Valentina #2
The bunker holds its breath. The weight of what I am offering presses against every surface—the missing piece to their revenge, the sharpest blade they have ever held against the Bellanti throat.
"And your price?" Dominic asks softly.
"Absolute protection," I demand. "Eradication of the men hunting me. When the dust settles, my daughter and I walk away clean. Untouchable."
An older man steps out from the shadows near the door. Silver hair, a weathered face, kind eyes hiding decades of hard miles. He wears a dark suit, his hands clasped behind his back.
I know him from the old surveillance packets, too.
Turi. Carlo Costa’s oldest friend. The elder who helped raise these massive, violent men after the massacre. The silent sentry of the Costa compound.
“Get her a whiteboard,” Dominic orders.
Then his eyes cut to Giovanni.
“She’s yours until I say otherwise. She doesn’t leave this room, not for water, not for air, not for a single step down the hall, unless you’re beside her.”
The tension breaks. The room shifts into tactical motion.
Enzo pulls up a new secure server partition on the main screen.
Dante moves toward the door, taking position where he can watch both me and the hall.
Matteo turns back to the kitchen stairs, probably to ensure the compound perimeter is locked down tight.
I let out a slow, controlled breath through my nose. I survived the pitch. Now I have to deliver.
I reach into my leather jacket, pulling out a set of dry-erase markers I stole from a supply closet on my way here.
I uncap the black one, turning toward the blank glass board mounted on the far wall.
The muscle memory of the ledgers is already organizing itself in my mind.
Columns, dates, shipment weights, offshore routing numbers.
I prepare to dump three years of nightmare into a clean, precise grid.
A massive, tattooed arm plants itself against the glass board, blocking my path.
I turn my head. He is too close.
Giovanni Costa looms over me. The size of him is staggering up close. He is built like a tank, muscle layered over muscle. The black tank top dips low enough to show dark hair on his chest, right where the gold chain rests. The gunmetal and cedar scent wraps around me, intoxicating and dangerous.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes.
"You think you can just march in here, deliver a speech, and start drawing pictures on our walls?" he asks. His voice is rough.
"Yes," I say, keeping my voice flat. I refuse to step back. I refuse to give him an inch of ground. "That’s precisely what I intend to do. Move your arm."
He grins. The predator showing its teeth. "Dominic might buy the desperate mother routine. Matteo might appreciate the tactical advantage. But I look at you, and I see a bomb wrapped in a very tight, very distracting package. I don't trust a single word coming out of that pretty mouth."
"I’m completely devastated by your lack of faith," I say, dripping with sarcasm. "Now, if you’re done displaying your territorial aggression, I have a war to end."
He leans in closer. His chest brushes the arm of my leather jacket. The heat radiating off him is absurd. He runs on testosterone and instinct. A beast masking himself in a joke.
"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart," he murmurs, the possessive edge in his tone making my chest tight. "Dominic just made me your shadow. You’re confined to this war room. You don't eat, sleep, or breathe without my permission. You’re my responsibility now."
I blink. I look over my shoulder. Dominic is already moving toward the door, issuing quiet orders into the room. Enzo is deep in his laptop. Dante watches the hall. I’m not alone.
But with Giovanni this close, it feels like the rest of the war room has fallen away.
I turn back to Giovanni. I meet his dark, obsessive stare.
I see what he is doing. He wants to dominate the space.
He wants to prove he is in control. But I have spent my life controlling my own pain, shaping it into perfection.
A chaotic, overgrown mafia enforcer is not going to break my discipline.
"Fine," I say sharply. I reach out and forcefully shove his massive forearm off the glass board. It is like trying to move a steel beam, but he lets his arm drop, amused by the attempt. "But let's get one thing straight, Mr. Costa. I’m not here to play games with you. I’m not impressed by the tattoos, or the brooding, or the scent of gunmetal and cedar. I’m here for my daughter.
I will write these ledgers on this board.
You will stand there, keep quiet, and try to keep up. "
He chuckles again. He steps back, crossing his arms, his gaze tracking my every move. "Go ahead, ballerina. Show me what you've got."
I uncap the marker. I press the tip to the glass. I begin to write.
