3. Pietro
Pietro
She’s going to kill me.
That’s the first thought I have as Valaria storms out of the briefing room—skintight pants, snakeskin boots—lethal weapons. Honestly? I wouldn’t put it past her to shank me with a stiletto before this assignment’s finished.
And yet—I follow.
Not because I’m ordered to. Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
She’s always talking back, always two steps ahead, haughty—somehow the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever met.
One look and I’m halfway to begging. I forget how to breathe.
It’s not just her beauty—though like Helen of Troy, it could launch a thousand ships. It’s her mind. She challenges me. Matches me. The file detailing her former military black ops reads like a terrifying thriller.
But what terrifies me—when I look at her, I don’t see danger. I see something I swore I’d never need. Something dangerously close to. . .hope.
She’s nearing the end of the corridor when I call out, “So I’m guessing we won’t be packing matching pajamas.”
She whirls on me. “Don’t start.”
“Wasn’t starting,” I say, holding up my hands. “Just setting expectations.”
“Clearly our expectations are different. You want to play footsie, I don’t.”
She walks again. I match her pace easily. She’s all sharp lines and pointed silences. I’m the opposite—loose, unfazed. Or I pretend to be.
Valaria squares off like a fortress with flawless lipstick. “Why don’t you just back out, Pietro? Leave me in peace. We’re not good together. You don’t want to work with me either—I’m sure of it.”
She’s a rattlesnake with a forked-tongue—says one thing and means another. “Who says I don’t? Now you’re reading my mind?”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Please. Your thoughts are about as subtle as a Molotov cocktail. I can see the steam pouring out of your ears every time I walk into a room.”
“That’s not steam. That’s admiration. Or maybe indigestion.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you. Flattered, you noticed.”
“I’m serious.” Valaria steps closer, her eyes gleaming like polished glass. “This mission is complicated enough. The last thing I need is some brooding ex-mercenary with a hero-complex and a god-awful tendency to improvise.”
“I think on my feet.”
“You’re clumsy-footed. Reckless.”
She glares.
“If I didn’t want to be your partner, Valaria, I’d be gone already. But I’m here. So maybe ask yourself why.”
She blinks. Just once. Then turns her head sharply, as if the question cut too close.
“You’re still an idiot,” she mutters.
“And yet, here we are.”
Truth is, the moment she walked into that room, every cell in my body longed to be close to her. And every rational part of me is still screaming bad idea. But rational has never been my strong suit.
“Listen,” I say. “This mission—it's going to be dangerous.”
She stops short. “Oh? And here I thought I was being sent to sip Prosecco and twirl in tulle.”
I grin. “You are bringing tulle though, right? For authenticity.”
“I hate you.”
I lean in, just enough to lower my voice. “You don’t hate me, Valaria. You hate that you don’t hate me.”
Her pupils flare. Her lips part.
Victory is sweet.
Short-lived.
Because in the next second, she steps in, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade.
“Wrong,” she whispers. “I despise you. And if you think sharing a villa will change that, you’ve underestimated me.”
She pivots and disappears through the glass doors.
And the god’s truth?
I’m smiling.