Chapter 3
Alessio
The Aston Martin's engine purred beneath us, eating up the miles between that flea-bitten motel and my fortress in the city.
Beside me, Valentina sat rigid, her thrift store sweater bunched in her fists, face pale under the harsh glow of streetlights.
Even with mascara streaking her cheeks and hair tangled from her mad dash, she was stunning.
A diamond tossed in the mud, still sparkling despite the muck.
"You're not taking me back to my father." Her voice sliced through the silence, sharp as a blade.
I shifted gears, eyes on the road. "Not yet."
"Why?" She turned to face me, her green eyes narrowing. "He sent you to retrieve me. Isn't that what good little soldiers do? Follow orders?"
A smile tugged at my lips. She had fire, this one. Not just the beauty I'd admired from afar at society events, but brains and backbone too. "I'm no one's soldier, Valentina. Least of all Marco's."
"Then what are you?"
"A man assessing the situation." I took a corner tightly, tires squealing against asphalt. "Your father can wait."
She huffed, a sound caught between frustration and fear. "And what about me? Can I wait too?"
I glanced at her then, took in the defiant tilt of her chin, the white-knuckled grip on her seatbelt. She was scared but hiding it well. Not begging or crying, but demanding answers like she had every right to them. It impressed me. More than it should have.
"Depends," I said, turning back to the road.
"On what?"
"On whether you trust me enough to let me do my job."
Her laugh was bitter. "Trust you? I don't even know you, Alessio. Except by reputation. And that's not exactly reassuring."
I shrugged. "Reputations are just stories people tell. Doesn't make them true."
She went quiet after that, chewing on my words like they were a puzzle to solve. Good. Let her think. Let her see me as something other than the monster her father painted me to be.
We pulled into the underground garage of my building, tires echoing off concrete walls. The elevator opened directly onto the penthouse level, private and secure. I led her inside, watched her eyes widen at the sprawl of glass and steel, the city lights glittering beyond bulletproof windows.
"Guest suite's through there," I said, pointing down a hallway. "Bed, bath, closet full of clothes that should fit. Help yourself."
She crossed her arms, defensive. "Whose clothes?"
"Kept for guests," I said, amused. "Unless you'd prefer to keep the thrift store clothes."
Color rose in her cheeks. She looked away, hugging herself tighter. "And then what? I just…stay here? Until you decide what to do with me?"
I stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint perfume clinging to her skin. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. "There are worse places to be, Valentina. Worse men to be with."
Her eyes snapped back to mine, held them. Something passed between us then, something hot and alive. A spark. A promise. A problem.
"House rules," I said, stepping back before I did something stupid. "Don't leave the penthouse without me. Don't use the phone or the internet. Don't talk to anyone except Domenico or me."
She frowned. "Domenico?"
"My right-hand man. You'll meet him soon enough." I turned away, dismissing her. "Get some rest, Valentina. You're safe here. For now."
I left her standing there, confusion warring with exhaustion on her face.
Over the next few days, we settled into an uneasy rhythm.
The first morning, I woke early and made espresso in the kitchen. Found Valentina already awake, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows watching the city wake up.
"Coffee?" I offered.
She turned, studied me warily, then nodded. "Please."
I poured her a cup, added cream and sugar without asking—I had noticed the way she'd taken it at charity events.
She accepted the mug, took a sip, and something flickered across her face. Surprise.
"You remembered how I take it," she said quietly.
"I notice things."
We stood in silence, both holding our coffee, the morning light painting everything gold.
"I don't know what to do with you," she admitted finally. "You're supposed to be the enemy. My father's rival. The dangerous man he warned me about. But you make me coffee exactly how I like it and give me space when I need it.
"Maybe your father was wrong about me."
"Or maybe you're just better at hiding what you are."
I smiled despite myself. "Also possible."
She almost smiled back. Almost.
Day three, I found her in my library—a room most guests never discovered, tucked away behind the living room. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling shelves, fingers trailing across leather spines.
"You actually read these?" She pulled out a first edition Dante. "Or are they just for show?"
"I read them."
