6. Valaria
Valaria
The villa is all sunlit stone and blooming bougainvillea, a postcard pretending it has no secrets. But I’ve made a career out of spotting the crack in the marble—of knowing when a smile is too still, when a story is too smooth.
And right now, that story is Pietro Cucinotta.
He leans against the balustrade like he owns the coastline, all tattoos and insolence, a half-buttoned linen shirt showing off too much skin for someone supposedly on duty. He doesn’t smile when I arrive. Just watches, like he’s trying to figure out if I bite.
I do.
“Nice of you to finally show,” he says, pushing off the railing. “Thought you PR types traveled with entourages and ring lights.”
“I travel alone,” I reply. “And if I’m late, it’s because someone rerouted my driver through three security checkpoints and a goat market.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “You look like you could handle a goat or two.”
The man is insufferable. And infuriatingly attractive in the way that always precedes regret.
I adjust my sunglasses and scan the villa’s layout. “You’ve walked the perimeter?”
“Three times,” he says. “No breach points. But I don’t like the slope near the olive trees. Too many blind spots.”
“Noted. I’ll have a drone team on standby and reinforce with social optics.”
He raises a brow. “Is that fancy-speak for cameras?”
“It’s security speak for knowing what threats look like before they materialize.”
Pietro folds his arms. “We’re not here to film a commercial. We’re here to make sure the gala doesn’t end in body bags.”
“And I’m here to make sure it doesn’t end in headlines.”
My back is turned to him, but I feel his gaze before I catch it in the Baroque gilded mirror—hot deliberate, crawling up my spine like a flame daring to touch ice.
I turn, ready to strike. Pietro doesn’t speak, but his eyes do.
They say things no operative should say.
Things no woman with any sense should want to hear.
I hold myself still, chin high, spine straight, every inch a polished professional.
Untouchable. Unbothered. But inside, I’m a storm—because I know he sees the cracks, the hairline fractures of my heart.
And worse—he wants to slip through them.
And may the gods help me; stopping him may be impossible, even if I try.
We stare at each other. He’s heat and provocation, always pushing, always testing. I’m ice and calculation, unmoved. Or so I pretend.
But I notice his eyes taking a mental inventory of every inch of me. Not in the way men ogle. In the way soldiers assess risk. Or rivals study weakness. Or wolves scent blood.
I ignore the flicker of heat it stirs and press forward.
“This sting is bigger than either of us,” I say.
“I don’t have to like you, Pietro. And you don’t have to like me.
But we will work together. The safety of Principe Luca and Principess Emiliana is paramount.
The entire operation is riding on their public appearance being flawless. ”
Something shifts in his stance when I mention them.
“Paramount?” He whistles through his teeth.
“And?”
“We’ll keep your cousin, Emma—I mean Principessa Emiliana safe.” he says. “An American. Married to the Prince of Heartbreak. Brave.”
“Cute. Well, he’s not now.”
“Hard to believe—Principess Emiliana tamed the beast.”
I cross my arms—daring him to say something else.
“Careful. Emma’s parents, my aunt and uncle, took me in after my mother disappeared.”
“So, you were raised in New York City?
I nod with tight lips. “I returned to Italy after I finished college.”
“What about your father?”
“Never knew him. Stop with the questions.”
“Noted.” Knowing my father sucked, I back off.
“Concentrate on the mission. Not me.”
“Hard to do.”
“Back to business. Luca trusts you. Emma does too.”
His gaze lingers. “Do you?”
“No,” I say. “But I don’t need to trust you. I just need you to follow orders.”
His smile is wicked—like he’s about to devour me. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll bury you in a headline so scandalous even your tattoos will be embarrassed.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You’re colder than your dossier suggested.”
“And you’re exactly as reckless as yours did.”
“Yours didn’t paint a pretty picture.”
We pass each other like two weather fronts colliding—a storm brewing—lightning strikes, roaring thunder.
But the storm hasn’t broken.
Not yet.