[Valentina’s POV]
* Six months later *
Waking up in Montana feels like waking up in a different life. Which technically it is, considering I'm Sarah Brennan now—ranch wife, horse enthusiast, person whose biggest concern is whether the fence needs mending instead of whether my fake death was convincing enough to stop a mob war.
Sunlight cuts across the bed where Dante sleeps beside me, his arm heavy across my waist like even unconscious he's territorial. His breathing is slow and easy, the kind that comes from a man who's finally stopped calculating escape routes in his sleep.
The ranch is quiet except for birds having what sounds like a very passionate disagreement outside the window and horses who've learned that dawn means breakfast and won't let us forget it.
I watch him sleep and think about how close I came to losing this. Those endless seconds after the explosion when the back door never opened. When Marco had to physically restrain me from running toward the flames because apparently my survival instincts take coffee breaks during emergencies.
Then Dante emerged from the smoke thirty seconds later—bleeding, half-deaf, looking like he'd argued with a building and lost spectacularly—and I'd screamed at him for twenty minutes before collapsing into his arms and crying so hard I'm pretty sure I dehydrated myself.
Now he's here. Whole. Alive. Breathing steadily beside me while morning light makes his scar look less "terrifying mob boss" and more "distinguished rancher with interesting past."
I press against him, fitting my body to his. He stirs immediately, arm tightening around my waist.
"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I kiss his jaw, working my way to his mouth. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in years." His hand slides down my hip. "You?"
"Excellent. But you keep snoring, which is pretty annoying, but I guess I can excuse that for now."
He laughs, knowing I’m lying, and then his hand finds bare skin under my shirt and breathing becomes theoretical.
I pull him into me before either of us is fully awake. His mouth finds mine while his hands map familiar territory like he's memorizing it.
"Valentina—" My real name, whispered against my skin.
"Sarah," I correct breathlessly. "We're supposed to be normal people."
"Fuck normal." He pulls my shirt off. "You're Valentina. Always."
His mouth moves to my breast, tongue circling my nipple until it's hard and oversensitive. I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair. His teeth graze the peak and heat shoots straight through my core.
"Dante—"
He switches to my other breast while his hand slides between my thighs. I'm already wet, arousal coating his fingers. He circles my clit with his thumb while two fingers slide inside.
The stretch makes me gasp. He curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes my vision blur.
"So wet already," he murmurs. "Always so perfect."
He works me with practiced precision—fingers pumping, thumb circling, mouth on my breast. Pressure coils tight in my belly. My hips roll to meet his hand.
I'm getting close, thighs shaking, inner walls fluttering. He increases his pace.
"Come for me, bella."
The orgasm hits in waves—gentle but deep. My body pulses around his fingers while pleasure spreads through me like warmth.
Before I recover, he's positioned between my thighs, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I'm still sensitive, still pulsing from the first orgasm when he pushes inside.
We both groan at the sensation—him from the tight, wet heat; me from the stretch and fullness that feels like coming home. He fills me completely, buried to the hilt, and we stay like that for a moment. Just breathing, just being.
Then he starts to move. Slow, deep thrusts that make me feel every inch of him. Nothing urgent, nothing desperate. Just us, making love in sheets that smell like home instead of hotels and escape plans.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper with each thrust. His mouth finds mine, kissing me while he moves inside me. Laughing between kisses when our noses bump, when his elbow hits the headboard, when we remember that sex doesn't have to be perfect to be perfect.
"I love you," I whisper against his mouth.
"Ti amo, bella." He kisses me deeper, thrusts getting slightly harder. "Always."
The second orgasm builds slowly—a gradual climb instead of a sudden peak. My inner walls start fluttering around him, muscles tensing. He reaches between us, finding my clit and circling with just enough pressure.
"Come with me," he breathes. "Together."
His rhythm falters, getting less controlled, and I can feel him getting close. The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot and his thumb on my clit sends me over the edge. I come with his name on my lips, inner walls clenching rhythmically around him.
He follows immediately, burying himself deep with a groan that's half prayer, half curse. I feel him pulse inside me, the warmth of his release, and we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and satisfied exhaustion.
Afterwards, I lie with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine.
Then I think about Mama. About her believing I'm dead. Grieving me. Maybe visiting an empty grave with flowers.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, a bruise that never quite heals. But she's healthy. Alive. The money I earned paid for treatment that worked. She gets to plant tomatoes and adopt cats and complain about Mrs. Walker.
That has to be enough.
"Coffee?" I ask.
"Please." He kisses my temple. "And then breakfast. The horses are probably plotting rebellion."
I slide out of bed, pulling on his shirt. Three steps toward the kitchen and the room tilts sideways.
I grab the doorframe, waiting for the dizziness to pass. My stomach does something complicated.
"You okay?" Dante's voice carries concern.
"Fine. Just stood up too fast." The lie comes easily. The nausea hitting every morning for two weeks. The exhaustion. The way coffee suddenly smells wrong.
I haven't said anything because "Hey, I might be pregnant" seems like a conversation requiring more preparation.
A knock at the front door freezes us both.
We never have visitors. Ever. That's literally the point of Montana—isolation, anonymity, absolutely zero unexpected guests showing up at dawn.
"Stay here." Dante's already pulling on jeans, voice shifting to that cold calculation I haven't heard in months. Don Falcone making an appearance despite the flannel and horses.
"Like hell." I grab the robe from the bathroom. "If someone found us, I'm not hiding in the bedroom."
He doesn't argue, just moves toward the stairs with me following. The knock comes again—polite, patient, the kind that says whoever's out there isn't leaving until we answer.
Dante opens the door and goes completely still.
I move to his side and my stomach drops.
Marco stands on our porch. Behind him, two men in black suits, hands hovering near concealed weapons. The morning sun makes their expressions perfectly clear—this isn't a social call.
Marco's face holds an expression I've seen twice before. Once at a chapel five years ago when he explained the wedding wasn't happening. Once in a main hall when he stood accused of betrayal with a gun to his head.
His eyes meet mine and I see it—genuine regret mixed with resignation. The look of someone who knows exactly how badly this is about to go and can't stop it.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Truly. But my hands are tied."