[Valentina’s POV]
Waking up in Dante's bed feels like waking up in an alternate universe where thread count is a personality trait and morning light costs extra.
Sunlight cuts across Egyptian cotton sheets—still criminally soft—and Dante's arm is heavy across my waist. Possessive even in sleep, which tracks.
He's actually asleep, not pretending to calculate profit margins behind closed eyelids. His face is relaxed, softer without the ice that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. Even the scar over his eye doesn’t look that menacing right now.
He looks almost like the man I fell in love with five years ago. Before scars and power turned him into the boss who makes people disappear.
With his guard down, I can see traces of the enforcer who promised to leave the business. Who smiled at me like I was sunlight breaking through his dark world.
My chest aches looking at him. The complicated kind that comes with realizing you've been hating someone for destroying you when really he was trying to save you.
Then my thoughts drift to Mama. She's in a hospital bed getting treatment that's working, growing stronger. She has no idea where the money came from. No idea her daughter sold herself at an auction. No idea I'm currently naked in the boss's bed after the kind of night that would give her an actual heart attack.
The guilt sits on my chest like a cat that refuses to move. I need to see her. Need to remember why I'm here.
Dante stirs. His arm tightens around my waist before his eyes open—dark and already calculating. It's like watching a computer boot up.
"Morning," I say. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in years." His voice is rough with sleep. "You?"
"Your sheets are still obscenely soft. I maintain my complaint." I shift to look at him. "I need to ask you something."
His expression shifts to guarded. "That sounds ominous."
"Can I visit my mother today? At the hospital?" The words rush out. "I know I'm supposed to stay here, follow rules. But I need to see her. Make sure the treatment is actually working."
He studies me, calculating, probably running through scenarios where this ends badly. Finally, he nods. "Marco will drive you. Hospital only. You come straight back."
"Deal." Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His thumb traces circles on my hip. "Marco's instructions are to bring you back if you deviate. Even if he has to carry you."
"Noted. I'll behave." I pause. "Relatively speaking."
His lips curve. "That's what concerns me."
* * *
The car ride with Marco is quiet in that comfortable way that suggests we've moved past awkward into mutual tolerance based on shared trauma.
Marco drives with intense focus. The city blurs past—normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that organized crime exists just beyond their peripheral vision.
"Your mother's doing well," Marco says suddenly, breaking the silence. "The doctors are optimistic. Treatment's working better than expected. They're talking about discharge within the month."
My heart does something complicated. Relief mixed with guilt mixed with joy mixed with the persistent anxiety that follows me like a shadow with abandonment issues. "Really? They said that?"
"Called them this morning to check. Figured you'd want to know." He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "She's responding well to chemotherapy. Prognosis is good."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "For checking. For telling me. For not being a complete asshole about this whole situation."
He almost smiles. "Low bar, but I'll take it."
At the hospital, I navigate sterile hallways that smell like disinfectant and broken hopes. Room 302. Mama's awake, sitting up in bed, looking stronger than the last time I saw her. Color in her cheeks. Life in her eyes. Not the gray, fading version who collapsed on our apartment floor.
"Valentina!" Her face lights up. "They wouldn't tell me when you were coming. I've been waiting all morning."
"Sorry, Mama." I kiss her cheek, settling into the chair beside her bed. "Work's been crazy. How are you feeling?"
"Better. So much better." She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. "The treatment is working, tesoro. I can feel it. My energy is coming back. I'm not so tired all the time." Her eyes are bright, animated in a way I haven't seen in months.
"And I've been planning. When I get out, I want to plant tomatoes again. Real ones, not those sad grocery store impostors. And Mrs. Walker from next door—you remember her?—she says she'll help me rebuild the garden bed."
I laugh, relief washing over me. "You're already planning gardening projects. That's how I know you're feeling better."
"Of course I am. I have things to live for now." She studies my face. "But you. You look different. Tired but also... I don't know. Something's changed." Her eyes sharpen with maternal X-ray vision. "Where are you working that pays for all this?"
The lie tastes like copper and poor decisions. "I found something. Live-in work. The hours are long but the pay is really good. Benefits are excellent." I pause. "Everything's fine, Mama. I promise."
She studies me with that maternal X-ray vision that sees through bullshit like glass. But she doesn't push. Just reaches for my hand, squeezing it. "As long as you're safe and happy, tesoro. That's all I care about."
Safe. Happy. Two words that have lost all meaning in my current reality. But I smile and nod because what else can I do? Tell her I'm sleeping with the mob boss who left me at the altar five years ago? That I sold myself at an auction? That happiness is currently on backorder with no estimated delivery date?
We talk for two hours. Normal things. Safe things. Her garden plans. Mrs. Walker’s cat drama. All the mundane, beautiful topics that mean she's alive and well enough to care about tomatoes and neighbors.
When I finally leave, my chest feels lighter and heavier simultaneously. She's getting better. That's what matters. Everything else is just noise.
The drive back starts quiet. Then I notice Marco checking the mirrors more than seems normal for someone who isn't actively fleeing a crime scene.
"Everything okay?" I lean forward slightly. "You're very focused on what's behind us."
He hesitates, jaw tightening. "Just being cautious."
"Marco. What's wrong?"
Another pause. Then: "Some of the captains have been restless lately. Nothing the boss can't handle, but tensions are higher than usual."
"Which captains?"
"Lorenzo mostly." The name comes out carefully. "He's ambitious. Always watching for opportunity. Collects grudges like other people collect stamps or reasonable hobbies."
"Should I be worried?"
"Dante has him handled." Marco's tone is confident but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "The boss doesn't let threats grow into problems. He cuts them off before they can spread."
I file Lorenzo's name away in the mental folder labeled "People Who Might Try to Kill Me Later" and watch the city blur past. Normal people. Normal problems. Meanwhile, I'm learning about ambitious captains and collecting grudges and wondering if this is just Tuesday in the mafia world.
"Thanks for telling me," I say quietly.
Marco meets my eyes in the mirror. "You should know what you're walking into. Even if the boss wants to protect you from it."
The rest of the drive passes in silence. But now I'm thinking about Lorenzo. About restless captains. About what happens when ambitious men decide they want power badly enough to take it.
About whether Dante really has everything handled.
Or whether we're all just pretending until something breaks.