24. Valentina #2
I wink at him. “I’m just saying she wasn’t wrong—”
He tackles me then, pinning me to the couch and covering my mouth with his to shut up my shrieks of laughter. But even as we kiss, I can’t help but think about how this is another dead end.
A few days after that call, I still can’t stop thinking about it.
The woman posing as Claire Murphy had vanished like she never existed.
The boy, Finn, was presumably with her, though I really do wonder if he’d even been her real son or if that whole part was staged too.
Someone out there had tried to destroy my marriage and had nearly succeeded. And I had no idea who or why.
Were they still watching?
Planning another attack? Were they waiting for the baby to be born so they could strike when the Brennans and Santoros were at their most vulnerable?
The thought of that keeps me up at night and wakes me up from deep sleeps. Cillian pulls me back in every time without me having to say anything, his arm finding me in the dark. I let him because I’ve learned to let him.
Now, we tell each other everything. His fears about the baby, the dead-end investigation, the details of Connor’s business that I probably shouldn’t know.
In return, I stop performing. No more Santoro composure held together with expensive clothes and sheer will.
Being pregnant and pissed off and scared stripped most of that away whether I wanted it to or not, and somewhere in the wreckage of the last few months I stopped trying to put it back together.
I cry more now. I yell more.
Last week I cried at a dog food commercial, and Cillian, to his enormous credit, said nothing and handed me a tissue.
Somehow, we are a team. Stronger for having survived the attempt to tear us apart.
Tonight I have made us a lovely dinner at home.
And by “making us a lovely dinner,” I mean I ordered from my favorite Italian restaurant and I plate everything carefully, lighting a candle on the table.
I survey my work. It looks extremely convincing, like I spent my afternoon slaving in the kitchen instead of lying in bed, watching true crime documentaries.
Cillian comes home at seven and he stops short when he sees the dining table.
“Dinner’s ready,” I tell him, as he turns to me in surprise. “Go wash up. I made us something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You cooked.”
I lift my chin. “I did. Now go wash up.”
But he doesn’t heed my direction. His eyes dart from the table to me before he shakes his head. “You—Valentina Santoro Brennan—actually put on an apron and made food?”
“I don’t know why that’s surprising,” I sniff, standing up. “I cook.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Since when?”
Dammit, he’s got me there, but I’m not about to let him know that. “When you’re not around.” I’m not sure if reheating food or making myself tuna fish counts, but it does to me. “Go wash your hands, Cillian, and meet me in the dining room. I’m starving.”
He finally listens to me and disappears to wash his hands. He enters the dining room slowly, staring at the plates of food.
We sit down and dig into our meal, and I sigh with delight as I take a first bite of pasta bolognese.
God, Carmine’s is so good.
Cillian leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. “You ordered this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I fork some more food, enjoying that I can finally eat without wanting to vomit.
“Uh huh.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “And the takeout containers in the trash?”
My cheeks go warm, but I keep my face perfectly composed. Dammit, I should have taken the trash downstairs. “Circumstantial evidence.”
Cillian bursts into laughter, and the sound of it makes my body feel warm.
He hasn’t laughed much since “Claire” disappeared, and I didn’t realize until this exact moment how much I’ve missed it.
The weight of what had happened—of how close we’d come to losing everything—had settled over both of us like a shadow.
But slowly, we’re finding our way back to each other.
“Eat your food,” I tell him, a bit annoyed that he found me out, even though it was my fault for being lazy and not disposing of the evidence
“Your food,” he says, smiling at me. “That you definitely cooked.”
“Cillian.”
“It’s incredible, by the way.” He picks his fork back up, still smiling. “Really. The plating alone is to die for.”
I throw a piece of bread at his head. He catches it and eats it without breaking eye contact, which is the most infuriating possible response. I have to look away so he doesn’t see me smile.
After dinner we end up on the couch. I tuck myself into his side with his arm around my shoulders and my hand on the curve of my belly.
He covers my hand with his without saying anything, his thumb moving in a slow arc, and I snuggle into him.
The city hums outside and I let myself relax for a moment, enjoying my husband’s presence.
“Have you thought about names?” he asks, his rough cheek pressing against my head.
I shrug. “A few. Nothing definitive.”
“I’m still leaning toward Fergus.”
