vague. Favorite lawyer? Favorite mistake? Favorite husband? That wouldn’t be saying much, considering her track record.
Valentina always did this to me—turned my own careful lines into questions I didn’t know how to ask, let alone answer.
And yet I kept pushing—pushing myself, really—as if maybe this time I’d hear something that would actually stick.
Something that mattered. That was how far gone I was.
Waiting for a woman whose favorite language was sarcasm to suddenly tell me something genuine.
I’d learned long ago not to hold my breath. And still, here I was, holding it anyway.
“My favorite exception,” she finally murmured.
“Exception,” I echoed quietly, trying to hide how much the word affected me. “To which rule?”
She tilted her head. “All of them.”
Valentina pushed away from the table, leaving the scent of her perfume lingering behind her. My gaze dropped, involuntarily tracing the curve of her waist and the subtle sway of her hips as she crossed the room. She was maddeningly unaware—or worse, perfectly aware—of the effect she had on me.
She paused in the doorway, looking back at me with eyes full of playful challenge. “By the way,” she said softly, “the striptease offer still stands, lawyer. You know, since it’s your birthday.”
Before I could respond—before I could even pretend to resist—she slipped through the doorway and disappeared from view.
I stared after her, my pulse thrumming heavily beneath my skin. The ghost of her laughter seemed to echo through the empty space between us.
Valentina had always been a test of restraint.
Everything about her, from the way her dark hair spilled over her shoulders to the dangerous curve of her hips beneath silk, challenged me.
She was temptation. Reckless impulse wrapped in a body that could derail even the most disciplined man.
And I’d spent years becoming exactly that: disciplined, untouchable, above it all.
There were worse ways to lose control—and none of them looked as good as her.
So I followed.
It was my birthday after all.