Page 13

VALENTINA

L uca has never been anything but calm, the cool guy, the guy who kills at lunch and makes it look like the easiest thing he’s ever done.

But now, he stares at me like a wounded lion would, the bullet wound in his shoulder nothing compared to the anger and hurt in his deep, dark eyes.

He’s carrying the weight of an empire, but right now, it’s as if this burden is costing more than blood.

For a man like him, pain is just another accessory, but tonight it clings to him differently.

It softens the edges of his usual dominance, revealing cracks in the armor I thought was impenetrable.

And for all my reservations and resolve to hate him forever, the visible pain on his face shatters something inside of me.

I’m moving toward him before my brain catches up with my feet.

My hand brushes his arm tentatively, unsure if he’ll snap or let me near, and he freezes.

His gaze meets mine, the emerald of his eyes dimmed by exhaustion but no less piercing.

“I’ve got this,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel.

“Clearly,” I say, my tone waspish. My fingers tighten on his arm, daring him to pull away. “Sit down, Luca.”

His brow lifts in that infuriating way of his, like I’ve just said something adorable.

But there’s no fight in him, or perhaps this is a wordless nod to me: do what you want, woman.

He lets me guide him to the sofa, and I’m almost sure I can hear him chuckle under his breath.

I set him down and crouch beside him, my mind racing.

He’s bloodied and bruised, and I’m not sure if it’s anger, fear, or some sick combination of the two that makes my hands tremble as I reach for the buttons of his shirt.

“I can do it myself,” he says, his voice a shade softer now, though his posture remains rigid.

“No, you can’t,” I reply, my fingers already working.

The fabric peels away, and the damage beneath makes my stomach churn.

The graze along his side isn’t as bad as I feared, but it’s deep enough to sting, dark enough to make my throat tighten.

The sight of it doesn’t repulse ome, though, if anything, it pulls me closer.

One of the the staff has discreetly left a medical kit on the table beside the couch.

With brows knit in concentration, I dive in, rummaging through it with more determination than skill.

Gauze, antiseptic, scissors… it all feels inadequate against the enormity of Luca Salvatore bleeding in my living room.

“Does this happen often?” I ask, my voice low as I press a clean cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding.

“Define ‘often’,” he replies, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“This isn’t funny.” I glance up, glaring at him, and he quickly rearranges his features so he won’t look too amused. “It’s the life,” he says simply.

“The life is barbaric.” I look up from the kit and into his eyes, my lips pressed thin.

He merely shrugs. “It’s survival.”

His words hang in the small space between us, and while I’d love to challenge him, there’s no time.

I return my focus to his wound, dabbing antiseptic onto the cut with hands that won’t stop shaking.

His body is all heat and tension beneath my touch, and I hate how aware I am of every inch of him.

“Hold still,” I mutter when he flinches.

“You’re trembling.” His voice is rich and thick and hides laughter. I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to meet his gaze. “Maybe because I don’t patch up mafia dons every day.”

His chuckle is a low, ragged sound, the kind that makes me feel both ridiculous and anchored at the same time.

“I had it under control,” he says after a beat.

“Oh, of course,” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “Because nothing says control like strolling in with your shirt torn and a fresh bullet graze, acting like it’s no big deal.”

That earns me another smirk, but there’s a softness just beneath it, a barely-suppressed glee that tells me he’s enjoying seeing me like this. It makes my chest tighten and my hands steadier as I wrap the bandage around his torso. “Who did this?” I ask, my voice gone whispery.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifts past me, to some point in the distance that only he can see. “Some people needed to make a point,” he says finally.

I pause, my fingers hovering over the knot I’m tying. “Was it meant for you?”

“Most things are.”

The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard. Luca doesn’t usually let anything slip, not pain, not vulnerability, and certainly not doubt. “And your men?” I press, though part of me already knows the answer.

He sighs and looks past me. “Two of my best gone.”

My eyes catch a fleeting grief in his eyes before he locks it away. I knot the bandage with careful precision, then sit back on my heels, my hands falling into my lap. “I’m sorry.”

His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and searching. “Don’t be.”

“But I am,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You lost people who mattered. That… matters.”

Great. Definitely my most impressive reply ever. Totally didn’t sound about three years old.

For a moment, silence stretches between us. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, it makes my breath hitch. “Why do you care, dear wife of mine?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Does this mean you’re not afraid of the demon?”

I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense, anyway. “I don’t know.”

He leans closer, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything—his scent, his heat, the way his gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes.

