Valentina
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It would be easier to hate Salvatore if my body did not betray me so completely.
I take a long shower, hoping the heat will clear my head. Hoping it will scrub away the memory of him. His hands everywhere, the feel of his lips down my back, and the way his body pressed into mine, stealing my breath and leaving me aching in places I should not still feel two days later.
I hate that I woke up sore from him. I hate that my body remembers what my heart refuses to forgive.
The water scalds my skin, turning it pink, but it does nothing to erase the phantom touch of his fingers or the sound of his voice when he whispered my name. I scrub harder, as if I can wash away the weakness he exposed in me, the part of me that still wants him despite everything.
When I am finished, I take my time getting dressed, choosing a simple sundress and denim jacket.
Salvatore admitted to having my father and refuse to promise me that he would keep him alive.
I've had my heart broken before, but this one is different.
This one feels like a wound that will never fully heal, a scar I'll carry forever.
The other heartbreaks were clean breaks, painful but survivable. This is something else entirely. This is loving someone who holds the power to destroy everything you hold dear, and choosing to do it anyway. This is betrayal.
Rosa arrives with breakfast, her expression soft and knowing, but I don't give in to the heartache. It's easier to hate Salvatore anyway. Hate is simpler than love. Hate doesn't require forgiveness or understanding. Hate doesn't keep you up at night wondering if there's another way.
"Late today, I see," I say jokingly, forcing brightness into my voice. "Hot date?"
She smiles and shakes her head, setting the tray down on the small table by the window. "No. Mr. Salvatore asked me to give you these."
She hands me a beautiful arrangement of flowers.
"What does he expect me to do with them?" I ask. "Place them on my father's grave when he kills him? Tell him he can keep them." I set the flowers on the breakfast tray.
"Very well," Rosa says, but she does not leave. She stands there, hands folded in front of her.
"What is it, Rosa?"
She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Your wedding is coming soon. Perhaps it is time to come to terms with it. It would make life easier."
Oh, now she has something to say.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. "Easier for who?"
"For you," she says gently. "Fighting a battle you cannot win only causes more pain."
"I tried," I continue before she can elaborate. "I tried to belong. I tried to accept this life. I even tried to love him."
My throat tightens, and I have to pause to keep my voice steady. "I gave him a chance to love me back."
"I think you know how he feels about you," she says gently, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Do I?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "I do not remember the hero in any story choosing himself. Heroes sacrifice. They find another way."
Rosa sighs and gestures for me to join her, so I sit on the opposite side of the bed, maintaining distance.
"Salvatore lost his mother young, leaving only his father to raise him and his brothers," she says, her voice taking on the cadence of an old story, one she's told herself many times to make sense of this world.
"In this world, men rule with heavy hands and teach their sons to do worse.
It is the women, with patience and strength, who steady them.
If he could release Marco, he would. But he is not alone.
He and his brothers act as one. That unity is what keeps them powerful. "
"So the kingdom matters more than my father's life?" I ask. "Power matters more than doing what's right?"
"You do not understand," she says softly.
"No." I stand abruptly. "I do not understand why someone with so much power still needs more blood. Especially my father's. He's a good man. He never hurt anyone. And Salvatore would kill him just to what? Send a message, to maintain control, to prove he's strong."
I pace to the window, looking out at the grounds, "I cannot let this go, Rosa. I won’t."
She stands, smoothing her hands over her apron. "I know. Everything will be all right. You'll see."
The words sound hollow, a comfort she doesn't believe herself. She leaves, forgetting the flowers on the tray.
"Rosa?" I call after her, and she waits while I pick them up and hand them back to her at the door.
She nods once before disappearing down the hall, the flowers cradled in her arms like a child.
"Back to my routine," I murmur as I make my way to the library.
The library is quiet, and the smell of old books and leather grounds me. It reminds me of who I was before Salvatore Vitale entered my life and turned everything upside down.
My eyes land on one of my father’s favorite novels, and something twists in my stomach. Of course. The Baader Meinhof phenomenon. Once something takes hold in your mind, it appears everywhere, a constant reminder of what you're trying to forget.
The sight of the book pulls me into a memory so vivid it steals my breath.
My father was picking me up from school, and the book was on the dashboard, with a green bookmark sticking out of it. I looked to the road and saw that my father missed the turn that would have taken us into our neighborhood.
"Dad, why do you always take the long way home?" I asked from the passenger seat, my legs swinging slightly above the floor.
He glanced at me and smiled, that warm smile that makes everything feel safe. "Don't you like the adventure?"
"I do," I said, "but I have homework."
He laughed and ruffled my hair, the way men do with boys, not caring that he's messing up the ponytail I spent ten minutes perfecting. "You are a brainiac. You will finish in no time."
"What if it is hard?" I asked, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth.
"Then you get it done in a little more time." His voice is so certain, so confident in my abilities.
I think about that, then frown. "What if it is super-duper hard?"
"Then you remove distractions and focus on the problem until you find a solution." He taps the steering wheel for emphasis.
I am quiet for a moment, processing. "What if it is impossibly hard?"
His expression changed slightly, more serious. He took a breath, and I could see him choosing his words carefully, the way adults do when they're about to tell you a truth they want to stick with you.
"If it seems impossible," he said slowly, "then it may be time to let it go. Sometimes, even the smartest of us cannot solve the impossible. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is recognize when a fight cannot be won."
The impossible.
Like choosing the man I love over the man I have always loved.
The memory releases me, leaving me standing in the library with tears streaming down my face. I stand too quickly, the walls of the library closing in, the books that once brought comfort now feeling like witnesses to my failure.
I grab a light book, something mindless, something that won't remind me of anything, and step outside into the garden, breathing in cool air until the pressure eases.
Life is full of ups and downs. We all know that. But this feels like free-falling without a parachute.
I sit beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree, my father's words lingering on my mind.
"If it seems impossible, then it may be time to let it go."
But how do you let go of the person who taught you to hold on? How do you surrender when everything in you screams to fight? How do you forgive the unforgivable?
The garden is beautiful today, full of color and life, indifferent to my suffering. Birds sing in the branches above me. Bees move from flower to flower. The world continues, uncaring that mine is falling apart.
I open the book in my lap, and I stare at the words until they blur, thinking about impossible problems and the wisdom of knowing when to quit.
Quit trying, quit falling, quit loving a monster.