This time I lean back and stare at him in shock. “Absolutely not. Try again.”
“Come on, Valentina. It’s a strong name.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind.” I settle back against his chest. “Fergus Gabriel Brennan? That sounds horrible.”
“We’re using Gabriel as a middle name?” Cillian asks suddenly. “When did we decide that?”
“I decided it since I’m the one carrying your child,” I gesture to my belly. “Gabriel for a boy. Gabrielle for a girl. My brother should be honored with a child named after him, since he’ll never have his own.”
Cillian hums. “And you choosing Gabriel had nothing to do with the fact that it would piss Connor off, right?”
A smirk grows on my lips, and I hide my face in Cillian’s shoulder so he doesn’t see it and realize he’s correct. Obviously, honoring my brother means a lot to me, but I won’t lie—it will be satisfying as hell to see Connor’s face when he hears the baby’s name.
“Other than Fergus, which we are never discussing again,” I say, changing the subject, “do you have any actual preferences?”
Cillian pokes my side, as if letting me know he knows what I’m doing but he’ll play along. “I like strong names,” he says. “Names with history and weight to them.”
“Like Cillian?”
He looks down at me and the corner of his mouth pulls up. “Exactly like Cillian. Clearly the finest name ever bestowed upon a human being.”
I roll my eyes, pinching his side. “Your ego is showing.”
“My ego has always been showing. You just like it.”
He’s not wrong, which is irritating. I settle back against his chest and listen to his heartbeat, steady and familiar under my cheek, closing my eyes.
“I’m scared,” I say quietly, deciding to be honest with him.
His arm tightens around me immediately. “Of what?”
“Of whoever did this coming back.” It’s hard to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Of them waiting until the baby is born and we’re vulnerable. Of losing you because someone out there wants to destroy what we’ve built.”
Cillian shakes his head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He’s quiet for a second, and I appreciate that he doesn’t just reflexively argue with me.
“True, but I can promise that I’ll do everything in my power to keep you and our baby safe,” he says, his hand drifting back to my stomach.
“I can promise I won’t let my pride or my guilt blind me again.
” He presses me closer to him. “And I can promise that whatever comes next, we face it together.”
I turn in his arms so I’m facing him properly, our eyes meeting.
This man drives me absolutely insane. He shut me out and lied to my face and called me irrational but then threw himself over me when a window exploded without one second of hesitation.
“I love you,” I tell him, cupping his jaw. “Even when you’re being an idiot and make terrible decisions based on misplaced guilt. I love you.”
He laughs. “How romantic.” But his face softens as he traces my lips with the pad of his thumb. “I love you too. Even when you throw wine glasses at my head.”
My cheeks warm and I duck my head. “That was one time,” I protest.
“It was a memorable time.”
I kiss him, my hand on the side of his face.
The tension that’s been my constant companion starts to melt, like it’s finally giving up the fight.
He kisses me back like he’s been waiting to, and when we pull apart he rests his forehead against mine.
“We’re going to be okay,” he says quietly, his nose touching mine, his breath mingling with mine. “All three of us.”
“Four,” I say. “You, me, the baby, and your massive ego.”
He laughs and kisses me again, but this time it’s different. It’s deeper.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head, and heat pools low in my stomach. It’s been weeks since we’ve had sex.
There was too much hurt and betrayal between us. I hope I never again have to feel like I’m sharing a bed with someone I’m not sure I still trust.
But now, with the truth finally revealed and our marriage on solid ground again, I want my husband back.
I pull back just far enough to say, “Bedroom. Now.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls me up with him, our fingers laced, and guides me down the hallway to our bedroom. However, halfway down the hall he seems to change his mind and next thing I know I’m pressed against the wall.
I raise an eyebrow, goosebumps all over my arms as Cillian fixes his hooded gaze on me.
My breathing becomes shallow, my chest rising and falling against his. Cillian’s hands grip my waist, pulling me closer. I can feel the heat of his body—an electric pulse that matches my own racing heart.
My body moves of its own accord, driven by the ache deep inside me, the need to feel him, to confirm we’re both still here together.
I lean forward, pressing myself against him, and capture his lips in a heated kiss. It’s urgent, all teeth and fire, as if we can erase the pain of the last two months.