Chapter 13
VALENTINA
Rosa sweeps me into the dressing room with arms full of clothes—dresses in every fabric imaginable, from silk that slips like water to leather that gleams under the lights. She piles them onto the velvet bench and then turns on me, lips already curling with interest.
“Did I hear Asher correctly?” she asks, one brow lifting high.
Heat climbs my cheeks, betraying me before I can school my face. I cross my arms, chin tipping up. “If you mean Toy—then yes. You heard correctly.”
Her laugh rolls out low and smooth, like velvet draped over steel. It makes the room feel smaller, more intimate, as if she’s already got me figured out.
“That boy has no matters,” she mutters as she hangs up the dresses. “Never had. My apologies for that. I helped Marcus raise them, but there is so much you can do to counteract all that trauma, you know?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, and nod. I don’t think anyone could get rid of some of my habits to bite, and react, all courtesy of Ricardo.
He always had me on edge, training me to be a ruthless, trained killer.
Sometimes I think all I am capable of is violence.
That’s all they expect out of me, even those who claim to love me.
I look over at Rosa, and she smiles looking between me and the royal blue dress in her hand multiple times, before throwing it in the no pile. “Blue is not your color, or mine so don’t worry about it.”
I chuckle because I doubt that’s true. Rosa is the type of beauty that makes you think she could pull off anything.
She is tall, elegant, and radiant in a fitted black wrap dress that hugs her curves.
Rosa looks like she belongs on a runway instead of standing in a dressing room with me.
Her skin glows golden, contrasted by cascades of glossy black curls that fall past her shoulders in deliberate waves.
A slash of crimson lipstick makes her full mouth even more dangerous, and her almond-shaped eyes—dark, sharp, assessing—take me in with the same precision she probably uses on fabric.
Long nails, lacquered blood-red, click against the dressing room door as she opens the door and throws out the clothes in the no pile.
Rosa hums to herself, sliding hangers along the rack with the kind of confidence that says she already knows what will work.
Her hand pauses, fingers curling around a short, black leather pleated skirt.
She adds a pair of sleek knee-high boots with silver buckles, then finishes with a loose gray top that slouches off one shoulder like it was made for careless rebellion.
She hands them to me without question, without asking if I like them. “Try this.”
I nod as she exits the dressing room and immediately slip off the boxers, sweats, boots and oversized t-shirt. I slip the skirt on, tug the boots up my legs, and drape the top over my shoulders. When I finally face the mirror, the reflection makes my breath catch.
I look…badass. No lace, no softness, no need to pretend.
The leather clings to me like armor, the boots sharpen my stance, and the slouch of the top turns me into something untamed, dangerous, unbothered.
I tilt my chin and the girl staring back looks like a more confident version of me—the one I used to be.
Before I lost confidence in everything I had built myself to be, I was a badass once.
I’d worn confidence like a second skin, fought and moved through the world like it couldn’t touch me.
And now, in Rosa’s mirror, I can almost see her again.
The version of Valentina who would sneer at pity, who didn’t flinch from the sight of her own reflection.
My lips part in a small, involuntary smile, the kind that feels foreign after everything.
“I’m coming in,” Rosa sings, already entering before I can say anything, and when she catches how I look in the mirror she squeals.
Her crimson mouth curving knowingly as she leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Now that looks like First Lady of the Raiders.”
I freeze. My gaze flicks back to the mirror, my green eyes boring into themselves, searching for something I don’t recognize. First Lady of the Raiders.
Never a title I thought I’d have. Never a crown I wanted. Because it sounds less like power and more like loss.
Before the kidnapping, my life had already been unraveling.
Cast had retired me as an assassin when my confidence cracked—when he saw me falter, when the blade no longer felt like an extension of my hand.
Lexi was leaving, chasing something brighter than me.
Johnny had his own life—beautiful, loud, full of color—that would eventually take him somewhere I couldn’t follow.
I was just waiting for the silence. Waiting to be left alone.
And now… I’m not.
Now I have Isaiah. Crazy, obsessed, utterly devoted Isaiah. He would follow me to the ends of the earth without ever asking why. That kind of loyalty should terrify me—it would terrify anyone else. But to me? It feels like comfort. A tether. A promise not to vanish.
