[Valentina’s POV]
The night before your fake execution has a very specific energy—like contemplating whether thirty seconds is enough time to escape a building rigged to explode, or if you're about to become the world's most elaborate suicide pact with extra steps.
The burner phone sits on the bed. One last call before Valentina Moretti dies and becomes Sarah Brennan, ranch wife, person who definitely doesn't have mob ties.
I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
"Valentina! I was just meaning to call. The most wonderful thing happened—my tomatoes are actually producing! Real, big ones, like back in Italy!"
I laugh despite the tears forming. "That's amazing, Mama. Tell me everything."
"Three beautiful red ones so far, and more coming. I'm planning a whole salad—fresh basil from Mrs. Walker's garden, that good mozzarella from the Italian market." Her excitement is infectious.
"And you'll never believe what else. Mrs. Walker's cat has been visiting. Just sits in my garden like he owns the place, judging my planting techniques."
"Cats are excellent at judgment. It's basically their primary skill after napping."
"I'm thinking about getting one of my own when I'm fully recovered. Something to keep me company, you know? The neighbor says there's a shelter with the sweetest orange tabby who needs a home."
She pauses, that familiar little sigh before changing subjects. "But enough about cats and vegetables. How are you, tesoro? You sound tired."
I close my eyes, memorizing this. The exact pitch of her voice when she worries. The way she emphasizes tesoro like the word itself is a hug. The rhythm of her breathing between sentences.
"I'm okay, Mama. Just a long week."
"You work too hard. But I'm so grateful for you, figlia mia. You saved my life. I get to plant tomatoes and adopt judgmental cats and complain about Mrs. Walker's gossiping. That's everything."
My throat tightens painfully. "I love you, Mama."
"I love you too. Always." Her voice softens. "Are you sure you're alright? You sound different tonight."
"Just tired. But I'm good. Really."
We talk for another twenty minutes—garden plans and neighborhood drama and whether the orange tabby would get along with Mrs. Walker's cat. Beautiful, mundane topics that mean she's alive and planning a future that includes me visiting for dinner. Except I won't be visiting. Ever again.
When we finally say goodbye, I sit holding the dead phone while tears track down my cheeks. Tomorrow my mother will think I'm dead. She'll mourn me. Visit an empty grave with flowers. And I'll be in Montana pretending to be Sarah Brennan while she grieves alone.
I find Dante in his study an hour later. He's sitting in his chair but not working—just staring at nothing, shoulders tense.
"Are you ready?" I ask from the doorway.
His eyes find mine. "I've been ready for years, bella. This is just the final move in a very long game."
I cross to him, settling onto his lap. His arms wrap around me automatically. "Are you scared?"
"Only of losing you." His voice is rough, honest. "The rest—Lorenzo, the fire, the escape—that's just logistics. Strategy. But losing you? That's the only outcome I can't calculate my way around."
"You're not losing me." I cup his face. "We're doing this together. Thirty seconds, remember? We've survived worse on less time."
"Have we?" His smile is sharp, dangerous. "Because I'm pretty sure this is new territory for 'catastrophically stupid plans we're committing to anyway.'"
"At least we're consistent." I kiss him before he can argue—deep, desperate. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. "Take me to bed."
"Demanding tonight, amore."
"We're staging our deaths tomorrow. I'm allowed to be demanding about our last night as living people with working identities."
He carries me to his bedroom. When we reach the bed, he sets me down carefully, like I'm something precious. Then his mouth finds mine again and careful disappears entirely.
His hands work my clothes off slowly—each piece removed like unwrapping something he's trying to memorize. When I'm naked beneath him, he pulls back to look at me.
"Bellissima," he murmurs, then lowers his head to my breast.
His mouth closes around my nipple and I gasp. He works the sensitive peak with his tongue—circling, sucking, making me arch into him. His hand finds my other breast, thumb brushing the nipple.
"Dante—" His name comes out broken.
He takes his time, building heat. My nipples are hard, oversensitive. I'm getting wet, arousal pooling between my thighs.
His hand trails down my stomach. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. "Tell me what you want, Bella."
"You. Just you. Everything."
He strips quickly, then settles between my thighs. The first touch of his tongue makes my vision blur. He explores slowly, tongue flattening against me before circling my clit.
I'm getting wetter with each pass. He slides two fingers inside. The stretch is perfect. My inner walls clench around the intrusion as he curves his fingers to find that spot.
The pressure builds steadily. My clit throbs under his tongue. "Please—"
He increases his pace, fingers pumping while his tongue works. When the orgasm hits, it rolls through me in waves. My inner walls clench rhythmically, pulsing.
Before I recover, he's positioned at my entrance. When he pushes inside, the stretch makes me gasp. He fills me completely. He starts moving—slow, deep thrusts.
"Slower," I breathe. "Like we have forever."
He adjusts his rhythm, each thrust deliberate. Like we're memorizing this—the exact way our bodies fit together. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together.
Another orgasm builds slowly, deeper than the first. My inner walls start fluttering. He maintains the same steady pace.
"I love you," I whisper against his shoulder. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I need you to know that."
"Ti amo, bella." He kisses me softly, still moving with that maddening slowness. "Always."
The orgasm builds gradually, pleasure spreading like warmth through my entire body. When it crests, it's softer, deeper, rolling through me in gentle waves. My inner walls pulse around him, drawing him deeper.
He follows moments later, burying himself deep with a quiet groan. I feel him come inside me, the warmth and pulse of his release.
Afterwards, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. His hand traces patterns on my skin—lazy circles on my hip, fingers trailing up my spine.
"Tell me about the ranch," I murmur. "What it looks like."
"Mountains in the distance. Open sky. Horses that need feeding every morning." His voice is quiet, almost dreaming. "Nothing complicated. Nothing dangerous. Just us."
"Sounds boring."
"Si." He presses his lips to my temple. "Perfectly, wonderfully boring. The most exciting thing will be whether the tomatoes are ripe."
I smile against his chest, memorizing this moment—the weight of his arm across my waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his skin against mine.
We don't sleep for a long time. Just hold each other in the dark, pretending tomorrow isn't coming. Pretending thirty seconds is enough. Pretending this isn't the last night we'll spend as Dante and Valentina.
When sleep finally comes, it's with his arms tight around me and my face buried against his shoulder. Like if we hold on hard enough, maybe time will stop. Maybe tomorrow won't come. Maybe this won't be the last time after all.
But we both know it will be.