Valentina
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Istand in front of the mirror in my wedding dress, and all I can think about is my father.
Rosa moves around me with pins in her teeth, adjusting the hem, murmuring about how perfect it is. How beautiful I’ll be. How lucky I am.
Lucky.
The word tastes like ash.
The silk skims over my skin as if it had been made for me alone, every seam precise, every detail flawless.
Rosa steps back to admire her work while I watch my reflection.
A bride. That’s what I’m supposed to be.
But the woman staring back at me looks like someone frozen in place while everything around her quietly unravels.
I used to think what I felt for Salvatore was love. Real, undeniable, rare. Now I wonder if I just mistook appetite for affection. Instinct for intention. He never promised me tenderness. I dressed his hunger up as something softer and convinced myself it was enough.
It wasn’t.
It’s been three days since I last slept through the night. Three days of lying awake, staring into the dark, wondering if my father is still alive.
I’m done waiting for Salvatore Vitale to be the hero of this story. Heroes don’t keep your father in a cage and call it complicated.
I sit in the library and turn my phone over in my hands. It’s tracked. I’ve known that since the first day. He knows my location at all times.
But he doesn’t listen.
That’s the strange contradiction that defines him.
For all his obsession with control, for all the ways he’s built a world that bends to his will, he’s given me freedoms that don’t make sense.
The cameras in my room are gone because I tore them out, and he let them stay that way.
My calls are tracked by location but never monitored.
I move through the estate without a guard hovering at my side, even though I know I’m never truly alone.
Why?
At first, I thought it was arrogance. Then strategy. Lately, in the quiet hours when sleep refuses to come and the weight of everything presses down on me, I’ve wondered, did he really fall in love with me?
My heart wants to say yes. It points to the way he looks at me, makes love to me, and relaxes around me. To the way his leg stills when I touch him.
But my mind knows better.
A man who loves you doesn’t hold your father hostage. A man who loves you doesn’t say he cannot when he means he chooses not to. Love protects what the other person holds sacred.
Salvatore won’t even try.
I unlock my phone and scroll to Lindsay’s name. My thumb hovers over the call button.
What if he’s listening? What if this is the one line he does monitor?
My heart hammers against my ribs. I glance at the library.
Fuck it.
I press call.
It rings four times. Each one feels like an eternity. Then—
“Val?”
“Hey, Lin.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Are you okay?” A pause, heavier than the silence. “Are you safe?”
I stand and move to the window, putting distance between myself and the door. “I’m safe. He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She’s right.
“I need your help,” I admit. “But first, I need to say I’m sorry. About everything.”
There’s a pause, then a long exhale. “I’m sorry too.” Her voice softens, then sharpens into something precise. “Val, if this man truly loves you, then that love should protect your family.”
The words land with brutal clarity.
“You’re right,” I concede. “And if he won’t protect my father, I will.”
“What are you saying?”
“I need to find him.”
She’s quiet at first. “You know what that means.”
“I do.”
“If I use my resources and they find out…”
“They won’t. My phone is tracked by location, not monitored. He trusts me.”
“Why would he trust you that much?”
“Because he thinks he owns me,” I say quietly. “And that trust is exactly why this will work.”
Another pause. Then I hear her chair move, keys clicking. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
* * *
The next day passes in a blur. I stand still while fabric is pinned to a body that no longer feels like mine. The wedding planner talks about flowers and music and seating charts. I nod. Smile. Perform.
Salvatore watches me from across rooms. His gaze is heavy, searching. Twice he tries to speak to me. Twice I walk away.
It’s cruel. But cruelty is the only language this world understands.
That night, my phone buzzes.
Found him. Harbor Road. Old shipping district.
Building four. Lower level. Light guard rotation.
Midnight. Source is solid. Cross-referenced with two separate intercepts from the last 72 hours.
Location matches a property registered under one of Vitale’s shell companies.
There’s a man inside matching your father’s description.
Brown coat. Gray hair. Brought in two days ago.
My hands shake as I read it again and again. Two separate intercepts. A property in Salvatore’s name. A man who looks like my father was brought in two days ago.
My father always wears a brown coat in the Spring.
That detail is the one that made me get in the car. That’s the one I can’t explain away.
Are you sure? I type.
As sure as it gets. My source has been reliable so far—never burned me once. But it’s still risky, Val. Please don’t go alone.
