Valentina
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Istayed.
Not because I didn't want to leave, but because I realized my plan was fucking insane.
The plan seemed simple. But even Stevie Wonder could see it was crazy as hell.
Step outside and act normal, just in case there were any guards there, then jump in the truck, ram it through the gate, head to my mother's house, take her car, and escape.
I really believed I was going to go through with it, and then I thought to myself, what if the truck is a stick shift?
I can't drive a stick shift. Heck, I can barely drive an automatic, according to Lindsay. But in my defense, that’s because I can’t parallel park to save my life, but most people can’t, right?
And then I examined my “ram into the gate” theory and remembered there are two sets of gates. One to exit the main house, the second to exit the property. Even if the car is drivable after I ram into the first set of gates, would it survive a second? Would I survive a second?
The more I thought about my crazy, random escape attempt, the more I realized I was out of my freaking mind.
I can't help but chuckle at the madness. "Valentina, girl, you've read too many books. Thinking you're a superwoman or some shit."
I lean against the wall, letting the absurdity wash over me.
The laughter dies in my throat as I realize something else.
I'm not sure I wanted the plan to work.
The thought is uncomfortable. Unwelcome. But it sits there, heavy and true.
When I turned back to look at where Salvatore had disappeared into the darkness, when I whispered goodnight to the empty hallway... some part of me was relieved the door had opened onto nothing but cold night air and uncertainty.
Some part of me wanted to stay.
"You're going crazy," I mutter to myself.
But it’s not that simple, nothing about this is simple.
* * *
I spend the next morning in the garden, pretending to write but actually staring at the same page for an hour. My mind keeps drifting to the kiss. To his offer. To the way his voice cracked on the word choose.
Give me six months. If you still want to leave, I'll let you go.
No man who rules through violence makes offers like that. No monster gives their prey a key to the cage.
Unless he's not entirely a monster.
Unless there's something else underneath all that darkness.
I think about the photo albums in the library. The little boy making bunny ears. The way his mother smiled in every picture. The family they used to be before whatever happened to make them into this.
Before I can stop myself, I'm out of bed and heading for the library.
* * *
The Vitale library has become my sanctuary.
Three stories of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rare editions locked behind glass. Manuscripts so old I'm afraid to breathe near them. It's a librarian's dream, and for a few hours each day, I can pretend I'm still the woman I was before all of this.
Today, I climb to the second floor, drawn back to the alcove where I found the photo albums yesterday. I want to see more. Want to understand the family I've signed my life over to.
I'm reaching for another leather-bound volume when I hear it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Uneven.
Someone is here.
I freeze, hand still extended, heart suddenly pounding. The footsteps stop somewhere on the first floor. Then I hear something else.
Breathing. Ragged. Like someone trying to control pain.
I should stay hidden. Should wait until whoever it is leaves.
Instead, I find myself moving toward the spiral staircase, peering over the wrought-iron railing.
And there he is.
Salvatore is slumped in one of the worn velvet chairs by the window, his arm thrown across his face. Even from here, I can see the tension in his body. The way his shoulders are locked. The way his hand grips the armrest like he's trying to anchor himself.
And his leg.
His leg is shaking.
Not the subtle tremor I noticed in the study the other day. This is worse. Visible even from twenty feet away. Rhythmic and uncontrollable, like his body is betraying him.
I should leave. This is private. This is the kind of vulnerability a man like him would kill to protect.
But my feet are already carrying me down the stairs.
He doesn't hear me approach. Or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. His arm stays over his face, hiding his expression. His leg keeps shaking.
I don't say anything. Don't announce myself.
I just sit on the ottoman beside his chair, reach out, and place my hand on his thigh.
His whole body goes rigid.
The shaking doesn't stop immediately. But it slows. Stutters. Like a motor winding down.
"Valentina." His voice is rough. He still hasn't moved his arm. "You’re here."
"I’m here."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need anything." I keep my voice steady, my hand gentle but firm against his leg. "But I'm here anyway."
His arm drops from his face.
His eyes are red-rimmed. Not from crying, I don't think men like him cry, but from something else. Exhaustion or strain from the effort of holding himself together.