"Inferno." She opened it carefully, Italian text flowing across aged pages. "My mother used to read this to me. Before she left." Her voice caught. "I'd forgotten until just now."
I moved closer. "What do you remember?"
"Her voice. The way she'd do different voices for different characters." A sad smile ghosted across her lips. "She made Hell sound almost beautiful when she read it."
"Keep it," I said. "If you want."
She looked up, surprised. "This is worth—"
"I know what it's worth." I stepped back before the urge to touch her became too strong. "Consider it payment for tolerating my company."
Her smile was genuine this time. Small but real.
It did dangerous things to my pulse.
By day four, we'd fallen into patterns.
Having morning coffee together led to learning more about her.
"Teach me to make espresso," she said. "Properly. If I'm going to be trapped here, I might as well learn something useful."
So I taught her. Grind, tamp, pressure, timing. Her hands were smaller than mine, elegant even when performing mundane tasks. She focused with that same intensity I'd seen when she'd pointed the gun at me—complete commitment, no hesitation.
"Like this?" She looked up, and we were suddenly too close. I could see gold flecks in those green eyes.
"Exactly like that."
She held my gaze a beat too long before turning back to the machine.
The coffee came out perfectly.
Then, over omelets, she told me about the memory.
She almost smiled. Almost.
"It's not like a superpower," she said, pushing peppers around her plate. "People always think it's this amazing gift. Perfect recall, never forget a face, ace every exam." She took a bite, chewed slowly. "They don't think about the other part."
"Which is?"
"I can't forget anything. Not just useful things—anything.
" She set her fork down. "The look on Richard's face when he realized I'd seen his screen.
Every word of my father's press conference, verbatim, playing on a loop I can't shut off.
The exact pattern of the carpet in that motel room.
The way the gun felt in my hands—weight, texture, temperature.
It's all just… there. Permanent. Like someone carved it into glass. "
I watched her hands tighten around her coffee mug.
"When I was twelve, I saw a car accident on the way to school.
A woman went through the windshield." Her voice stayed level, clinical.
"I can still see every detail. The glass.
The blood. The angle of her arm. I had nightmares for two years, and my therapist said I'd process it and move on.
But I couldn't move on, because I couldn't forget.
Every time I closed my eyes, it was right there. High definition. Frame by frame."
"Valentina—"
"My father used it." She looked up, and the rawness in her expression hit me like a blow.
"Once he figured out what I could do, he'd bring me to meetings.
'Bring Valentina, she'll remember the details.
' I was fourteen the first time. Sat in a room full of men in expensive suits discussing real estate deals I didn't understand, and memorized every word.
He'd quiz me afterward in the car. Names, numbers, terms. Like a party trick. "
My jaw tightened. "He used you as a recording device."
"He used me as a recording device," she confirmed, no inflection.
"And I was so desperate for his attention, I was proud of it.
Proud that I could be useful to him. That I had something he valued.
" A hollow laugh. "Turns out the thing he valued most about me is the thing that's going to get me killed. "
I reached across the table. Didn't take her hand—just rested mine beside hers, close enough to touch if she wanted. An offer, not a demand.
She looked at my hand for a long moment.
Then she slid her fingers over mine.
"It's strange," she said quietly. "Being around someone who notices things the way I do. You catalog everything—exits, threats, who's armed, where the danger is. I do the same thing, just with details instead of weapons. We're both cursed with remembering too much."
"Maybe that's why we understand each other."
"Maybe." She squeezed my fingers once, then pulled away and picked up her fork. "These omelets are good, by the way. You should add cooking to your list of marketable skills for when you leave the criminal underworld."
"I'll update my resume."
It did dangerous things to my pulse.
I found her on the terrace at sunset, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the Boston skyline.
"You're thinking too loud," I said, settling into the chair beside her.
She didn't look at me. "Do you ever regret it? This life?"
"Every day."
That got her attention. She turned and studied my face.
"I had a sister once," I said quietly. "Eva. She died because of this life. My father's choices."
Valentina's hand found mine, squeezed gently. She didn't push for details, didn't ask questions. Just held my hand and let me sit with the grief.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's why I understand," I continued. "What it feels like when the people who should protect you fail you instead."