I picture what a federal raid would look like. Chaos. Panic. A stray bullet.
No. I’m going alone.
Val…
They won’t touch me.
A long pause.
I’ll be tracking you. If you go dark, I send everyone.
Understood.
Tomorrow night, everything changes.
* * *
The midnight air is cold against my skin as I slip out through the service entrance. Dark jeans. A black jacket. Running shoes. For the first time in weeks, I feel like myself.
I slide into my car and the radio blares to life, loud enough to make me flinch. Right… I’d left it on after my meeting with Lindsay.
“Geez,” I mutter, quickly turning it down. The last thing I need right now is attention.
I pull out fast, tires rolling over pavement as I put distance between myself and the house. If Salvatore’s watching, and I know he is, every second counts.
I need to get to my father. Fast.
Building four waits exactly where Lindsay said it would. Concrete. Dark. Two cars parked outside.
I park two blocks away and sit in the dark for a moment, hands on the wheel.
Lindsay’s text said two separate intercepts. Said the location was registered under a Vitale shell company. Said the man inside had gray hair and a brown coat, brought in two days ago.
This is insane.
Then I think of my father. His hands on the steering wheel when he used to take the long way home. The way he used to hum without realizing it. The way he always told me to stay calm, even when my heart was racing.
Some fights have to be won.
Hey. I’m going in. I text Lindsay.
The reply comes almost instantly. Please be careful.
I slip my phone into my pocket and move toward the loading dock.
The door is slightly open.
I stop.
A prickle runs up my spine. The kind that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with instinct.
Salvatore is thorough. Obsessively so. His men dress in black every single day. The mansion is spotless. Ordered. Controlled. Nothing out of place. Nothing unfinished. The kingdom runs on precision. There is no gray. No in-between.
A door left ajar doesn’t belong in his world.
My pulse stutters.
This is wrong.
But my father doesn’t have time for hesitation.
I tell myself Salvatore would never hurt me. His men would never touch me. I cling to that belief like a charm pressed between my palms.
I step inside.
Concrete corridors stretch ahead of me. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, sharp and relentless. The air smells like metal and damp and something darker underneath. Something that makes my throat tighten.
Down the stairs.
The voices echo down the corridor—Russian, not Italian. One man shouts. Another laughs.
These aren’t Salvatore’s men.
My stomach drops. Every instinct screams at me to run, but my feet won’t move. I’m frozen, trying to decide—
BANG.
The gunshot tears through the air. My body hits the floor before my mind registers the sound. Concrete slams into my knees, pain shooting up my legs, but I don’t feel it. I can’t feel anything except the ringing in my ears and the word looping in my head:
Papa. Papa. Papa.
I crawl forward on instinct, breath tearing out of me in broken gasps.
The door flies open, and two men step into the light, their guns raised toward me.
A wolf tattoo on the inner arm. Volcov.
Blood drips to the floor, and a body slumps forward, falling out of the chair that sits under the lights.
“Papa.”
The word rips out of me, raw and useless.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a man says. Rough hands grab me from behind, fingers digging into my arms. Another man warns him, “You should let her go. That’s Vitale’s woman.”
The words barely register. They say something in Russian, then one of the men steps forward. Scarred. Smiling.
“Bring that bitch to me.”
He yanks me forward before I can brace myself. I twist, fighting, but his grip only tightens. The stench of him hits me first, sweat and alcohol. His face comes too close, his mouth opening as he tries to lick my face.
I jerk back, fury snapping through me.
“Don’t touch me.”
He laughs and leans in anyway.
So I spit.
It lands square across his cheek.
For a split second, everything freezes.
He smacks me… hard. Pain explodes across my face as his hand connects, the force of it sending me crashing to the ground. My head rings, vision blurring as the concrete rushes up to meet me. The taste of blood floods my mouth.
“What the fuck are you guys doing? You know we don’t want a fucking war with the Vitales,” the first man says, but the other two seem unfazed.
“Fuck this, I’m out of here,” the younger guy says, bolting out.
The room tilts.
I can’t breathe. I can’t scream. I’m panicking, looking for an escape when my eyes land on my father again, lying there lifeless. My chest caves in around the image burned into my mind.
“Papa,” I whisper again, my voice breaking apart as tears spill down my face.
The man walks over and starts dragging the body. I scream. “No, stop! Please!”