17. Pietro
Pietro
The night of the diplomatic gala ended with no additional incidents.
It doubles the threat for tomorrow night—the coronation gala.
I’ve secured every detail.
Triple-checked.
Doubting myself.
Maybe I am soft.
The worst of it?
My mind is on Valaria.
I am most definitely compromised.
She didn’t come to my room last night. Hoping she would, I left my door ajar. This morning as the sun peeked of the hills, she scooted past me without a glance. Boarding the plane, she made sure not to sit by me. This afternoon, I snooped around. No trace of her.
I know something’s wrong—really wrong. It’s instinct. That prickling on the back of my neck that no weapon can shake.
The palazzo is already flooded with staff and dignitaries. Tuxedo-ed tight enough to choke, I move through the service corridor, credentials hanging from my neck like a leash. Security nods at me. No one stops me. No one ever does.
But my hands won’t stay still.
Not when I can’t find her.
Valaria.
She turned off her comm.
Didn’t show for our final sweep of the coronation layout. Didn’t send her usual sharp one-liner text about my tie selection. Just silence.
I check the guest suites.
Empty.
I check the private security channel.
No log-ins from her device.
Finally, I head to Luca’s private war room, tucked behind a false door in the south wing. The one place no one goes without a reason.
He’s waiting for me.
Arms crossed, eyes tightly focused on the monitors.
“You’re looking for her,” he says, without a glance.
“You know where she is?”
He turns the monitor slightly.
The feed plays back a private server log. Audio only.
My voice.
Her voice.
From nights ago.
The garden. The terrace. The bed.
Everything.
“But who? What snake bugged me?”
“Bug in your comm. Valaria pulled the recordings,” Luca says. “Used your back door code.”
“She doesn’t have my new. . .”
Luca shrugs. “She must.”
The air freezes.
“She heard everything,” he continues. “Found your original directive. She knows that much—nothing more.”
I take the comm apart—find the bug. Crush it under my heel.
Radio my operatives to ditch Plan A for Plan C.
Luca nods his approval.
I stare at the screen, sick rising in my throat. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But if she thinks you lied to her… she’s going to do something reckless.”
“I didn’t lie,” I say, jaw tight. “I just… didn’t tell her everything.”
“She loved you, Pietro—something she never does.”
The word hits me like a bullet to the ribs.
Loved.
Past tense.
I turn and bolt for the stairwell.
I don’t care about the coronation, or the foreign dignitaries, or the fact that someone may shoot me dead tonight.
All I care about is finding her before she disappears completely.
I burst onto the main floor, dodging a silver tray of champagne flutes and brushing aside a startled aide. My earpiece crackles, but I don’t stop to answer. I’m moving on instinct now. Past the marble columns, through the carved cedar arch that leads to the northern corridor.
She wouldn’t run. Not without confronting me first. She’s fire, not ice. But fire burns itself out when there’s no one left to trust.
I check the west wing—nothing. Then I hear it.
The faint slam of a service door.
I follow the sound, down a narrow hall lined with cleaning supplies and ancient portraits covered in plastic. A security keypad flashes red. The passage to the archives.
Still warm.
I key in the override and slip inside.
It’s dim, silent—except for the low rustle of silk.
Then I see her. Standing in front of the original coronation scrolls. Draped in sapphire silk. Her back to me—bare shoulders tense. Hair piled high, secured with a diamond clasp.
“Valaria,” I say.
She doesn’t turn around. “Tell me if anything was real.”
I step closer. “Every second of it.”
She finally faces me. “Then why do I feel like a fool?”
She’s got it all wrong.
I’m the fool.
“Val. . .”
She sweeps past me. Leaving me in the dark.