“Don’t start caring too much, Valentina,” he murmurs.

I stay still, watching his motions in silence.

He leans back on the couch, his shirt discarded and the bandage around his torso standing out starkly against his olive skin. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling for a moment, a rare stillness settling over him. “You don’t have to stay,” he says finally, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the edge of the sofa. “Nice try. You just bled all over my floor, Luca. The least you can do is tell me what happened out there.”

He glances at me, his lips tugging into a faint smirk. “I’ve already told you.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

He shifts, wincing slightly, and I feel a pang of guilt for pressing him. But then he speaks, his words slow, deliberate.

“When I was a boy, maybe eight or nine, my father took me to this lake near our summer house. It was a rare day off for him.” His voice is low, carrying the weight of memories he doesn’t share easily.

“I remember thinking it was strange, him wanting to spend time with me, when he usually had no patience for anything that didn’t concern the family business. ”

I don’t move, afraid even the slightest sound will stop him.

“We sat on this old wooden dock, so old that it would creak with every step. I thought he was going to teach me how to fish or something normal like that.” His lips twist into a bitter smile.

“Instead, he handed me a knife and told me to hold it steady. Said every man in this world is born with two choices: to be the predator or the prey. And that I had to decide which one I wanted to be.”

A chill runs down my spine. “At eight?”

Luca nods, his eyes distant. “He made me kill a fish that day. Said if I couldn’t take the life of something small, I’d never survive the bigger things.”

I struggle to reconcile the image of the boy he’s describing with the man in front of me, so hardened and confident, yet burdened by something deeper. “That’s horrible,” I whisper.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone devoid of emotion, “but it worked. By the time I was twelve, he trusted me to oversee small deals. By sixteen, I was handling more money than most people see in a lifetime. He said I was born to lead, and maybe he was right.”

“But at what cost?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Luca’s gaze snaps to mine, sharp and assessing, but there’s no anger in it. “The cost doesn’t matter. Not in my world.”

I shake my head, my throat tightening. “It should.”

He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders relax. “What about your father?” he asks. “The way he lived must’ve cost you something too.”

The question catches me off guard, cutting through the careful walls I’ve built around my grief, as if the man asking the questions has nothing to do with his murder.

For a second, I consider brushing him off, but the look in his eyes stops me.

He’s not just asking. He’s listening. “My father was different, once,” I begin, my voice wavering slightly.

“When I was little, he used to take me to this park near our house. We’d spend hours feeding the ducks, laughing about nothing.

He loved art, you know. Said it made him feel alive. ”

Luca leans forward slightly, his attention fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“But then he started gambling. It started small, and seemed harmless enough. Just a few bets here and there to make things more exciting.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out.

“But it didn’t stop. The debts piled up, and with every loss, he lost a little more of himself. By the end, he wasn’t the man I knew.”

I pause to touch my throat. It feels raw and dry from within. “And the worst part? I couldn’t save him. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I begged him to stop, it wasn’t enough.”

Luca reaches out, his hand brushing mine, adding no words to muddle the silence that’s fallen between us. It’s a small gesture, but the warmth of his touch grounds me in a way I didn’t expect. “You loved him,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I hated him for what he did, but yes. I loved him too.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The space between us is heavy with unspoken words, shared pain, and something else I can’t quite name.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Luca says finally, his tone steady but carrying an edge of something raw.

I glance up, meeting his gaze. “And what about you, Luca? Do you deserve me?”

His lips curl into the faintest smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That remains to be seen.”

Then his hands are on me, strong, sure, and impossibly gentle. One arm slides beneath my knees, the other wraps around my back, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. “Luca, what are you?—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low and resolute. “You’ve been carrying too much. Let me carry you for a while.”

My protests die on my lips as he starts walking, his steps steady despite the faint wince I catch in his expression. The man is still bleeding, for God’s sake, but here he is, acting as if nothing else matters but getting me where he wants me.

Where I want to be.

We move through the house, the dim light casting shadows across his sharp features.

His jaw is set, his eyes forward, every inch of him radiating power and purpose.

When we reach the bedroom, he doesn’t pause.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, the creak of the hinges loud in the silence between us.

Luca carries me to the edge of the bed, lowering me with a care that makes my chest ache.

He doesn’t release me immediately. Instead, he lingers, his hands firm on my waist, his gaze holding mine as if searching for something.

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us.

The noise, the chaos, the betrayals, it all fades, leaving nothing but this charged, unbearable quiet.

I don’t know who moves first, but when his lips find mine, the rest of the world ceases to exist.