Last night keeps replaying. His mouth on mine. My back against his desk. The way he pulled away and said some truths are dangerous.
I've spent the morning pretending to dust while my brain runs on a hamster wheel of frustration. I'm done waiting for Dante to decide when I'm "ready" for truth. Like I'm some delicate flower that'll wilt under reality.
Newsflash: I walked through rain in a wedding dress. I sold myself at an auction. The delicate flower ship has sailed and sunk.
That afternoon, I watch from a window as Dante leaves. Three cars pull up—full mafia convoy treatment. I catch glimpses of Lorenzo, the ambitious captain who collects grudges like stamps. The tension is thick enough to bottle.
The moment the last car disappears, I'm moving. His study door is unlocked. The desk drawer isn't.
I pull two bobby pins from my hair. This is a skill I acquired at fourteen when Mama lost her keys constantly. The lock clicks open after thirty seconds.
Inside: papers with numbers that make my head hurt, ledgers I don't want to know about, and a gun I very deliberately don't touch.
Then my fingers brush something different. Paper. Old paper. I pull it out carefully—yellowed with age, creased from being folded and unfolded too many times, formal script that screams "official mafia correspondence."
My hands shake as I unfold it. The language is cold. Clinical. Like someone's writing a grocery list instead of describing murder.
Regarding the matter of Dante Romano and Valentina Moretti:
I see that you found yourself someone who made you forgot who we are and what we do. You’re getting too attached and sentimental for some broad. And it’s making you weak and distracted. Which we can’t have. So either you do something about it, or I will. Here’s how:
Then it gets worse. So much worse.
Detailed descriptions of exactly what will happen to me and Mama if Dante doesn't comply. How we'll die. How slowly. How they'll make it hurt. How no one will ever find the bodies. The specific methods are clinical, precise, like someone's drafted a business proposal for torture.
My stomach turns. The words blur. I have to read it three times before my brain accepts what I'm seeing.
At the bottom: the old don's seal, I assume. Official. Binding. A death sentence wrapped in formal correspondence.
I slide down to the floor, legs giving out. The letter stays in my lap because I can't seem to let go. Can't seem to process that this existed. That Dante carried this for five years. That he chose this—chose my hatred over my death—and never said a word.
Time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The study grows darker as the sun shifts. I don't move. Just sit there with proof that everything I believed for five years was wrong.
He wasn't a coward who threw me away. He was protecting me from this. From detailed descriptions of how I'd be carved up and disappeared if he didn't walk away.
The door opens. I don't look up. Don't need to. I can feel him there—the shift in air pressure, the sudden tension that fills the room like smoke.
"Valentina." His voice is careful. Controlled. Then he sees what I'm holding and all that control shatters. His face goes white. Actually white, like someone's drained all the blood out. "Where did you—how did you—"
"You taught me to pick locks." The lie comes out flat. Empty. "Metaphorically speaking. You taught me that the people I trust will destroy me in creative ways. So I applied that lesson to your desk drawer. Surprise."
He crosses the room slowly, like I'm a bomb he's trying to defuse. Kneels in front of me, but doesn't reach for the letter. Just stares at it like it's a ghost he thought he'd buried.
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cracks despite efforts to sound strong. "Why did you let me spend five years believing you were a coward? That you threw me away like I was nothing?"
"Because knowing put you in danger." His jaw tightens. "Knowing meant you'd ask questions. Try to fight back. Make yourself a target. Better you hate me and stay alive than love me and end up exactly where that letter describes."
"Better?" The word comes out sharp enough to draw blood. "You think it was better? I spent five years believing I wasn't enough. That I did something wrong. That the man I loved looked at me one day and decided I was disposable."
"I know." Something in his expression cracks. "I know what I did to you. But you're alive. Your mother's alive. That letter—those weren't empty threats, Valentina. He would have done it. Every word. Slowly. While I watched."
"He's dead now." I gesture at the signature. "He can’t reach you. You took his name. His power. Why didn't you come back? Why didn't you explain?"
"Because by the time I had the power to protect you, you'd built a life without me." His voice drops. "You'd survived. Moved on. Coming back would've just opened old wounds for my own selfish reasons."
"So buying me at an auction was what? Altruism?" The sarcasm is armor I'm not ready to remove.
"Protection." The word is quiet but firm. "When I heard you'd entered that auction, I made sure no other family could win you. Made sure you ended up somewhere safe. Here. With me."
"Safe." I laugh, and it sounds broken. "You call this safe? You tie me up. Leave me wanting. Play games with my head. That's your version of protection?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No apology. "Because wanting me, hating me, being furious with me—all of that keeps you here. Keeps you under my protection. If you loved me again, if I let you in completely, you'd become a target. Again. And I can't—" His voice breaks. "I won't watch that happen."
The letter crumples in my hands. Five years of anger, of hurt, of believing I was disposable—all of it collapsing under the weight of truth I wasn't ready to carry.
"I hated you." The words come out wet. "I hated you so much. Every day. Every single day for five years, I hated you."
"Good." He reaches up, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling. "Hate keeps you safe. Hate keeps you angry enough to survive. I can live with your hatred if it means you live."
I stand on shaking legs. He rises with me, watching like I might bolt. Instead, I cross the space between us and kiss him.
Not angry this time. Not desperate or furious or trying to prove anything.
Just broken open. Raw. Honest.
He kisses me back like he's been holding his breath for five years and finally remembered how to exhale. His hands frame my face, gentle in a way that makes my chest hurt. Like I'm something precious he's terrified of breaking further.
When we finally pull apart, I'm crying and he's got that expression—the one that suggests he's calculating sixty different ways to fix something that can't be fixed with strategy or violence.
And then he lifts me up in, letting me hook my legs around his waist.