"How long have you had this?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The anxiety. The tremors." I don't look away from him. "How long?"
For a moment, I think he's going to deny it. Going to throw up those walls I've seen him hide behind a hundred times. I start to walk away but he hold my hand gently. Then, he exhales slowly. "Since I was a boy."
The admission hangs in the air between us.
"My father noticed it when I was seven," he continues, his voice flat. Almost clinical. "Called me weak. Said I needed to learn control."
“It’s not your fault, Salvatore. What did he do?"
"Made sure I never shook in front of anyone again. By the time I was twelve, I'd learned to suppress it. To make sure no one ever saw."
She looks up at me. "But it never went away."
"No." He looks at my hand, still resting on his thigh. "It just... waits. For moments when I'm alone. When I can't hold it together anymore."
"And the shooting made it worse."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.
"My brother Dante was supposed to be Don," he says suddenly. "The eldest. It should have been his by birthright."
I frown. "I remember you saying you had four brothers. Matteo, Raffaele, Elio, and Shadow."
"Yes." Something painful crosses his face. "Dante is the oldest. But my father... my father skipped him in the succession."
"Why?"
"Because Dante is different." He's quiet for a long moment. "He sees the world differently than most people. Processes things differently. What doctors now would call the autism spectrum. But my father..."
He stops. Takes a breath.
"My father called him weak. Defective. Said he couldn't run an empire if he couldn't read a room like normal people do." The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut. "He didn't get Dante help. Didn't try to understand him. Just... discarded him. Gave the crown to me instead."
“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, and neither did Dante. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice to hold steady. But it’s exactly what I needed to hear.
"Where is Dante now?"
"Hell, if I know. He’s the only child my father had with his first wife and after he and Dante fell out, Dante didn’t want to stay in contact with any of us.
At first, he stayed in a different wing of the mansion, away from the main family.
Away from the constant reminder of what our father thought of him.
" Salvatore's hand covers mine, where it rests on his thigh.
"I was fifteen when my father told me I'd inherit.
Fifteen years old, and I knew I could never show weakness.
Could never let anyone see me shake. Because if they did, I'd end up like Dante. Pushed aside. Forgotten."
"Salvatore..."
"Don't." His grip tightens slightly. "Don't pity me. I don't need your pity."
"I'm not pitying you." I turn my hand under his, lacing our fingers together. "I'm trying to understand you."
He searches my face.
"You should run," he whispers. "You should take that open door and never look back. This life, this family, everything I am... it will only destroy you."
“Save yourself.”
I look down at his hand on top of mine trying to find the words.
"Maybe I don't want to be saved."
The words surprise us both.
I don't know where they came from. Don't know if I even mean them. But they're out there now, hanging between us like a bridge neither of us expected to build.
"You can just be yourself with me," I say quietly.
"That's the only way this would work. Whatever this is.
I don't want the Don. I don't want the mask you show everyone else.
I want..." I pause, searching for the right words.
"I want the man who makes bunny ears behind his brother's head in family photos. "
His breath catches.
"You saw those?"
"Yesterday. I hope that's okay."
For a long moment, he just looks at me, and then he softens.
"My mother made us take that photo," he says. "She was the only one who could get us all to behave. The only one who could make my father smile."
"She seemed wonderful."
"She was." He pauses. "She would have liked you."
The words hit me harder than they should.
"The library was hers," he continues. "She built this collection over thirty years. Every book chosen with care. Every rare edition hunted down and preserved." He looks around at the towering shelves. "I haven't been in here in years. Too many memories. Too much of her is still in the walls."
"But you're here now."
"I don't know why I came here today. I just..." He trails off, then laughs softly. "Actually, I do know. I was looking for you."
My heart stutters. "For me?"
"Rosa said you'd been spending time here. I wanted to see where you went when you disappeared from the cameras."
"About those cameras,"
"We'll discuss them later." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Right now, I just want to sit here with you. Is that... is that okay?"
I should say no. Should maintain the boundaries I've been trying to build.
Instead, I lean my head against his shoulder.