Chapter 10
The Mercedes’ door slammed with a dull thud, and the echo of gravel beneath her feet faded as the massive door of Villa Ferraro closed.
I didn’t move.
I sat in the driver’s seat, in the dark courtyard, with the keys still in the ignition. Inside the car, my ragged breathing was the only sound.
Her scent was everywhere—that expensive soap she used, and, underlying it all, the metallic scent of fear mixed with the scent of our sex.
I hate you…
Her scream, at the exact moment she collapsed against mine, echoed in my head.
You can’t fix everything with an apology and sex.
A dry laugh, almost a sob, escaped my chest. I was an idiot, a complete and utter one.
I, Marco Valenti, the man who built an empire by reading others’ weaknesses, had been deceived by a bitter old man—and worse, the moment I discovered the truth, my only reaction was to become a monster.
I kidnapped her. I dragged her…
The nausea returned, hot and acidic.
Fierce, full of desire…
I had cornered her against that glass, and the line between passion and aggression had become so thin that I no longer knew which side I was on.
Terrified…
Yes. That was the word. I was terrified.
Panicked by the depth of my mistake and by the sight of her, so strong and yet so broken. Above all, terrified by the realization that, for the first time in my life, I had no idea how to fix it.
My empire was built on one rule: if something is broken, you replace it; if someone is in your way, you remove them.
But how could I undo what I’d done? How could I replace the seven months of hell I’d put her through?
I couldn’t.
I started the car. The engine roared into the night. I drove out of the villa with controlled stiffness, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers ached.
I went back to the penthouse. When I walked in, the air was still heavy with her scent.
I was furious… at myself.
I went to the bar and poured myself a shot of whiskey. The amber liquid shimmered in the glass.
I saw my reflection in the dark windowpane, with Milan shining behind me like a thousand mocking eyes.
The face in the reflection was that of a stranger—tired and marked by Enzo’s punch. My green eyes, which had always been my weapon, seemed empty.
You were deceived.
I allowed myself to be deceived. That was what hurt the most. Silvio didn’t defeat me; my own arrogance did. My pride was so desperate to believe that the old Ferraro guard was corrupt and bankrupt that I swallowed the lie like a thirsty fool.
I wanted her to be the villain, because it was easier to believe she was a traitor than to admit what I felt that first night: that I loved her.
The whiskey burned my throat, but it didn’t melt the knot in my chest.
I had to fix this.
But how?
Money? I could buy the entire Ferraro Uomo and give it to her as a gift. She’d throw it right back in my face.
Power? I could destroy Silvio and all the tabloids that mocked her. But that wouldn’t erase the memory of the Duomo.
So, what’s left?
I sank into the couch, and her scent was there, in the leather. I closed my eyes. Desperate. I didn’t know how to ask, or how to be vulnerable… just to take.
The only thing I wanted in the world was something I couldn’t take.
I couldn’t fix the past, but I could, perhaps, stop running away.
I opened my eyes. The apartment was dark. The whiskey was untouched after that first sip.
I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t have a five-step plan.
However, I was sure of one thing. I wasn’t going anywhere; I wouldn’t get on my private jet and flee to Dubai or Shanghai.
I was going to stay here, in Milan. I would endure her hatred and prove—not with sex or money, but with time—that I was no longer the man who ran away.
I was going to become the man she needed me to be. Even if, to do so, I had to face the Ferraros’ wrath—and my own—every single day.
***
The emptiness of the penthouse the next morning was torture. Every ray of sunlight streaming through the glass wall seemed to illuminate my failure. Her scent was still there, a phantom of expensive perfume and the fury of our encounter permeating the air.
I was sitting at my home office desk—a slab of polished mahogany—with the phone in my hand. I hadn’t slept. The confrontation had left behind a hollow void of despair.
Stay away from me…
Her command was a constant echo in my head.
I had to obey. If I showed up at Villa Ferraro again, her brothers would call the police—or worse, they’d finish the job Enzo had started on my jaw. My physical presence was poison to her.
So how the hell do I fix this?
I paced back and forth. I was Marco Valenti. I moved markets. I didn’t send flowers…
Flowers?
I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. If I sent flowers to Bianca, she’d put them through a paper shredder. She didn’t want sentimental gestures; she was pragmatic.
What did Bianca respect? Power. Efficiency. Logic.
I picked up the phone and called my personal assistant.
“Ant?nio, I want a delivery to Signorina Ferraro’s office tonight. At exactly eight o’clock.”
“Sì, Signore. Flowers?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Food. From Savini. The risotto al tartufo and the tagliata di manzo. The best they have.”
“To be delivered to her?”
“No. To be left on her desk. No card. No name. Just… food.”
She’d be working late. I knew that. She was drowning in work so she wouldn’t drown in everything else, and, being pregnant, she needed… to eat. The word sounded strange and domestic in my mind.
I spent the day in a hell of anxiety. At 8:30, my phone rang. It was Antonio…
“Signore, the package was… refused.”
I stiffened. The rejection hit like a shock.
“What do you mean, ‘refused’?”
“Signorina Ferraro saw the delivery. She asked who it was from. The ma?tre d’ said it was from an anonymous admirer. She told her security guard to throw it in the trash.”
“She… she what?”
“And she sent a note back to the restaurant, sir.” Antonio’s voice was hesitant.
“Read it.”
“It just says, ‘I don’t need your charity, Marco.’”
I slammed my fist down on my mahogany desk. The monitor jumped. Charity! Did she think this was charity? It was… a gesture of care.
I was furious. She was stubborn, proud, and impossible.
She refused the food.
All right… I thought, pacing back and forth in my office.
If she refuses logistics, let’s try infrastructure.
I called my private car service. The best in Milan.
“I want a Mercedes Maybach—the newest model—at the door of Villa Ferraro tomorrow at 7:30 a.m. and every day after that. Driver: Bruno. He doesn’t talk; he just drives. Tell her it’s a professional courtesy from the Valenti merger.”
I was tying it to business. The only language she couldn’t refuse.
The next morning, at 7:45, my phone rang. It was Bruno…
“Signore, I’m in front of the Villa.”
“And?” I asked, my pulse jumping.
“Signorina Ferraro has come out, Signore.”
“And did she get in the car?”
There was a tense pause.
“No, Signore. She looked at the Maybach, looked straight at me… and then walked over to her own Maserati in the garage.”
My grip on the phone made the plastic creak.
“And what did she say?” I asked in a dangerously low voice.
“She said…” Bruno swallowed hard. “‘Tell Signor Valenti that if I see this car here tomorrow, I’ll call the police for harassment.’”
I hung up.
She refuses everything.
Food, transportation… Bianca was blocking my every move.
I was in my office, surrounded by a quiet that mocked me. Six months ago, I was the wolf at the top of the food chain, but now I was outside in the cold, and she wouldn’t even open the door.
Despair was a new feeling, and I hated it.