[Valentina’s POV]
Dinner is a mistake. I know this the moment I accept the third glass of wine—or is it the fourth? Math becomes negotiable after a certain blood alcohol level. The staff dining room is empty except for me and a bottle.
The wine is good. Expensive. I'm drinking my feelings, which is both cliché and extremely effective. Three days since Dante left me trembling in his study. Three days of my body staging a rebellion against my brain's "hate this man" policy. I pour another glass because tonight we're throwing caution into a volcano.
The hallway spins slightly when I stand. Not drunk—just pleasantly detached from consequences. The wine has given me liquid courage, which is regular courage with worse decision-making. His door is closed. I don't knock. I push it open and march inside.
Dante looks up from his desk, expression shifting to something darker. "Valentina—"
"Why?" The word echoes. "Why did you leave me at that altar?"
He stands. "This isn't the time—"
"Then when is the time? Five years of wondering what I did wrong."
His jaw tightens. "Valentina—"
"And why buy me now? Of all the women at that auction, why me? Was it convenient? The girl I destroyed—let's ruin her life again?"
"Stop." His voice drops to that dangerous register.
"No. I'm done with cryptic non-answers. I'm here, thanks to you. So I deserve the truth." He moves around the desk. I should retreat but wine has convinced me I'm invincible.
"Some things are better left buried."
"That's not good enough—"
"You deserve a lot of things I cannot give you." He stops close—too close—and the scent of his cologne mixed with wine makes my head spin. "But answers aren't one of them." Then he walks away, leaving me staring at empty space, fury and frustration swirling. I don’t follow him.
An hour later, I'm in the wine cellar retrieving bottles because Enzo asked and I needed distraction. The cellar is cool, dim, stone walls and wooden racks. I'm reaching for a high shelf bottle when the door opens. I know it's him before I turn. The air shifts, tension making my skin prickle.
"Dante—" He doesn't speak. Just crosses the space and crowds me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other catching my hip.
Then he kisses me. Hard. Demanding.
An answer that's not an answer, a distraction I should refuse except my traitorous body has other ideas. I gasp against his mouth and he takes advantage, tongue sliding past my lips, tasting wine and fury and five years of unresolved everything.
His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me flush against him. I can feel every inch of him—solid muscle and controlled violence and the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my stomach.
Heat floods through me, pooling low between my thighs. My nipples tighten into hard points, suddenly sensitive against my uniform.
"This isn't—" I try to speak but he kisses me harder, stealing words and breath. His hand slides under my uniform, finding bare skin, fingers trailing up my ribs. I arch into the touch, hating myself for it, hating how much I want this, hating the wetness dampening my underwear.
My body is a traitor, responding to every touch like it's been starved. I reach for him, but he catches both my wrists and pins them above my head.
"Not yet." His voice is rough, lips brushing my ear. "You haven't earned it."
"Earned it?" I try to sound outraged but it comes out breathless. "You arrogant—" He drops to his knees.
His hands push my skirt up, sliding up my thighs. The cool air hits my heated skin and I shiver, goosebumps erupting across my flesh. My pulse pounds everywhere he might touch.
"What are you—" The question dies when he hooks my underwear aside and presses his mouth against me. The first touch of his tongue makes my knees buckle. Only his grip on my hips keeps me upright. Heat explodes through my core, nerve endings firing like fireworks.
I'm already wet—embarrassingly so—slick arousal coating my inner thighs. He explores with methodical precision, learning exactly what makes me gasp, what makes my thighs shake, what makes desperate sounds escape my throat.
His tongue flattens against me, licking a long stripe that makes my vision blur, then circles my clit with just enough pressure to make me see stars. Blood rushes to every point of contact, swelling and sensitizing.
I can feel my pulse beating against his tongue, can feel myself getting wetter with each pass of his mouth.
"Please—" The word slips out, and I feel him smile against me. One hand slides up, fingers finding where he's been torturing me. He pushes two inside while his tongue continues, and the combination makes my vision blur.
I'm so wet his fingers slide in easily, the stretch both relief and torment. My inner walls clench around the intrusion, muscles fluttering and tightening involuntarily. He curls them slightly, finding that spot that makes electricity shoot up my spine, makes my thighs tremble against his shoulders.
I'm trembling, completely coming apart while Dante takes me apart with clinical efficiency. The pressure builds, coiling tighter low in my belly. My clit throbs under his tongue, swollen and oversensitive. I can feel the orgasm building—that tight, almost painful tension that promises to shatter me completely.
My breathing comes in short gasps, heart hammering. Heat spreads through my body like wildfire. I'm right there, right on the edge, muscles tensing, inner walls starting to flutter in that telltale rhythm—
He stops. Pulls away, standing and straightening his jacket like we're discussing weather.
"Why do you keep doing this?" My voice shakes. "Is this some kind of sick game?"
He looks at me, expression unreadable, adjusting his cuffs. "When you stop asking questions you're not ready to hear the answers to, maybe I'll let you finish."
Then he walks away. Again. Leaves me wrecked and furious and trembling. I slide down the wall onto the floor, trying to piece together what's left of my dignity.
That night, lying in bed, I need to hear something real. Something uncomplicated in this house of smoke and mirrors. I grab my burner phone and call the hospital. Mama answers on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mama." My voice cracks. "How are you?"
"Oh, tesoro! The nurses here are driving me crazy. There's one—Brenda—who checks my vitals at three in the morning. And the food!" She launches into a complaint that would make Gordon Ramsay weep. I laugh. Actually laugh, for the first time in days.
"And the woman in the next room snores like a freight train," Mama continues. "I asked if they could move me but 'annoying roommate' isn't a valid medical reason."
"Sounds terrible," I say, still smiling.
"It's wonderful." Her tone softens. "I'm alive, figlia. I'm getting better. That's what matters." Something in my chest cracks open. Reminding me why I'm here. Why I'm enduring this. Because she's alive. She's complaining about nurses and snoring roommates, and that means the treatment is working.
"I love you, Mama."
"I love you too. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just long days." The lie comes easily. We talk for another ten minutes—normal things, safe things.
When I hang up, I remember: this is why. Not for Dante's games or the confusing heat. For her. For these phone calls. For the sound of her laugh and the knowledge that she'll be around for years to come. That's worth enduring anything. Even this.