Chapter Fourteen
VALENTINO
The cottage settles into quiet as night deepens over the Hudson Valley estate.
The lake outside reflects scattered lights from the main lodge where other participants continue late discussions and networking.
Inside our assigned space, the only sounds are the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of wooden beams adjusting to the cooler evening air.
Nico fell asleep over an hour ago after another enthusiastic racetrack session. The boy had demanded I help extend the course across the living room rug, his small hands placing blocks with surprising precision.
I obliged, his focus reminding me of how I was at a young age. Livia had watched us from the doorway before retreating to her room.
She had barely spoken to me since the terrace confrontation and the charged moments throughout the day’s drills.
I sit in the living area reviewing flagged documents on my tablet, including the compliance gap Livia identified in the De Luca subsidiary proposal.
Not only is this a stain on De Luca. When presented, it would push them back farther. And for Ferretti Global Risk, that's a good thing.
Her discovery impressed me more than I let on. Most new analysts would have overlooked the mismatched filing dates.
She had not only spotted it but connected it immediately to operational inconsistencies. Her explanation about learning from the man who taught her to spot his own tricks still echoes in my mind.
Dante.
The pieces of her past continue to surface in fragments, each one adding weight to the growing picture I cannot ignore.
The day had tested every boundary we established in that contract. Every evacuation drill required my hand at her back.
Every boat transfer brought her body against mine. I remember the way she had trembled when I caught her on the dock, the sharp intake of her breath, the heat of her waist under my palm.
She had pulled away like I burned her, yet her eyes told a different story. The same hunger I feel. The same dangerous pull that began the moment she walked into my office for that interview.
Now it follows us here, amplified by the forced proximity of this family cottage and the public performance of our fake engagement.
I set the tablet aside and stand, stretching muscles tight from the physical drills. The kitchen light draws me. A soft glow spills across the hardwood floor. I walk toward it and stop in the doorway.
Livia stands at the counter, barefoot, wearing soft sleep shorts and a loose tank top that slips slightly off one shoulder. Her hair falls in loose waves down her back, still damp from what must have been a recent shower or bath.
She holds a mug in one hand and eats cereal straight from it with a spoon. When she senses me, she glances up and our eyes meet.
For a moment neither of us speaks. I step into the kitchen and open a cabinet, pulling out a stack of bowls. I set one on the counter near her with deliberate calm.
“There are bowls.”
Livia looks at the bowl, then back at me. A small, defiant spark lights in her eyes despite the exhaustion lining her features. “There is also joy, Valentino. You should try locating that sometime.”
Her voice carries a teasing edge, but it does not hide the underlying tension. I watch her lift another spoonful of cereal to her mouth.
Her lips close around the spoon. She chews slowly, and my gaze fixes on the subtle movement of her throat as she swallows.
Heat stirs low in my body. I remember those same lips parted on a shaky inhale last night on the terrace. I remember how they had trembled when my finger traced her neckline.
How close I had come to claiming her mouth and more.
Much more.
She watches me watching her mouth and, naturally, the air between us thickens. The kitchen feels smaller, the distance between our bodies charged with everything we are not saying.
I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. Her red-painted toes curl slightly against the cool floor.
I pull in a long breath that does little to steady me because all I really catch is her scent lingering in the narrow space alongside the sugary smell of cereal.
I lean one shoulder against the doorway and study her in silence. Then I push away from the doorway and move deeper into the kitchen instead, reaching for a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Livia watches every movement. Then she set the mug down. “We should probably stop doing this,” she says quietly.
“Doing what?”
Her gaze flicks toward me. “Whatever this is.”
I twist the bottle cap loose and drink from it. Silence ensues in the time that I do that.
After a few seconds, I set the water bottle on the counter. “You're probably right.” I look at her. “But the question is do you want to stop? Do you want to tell the truth?”
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “There's no truth, Valentino.”
I nod. “Thought you'd say that. But how about this: you answer honestly and I guarantee no consequences on my end. It doesn't affect our professional relationship. In fact, I'll drop this…” I breathe out. “This attraction.”
I step closer. “Were we ever together in Venice?”
She opens her mouth. Then closes it.
The teasing leaves her face first. Then the defensiveness.
What remains underneath is uncertainty. I can almost touch it.
She wets her lips once before answering. “No, Valentino. I’ve never even been to Venice.”
I watch her for a long moment, then I nod once. My instincts say one thing. Her eyes and words say another. I don't know which one to trust so I leave the kitchen without another word.
My footsteps carry me down the short hallway to the main bedroom and I close the door behind me.
The room is dim, lit only by the spill of moonlight through half-drawn curtains. The bed is untouched. Crisp linen. Neutral tones. Everything arranged with the same sterile precision as the rest of the cottage.
A space designed for rest, not thought.
I don’t sit. I don’t switch on the lamp.
Instead, I stand there with my hand still resting on the door, feeling the afterimage of the kitchen conversation press against the inside of my skull.
No, Valentino. I’ve never even been to Venice.
Bullshit.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let my thoughts turn inward. I’m piecing it together with the same methodical focus I apply to every security threat.
Part of me feels fully certain it is her. The math aligns. The timeline. Her flight from Dante.
Yet another part of me wonders if I’m reaching. She denied it plainly, not once, but repeatedly. Denied ever being in Venice.
But that twenty percent of doubt gnaws at me, mixed with something sharper. Fear.
What happens if it really is her? What happens when this fragile thing between us combusts? She's my employee. The logical CEO in me knows this should be an automatic no.
Pursuing her risks everything. The company. The deal with the Aurelius Consortium. My carefully controlled life.
A small part of me, the cold strategist, wants to believe I’m constructing connections where none exist. That this is simply attraction amplified by proximity and the fake engagement.
That she’s not the woman who has haunted my memories for years.
The doubt does not silence the certainty. I need perspective. I pick up my phone and call Vaughn. He answers on the second ring, voice rough with the late hour but alert as always.
“Valentino. Everything stable at the retreat?”
“I think Livia is connected to Venice.”
There is a short pause on the other end. I can almost see Vaughn leaning back in whatever chair he currently occupies, processing the statement with that sharp mind of his.
“You mean emotionally, sexually, or catastrophically?”
I stare at the darkened window, the lake invisible now beyond the glass. The weight of the day, the touches, the near-misses, and the growing puzzle settles heavy in my chest.
“Yes.”
Vaughn exhales. “Alright. Walk me through it.”
I do. I lay out the details in the precise, ordered way I handle every operation. The interview. The photograph. The slip in my office. The physical reactions. The way Nico looks at me. The way Livia looks at me when she thinks I cannot see. Vaughn listens without interruption until I finish.
The call stretches long into the night as we dissect possibilities and risks.
Outside, the estate sleeps under secure watch.
Inside the cottage, Livia rests somewhere down the hall with our son.
The word slips into my thoughts unbidden.
Our son. The possibility changes everything.
I end the call with Vaughn eventually, but sleep remains elusive.
I lie in the dark, mind turning over every interaction, every glance, every denial.
The retreat continues tomorrow. More drills. More forced proximity. More opportunities for the truth to surface. I close my eyes and see Livia barefoot in the kitchen, spoon at her lips, eyes locked on mine. The pull toward her feels inevitable now. Dangerous. Necessary.
Whatever connection exists between us, Venice or otherwise, it is far from over.