The current dock signatures belong to Damiano Greco.
Not a boss. Not blood. Worse. A loyal knife with enough access to move weapons, money, and bodies without making my father touch the paperwork.
I write fast, my handwriting sharp and angular.
The tactical board begins to fill with the lifeblood of the empire.
Behind me, I can hear Giovanni shift his weight. I can feel his stare burning a hole through my spine. It is a physical pressure, a constant reminder that I am locked in a room with an apex predator who has already decided I belong to him.
"The transit hub in the West Loop," I say aloud as I write the next column. “Managed by a man named Romano. Compromised by a Bellanti enforcer named Damiano Greco for somewhere between forty and forty-five thousand dollars in gambling debt. The ledgers pass through there every Tuesday at midnight."
Enzo's head snaps up from his laptop. "How the hell do you know about Romano?"
"I know everything," I reply, not stopping my writing. "The data packets are disguised as municipal transit updates. Greco’s courier picks up the flash drive, brings it to the river warehouses, and uses the shipment logs to trigger the offshore transfers."
Giovanni moves closer again. I don't need to look to know where he is. I can feel the heat of his body at my back.
"You've been holding onto this for three years?" Giovanni asks, his voice dropping an octave, brushing against my ear.
"I waited for the right moment," I say, forcing my hand to stay steady as I write out the bank routing numbers.
"Information is only valuable if it guarantees my survival.
Bringing this to you without a reason would have gotten me killed.
Bringing this to you when they threatened Bella guarantees you will use it immediately. "
"Calculated," he murmurs. The scent of cedar washes over me. "Cold. Ruthless. I like it."
I cap the marker. I turn around. He is inches away, standing his ground with an immovable posture. His size dominates the space, commanding my attention without physically blocking my exit. It is just him, his dark eyes, and the gold chain resting on his chest.
"I’m not trying to impress you," I say, my voice a quiet, dangerous hiss. "I’m trying to survive you."
"Good luck with that," he replies, the grin returning. He leans down, his mouth hovering just above mine. The sudden proximity is a physical shock to my system. Every nerve ending in my body screams at me to step back, to run, but there is nowhere to go. My back is flat against the glass.
"I don't need luck," I say, locking my knees to keep from trembling. "I have leverage. Now back up."
He doesn't move for three agonizing seconds. He just breathes me in, his eyes darkening to pitch black. Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back.
"Get comfortable, Valentina," Giovanni says, his voice rough, scraping against the walls of the bunker. "We have a lot of work to do. And you aren't leaving my sight."
I turn back to the board, my heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs.
The shape of my life just shifted. I have walked into the Costa compound hoping to trade secrets for a shield.
I did not expect the shield to be a wild, chaotic beast who looks at me like I’m the only thing he has ever wanted to devour.
I pull the cap off a red marker. I start mapping the patrol routes of the south side warehouses.
The war is grinding harder. The next push is coming.
My daughter is safe in Pilsen for now, but the clock is ticking.
I have to tear the Bellanti family down to the studs, and I have to do it while surviving the suffocating, terrifying attention of Giovanni Costa.
The steel door remains locked. The hum of the tactical screens fills the silence. I am trapped behind enemy lines, working with the monsters to kill the devils.
I press the red marker to the glass. I trace the line of the river.
Let them burn.
Behind me, Giovanni pulls a chair back from the mahogany table, the legs scraping harshly against the concrete floor. He sits down backward, straddling the seat, crossing his massive arms over the backrest. He doesn't look at the screens. He doesn't look at the maps. He looks at me.
"Keep going, ballerina," he orders, his tone possessive, raw, and unapologetic. "Draw me a map to the men who threatened what's yours. Then I'm going to kill every single one of them."
“Start with Greco.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. I focus on the glass. I write the next name.
Damiano Greco.
I circle it in red.
I am in control. I have to be in control.
But as I draw the next line, feeling his stare track the movement of my hips, the shape of my shoulders, the tight bun pinning my dark hair back, I know the truth.
I just handed the keys to my survival to a wild card. And he has absolutely no intention of ever letting me go.
Continue reading Chaos of the Mafia Rogue.