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VALENTINA

T he priest’s voice echoes through the misty air, his low, sonorous words mingling with the soft rustle of wind through the cemetery’s ancient oaks. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord…”

My father’s name follows, hollow and unearned. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, my lips pressed into a thin line to keep from shaking.

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

I want to remember him as the man he was before the casinos, the whiskey, the bets placed on a reckless whim.

Before he drained everything we had and left me clawing to survive.

But all I can see now is the wreckage he left behind—a lifetime of sacrifices gambled away and a daughter left standing in the rain, burying him in debt as much as dirt.

The ache in my chest twists tighter when I glance at my mother. She clutches her rosary with trembling hands, her shoulders hunched and fragile beneath the slick black fabric of her coat. She hasn’t said a word all morning, just cried silent, endless tears.

Beside her, my best friend Sofia places a steadying hand on her arm. Her sharp brown eyes meet mine, softening in quiet solidarity, and I look away before I break completely.

The priest drones on. His words blur into a background hum, muted by the weight of my thoughts. How will we survive now? The rent is overdue, my job at the gallery barely covers groceries, and my father’s debts—so many debts—are more than I could ever repay.

And then there’s the biggest question of all: who killed him?

I’ll never forget the call that shattered everything. A cold voice informing me that Antonio Russo was dead, found in an alley with no wallet, no watch—just his blood pooling beneath him. The cops chalked it up to a robbery gone wrong, but I know better. My father had enemies.

In particular, a few weeks before his death, he summoned me and spoke of one, even showed me his picture.

I swallow hard, blinking away the sting of tears as the casket is lowered into the ground.

And then I feel it—a presence, sharp and invasive, slicing through the fog of grief like a blade. It’s pure instinct that tells me something dangerous is lurking nearby.

My pulse quickens as I lift my head, scanning the crowd until I see them.

Two men, standing apart from the mourners.

They’re dressed impeccably in tailored black suits, the cut expensive, but subtly so.

Their postures are too straight, too still, their sharp eyes scanning the gathered mourners with a precision that sets my teeth on edge.

They don’t belong here. From the looks on their faces, they’re not here to pay respects to the dead. If anything, they look like they mean business .

A chill races down my spine. My father’s debts. Are they here to collect?

I glance at my mother, still lost in prayer, then at Sofia, who is too busy murmuring soft reassurances to notice. Heart pounding, I step away from the group and walk toward the men.

“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the icy knot twisting in my stomach. “This is a private funeral. You need to leave.”

The taller one smirks, his gaze sliding over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. He doesn’t move. The shorter man glances past me, his hand brushing the breast pocket of his jacket.

A weapon. The realization sets my nerves on fire, but I square my shoulders, forcing myself to stand taller.

“You heard me,” I say, my tone firmer now. “Go.”

The taller man exchanges a glance with his partner. A silent conversation passes between them. Then, to my surprise, they comply. They step back in unison, retreating toward a sleek black sedan parked at the edge of the cemetery.

I exhale, relief mingling with confusion. But just as I turn to leave, the back window of the sedan lowers.

And my breath freezes in my lungs.

I don’t need to see him fully to know who he is. The sharp lines of his jaw, the piercing green eyes, the effortless authority in his gaze—it’s all unmistakable.

My father didn’t fear many people. But the man locking eyes with me now, like he owns me, was one of the few who made his blood run cold. The man he warned me never to cross.

Luca Salvatore.

The name crashes through my mind like a thunderclap. The Don of the Salvatore family. The most powerful man in Nuova Speranza.

The look he gives me now is calm, like he already knows me from head to toe, that my protests are futile, my life an open book to be rewritten by his hands.

Shivers run up my neck, my body betraying me in the presence of such danger.

I turn on my heel and walk back to the funeral, my legs shaking with every step.

The rain has stopped by the time the funeral ends, but the weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. It presses down with the force of a thousand storms as I stand near the gravesite, clutching my coat around me like armor against the cold.

My mother lingers by the casket, her shivering fingers brushing the damp wood as if she can somehow hold onto him. Sofia stays close, speaking softly to her. I don’t move. I don’t trust myself to. If I stay too long, I’ll crack wide open, and I can’t afford to fall apart right now.

“Valentina,” Sofia calls gently, her voice cutting through the fog in my head.

I blink and look up. My mother is leaning heavily on Sofia’s arm, her pale face turned toward me. She looks fragile, like the slightest breeze could carry her away.

I force a smile, brittle and thin, and step forward to help. Together, Sofia and I guide her to the car, each step slow and careful. She doesn’t say a word as we settle her into the back seat. She just stares ahead, her eyes dull and distant.

“I’ll take care of her tonight,” Sofia whispers as we shut the door. “She needs rest. So do you.”

I nod, grateful for her, and watch as they drive away. The car disappears around the corner, leaving me alone in the empty cemetery. Then, a heavy silence wraps around me.

By the time I reach my apartment above the gallery, twilight has fallen, washing the city in amber and indigo.

The air is crisp, tinged with the scent of rain-soaked pavement.

For a moment, I stop to take it in. My apartment is small, a modest space that smells of paint and coffee, but it’s mine.

Every corner of it, every piece of furniture and fleck of chipped plaster, speaks to the life I’ve built from nothing.

It’s my sanctuary.

Or so I think—until I see the door.

It’s open .

The faintest crack, but enough to send my heart plummeting. My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat as I stare at it, unmoving. Did I forget to lock it? No. I always lock it. Always .

Shallow, sharp air fills my lungs as I push the door open wider. The hinges creak, the sound too loud in the eerie silence.

The living room comes into view, dimly lit by the lamp I left on this morning.

At first glance, nothing seems out of place.

The shelves are still lined with books, the couch still draped in the throw blanket I tossed there last night.

But then I see him, as perfectly composed and infuriatingly beautiful as before.

It should be criminal, how he makes my heart flutter and drop at the same time.

He’s sitting on my couch as if he lives here, like it’s the most natural thing he has ever done, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar lazily balanced between his fingers. Smoke curls upward in lazy spirals, filling the narrow space between us with tobacco-scented anticipation.

I gulp a fistful of air.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice low and velvet-smooth. His eyes find mine, dark and unreadable, and he smiles. It’s not a kind smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The words tumble out before I can think, my voice quivering despite my best efforts to appear composed.

Luca Salvatore leans back, exhaling a stream of smoke that makes my eyes sting. “You left the funeral so abruptly. I thought we should talk.”