But Xavier…would he share that? Would he ever give me the same? Or would he just claim me, chain me, and call it devotion?
And the Raiders themselves—half of them don’t even look me in the eye. I haven’t interacted with most. The boys keep me shadowed, caged, like they’re afraid I’ll get devoured if someone brushes too close. First Lady of the Raiders? I don’t even know what that truly means.
“What does it mean?” I swallow hard, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
“What?” Rosa asks softly, stepping behind me. She starts gathering the long waves of my hair.
“First Lady of the Raiders.” I whisper, as her crimson nails glide through the strands.
“My sister lived it,” Rosa answers, her tone dipping into something quieter, heavier.
She separates my hair with steady hands, weaving it into a braid that tugs tight at my scalp.
“She was First Lady when Xavier’s father ran the Raiders.
Back then, it was a cage. Every day was about surviving his temper. ”
A chill races down my spine. My fists clench at my sides.
Rosa meets my gaze in the mirror, her almond eyes steady, unwavering.
“It was traumatic. It was violent. And it was constant. To be First Lady under him meant you belonged to everyone—his temper, his whims, the club’s hunger.
When she died, I remember the relief on her face, even though she loved Xavier’s father, she just couldn’t withstand the pain anymore.
She also knew death was her only escape. ”
“Oh,” I say, letting out a harsh breath.
The braid tightens, heavy down my back, as if binding me to her words.
Fear coils low in my stomach. I can’t help the whisper that slips out. “Then what the hell am I walking into?”
Rosa’s lips curve into a slow smile, not cruel, but certain.
She tucks the end of my braid into a neat tie and smooths her hands down my shoulders.
“You’re walking into something different.
Xavier isn’t his father. He’s ruthless, yes.
He’s violent when he needs to be. But he knows mercy.
He knows loyalty. And whether he admits it or not—” she tips her chin toward me in the mirror, “—he would never make you miserable. He would never repeat the cycle.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
“Love him.” She pauses and examines my face for a second. “Hate him. He’ll take care of you.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Her crimson mouth tilts into a smirk. “Now, I love how perky your girls are, but I’m guessing you have no underwear?”
Heat floods my face again. “…No, ma’am.”
She arches one elegant brow, entirely unbothered by my embarrassment. “I’ll go grab some. But try on that deep red dress. You don’t need a bra for it.” Her palm brushes lightly against my back—gentle, almost maternal—before she sweeps out of the dressing room, the door clicking softly behind her.
I stare at the pile she left me with, but the red catches my eye immediately. A corset dress, deep scarlet, boned and cut to shape a body into something impossible. My fingers tremble slightly as I pull it free from the hanger and step into it.
The fabric slides smooth against my skin, hugging every curve.
It clings to my thighs, ruching in folds that draw the eye higher, while the corset bodice cinches my waist until it feels carved from glass.
The boning is unforgiving, pushing my breasts high, spilling them into a daring, taunting swell.
I tug the zipper up the side, the sound sharp in the hush of the dressing room, and when I finally lift my eyes to the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself.
I tilt my chin and adjust the hem, then reach for the sheer black thigh-high stockings Rosa left in the pile.
Sliding them up my legs, the silk clings to my thighs like a lover’s touch, the black band biting into my skin just enough to make me feel claimed.
The stockings sharpen the whole look, giving my legs that long, endless line, the kind that makes you stare and then look again.
Jewelry next. My fingers hover over the tray before fastening a simple choker at my throat—a black ribbon with a single dangling charm that rests against my collarbone.
It feels both delicate and defiant, like a collar I chose myself.
I add thin silver hoops to my ears, the kind that catch the light when I move, and slip a silver ring onto my finger, twisting it once before letting my hand fall back to my side.
A knock rattles the dressing room door.
“Come in!” I call out, half-expecting Rosa’s sultry voice and another pile of couture to critique. I spin on my heel, hair brushing over my bare shoulders, excitement bubbling sharp in my chest. “I look so fucking—”
The words trail off, dead on my tongue.