Page 21

VALENTINA

I ’m cleared to leave the clinic. Luca’s hand rests on the small of my back as we walk out.

Luca doesn’t say much, though I catch him glancing at me a few times, his expression unreadable.

My fingers twist in my lap, and I can feel the weight of his presence beside me, steady and sure.

It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.

By the time we get to the main estate, I’ve convinced myself to ask for some time alone. When we step into the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming as though nothing has ever dared disturb this fortress, I turn to him. I know the suite upstairs is being cleaned right now.

“I need a room to myself,” I say, my voice firmer than I expected. “Just for a little while.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he nods. “The family study is yours. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

From a man like Luca who’s so prone to possessiveness, that’s practically poetry. He doesn’t argue or pry, just gestures toward the hallway that leads to the study. As I make my way there, I can feel his eyes on my back, and the sensation is as heavy as the silence that stretches between us.

The study is rich, warm, and wonderfully empty.

As I sink into the leather armchair near the fireplace, I feel an odd flicker of peace.

The family dog, a sleek Doberman with intelligent eyes, pads over to me and rests his head on my knee.

His soft brown gaze is as disarming as his master’s, and I find myself scratching behind his ears almost absently.

He exhales in contentment, and for a moment, it’s just me, the dog, and the crackle of the fire.

But the quiet doesn’t last. My thoughts churn with a ferocity I can’t escape.

I didn’t want to run. That was the truth.

But now I’m pregnant, and the stakes are no longer just mine to bear.

My child will grow up in a house with bulletproof windows and armed guards, in a world where enemies don’t just lurk in shadows, they fire guns from them.

A child here is an easy target, a pawn in a game of power and revenge.

The thought sends a chill down my spine.

My stomach churns. It’s been a while since I ate anything, so I ring a bell and ask to have some soup and bread delivered to the study.

When the food arrives, the first few bites are pure bliss.

The soup is perfectly savory, the bread crusty and warm.

But once I’m halfway through, a fresh wave of nausea hits.

I wrap my arms around myself, as if I can shield the life growing inside me from all of this. But I can’t even shield myself.

A long while later, the door creaks open, and Luca steps in, his gaze finding me immediately.

He looks so utterly out of place in this moment of my vulnerability, like a thunderstorm cutting through a fragile spring morning.

His presence fills the room, but it’s the way his eyes soften slightly when they land on me that undoes me.

“You should eat more,” he says simply, nodding toward the untouched bowl of soup. “I’m sorry for interrupting you. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing all right.”

I lift the spoon but can’t bring myself to taste it. “I’m fine,” I murmur.

He crosses the room, standing just a breath away. His fingers brush my chin, tilting it up so our eyes meet. “You don’t look fine.”

I want to tell him I’m drowning in my own thoughts, that the walls of this house feel like they’re closing in on me. But the words stick in my throat. Before I can speak, his phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket with a slight frown. “Excuse me,” he says, and steps into the hallway.

The door closes softly behind him, and the stillness he leaves feels like a void.

My hand drifts to my stomach, trembling slightly.

I’m terrified, yes. But I’m also…unsure.

Luca has proven he can be more than ruthless.

He’s shown me glimpses of a man who cares deeply, who protects what’s his with unwavering loyalty.

Could that be enough? Could I trust him to be the father my child deserves?

The door opens again. Luca reenters, lost in thought. I watch the lines on his face. His eyes catch mine, and there’s something different about them. There’s a glint of knowing, of resolve.

“Do you know who sent you the basket of fruit and bread this morning?” he asks, his tone steady but laced with something sharp.

My heart lurches. “No,” I manage, though my voice wavers. “Is everything all right?”

He sighs, stepping closer. “You’ll have to find better ways to escape, Valentina. Ways that don’t involve you getting violently sick.”

The blood drains from my face. “Luca, I didn’t?—”

“Dante tried some of the fruit,” he interrupts, his tone gentler than I expect. “He’s not well.”

A crushing wave of guilt washes over me. “I didn’t know,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

His gaze softens just slightly, though his jaw remains tight. “Then make sure you know next time.”

As he turns to leave, the guilt deepens, mingled with a wave of confusion.

I didn’t ask Sofia to send the fruit basket, and she’s never acted without my go-ahead, but something must have prompted her.

It feels like my responsibility anyway, since I was the one who put the idea in her head. And now…now I’ve made everything worse.

The moment Luca takes the chair opposite me, the room feels smaller.

He doesn’t sprawl or slouch. Every inch of his body radiates tightly controlled power, like a predator deciding whether to strike.

His emerald eyes burn into mine, their intensity making my throat tighten.

I don’t dare look away. It would feel like admitting defeat.

His fingers drum once on the armrest, then stop. The silence stretches, thick and tense, before he finally speaks.

“Tell me,” he says, voice quiet, yet it cuts through the space like a blade. “Did you think you’d get away with it?”

I flinch, my hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ache. “I didn’t do anything.”

His brow arches, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Someone did,” he counters. “A basket of fruit and bread. Not exactly a death sentence, but Dante ate enough to drop him flat. And now you tell me you had no idea?”

“I didn’t,” I insist, my voice sharp with desperation. “Luca, I wouldn’t…”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance between us. “Wouldn’t what?” The question hangs in the air, daring me to answer.

The fire crackles behind him, casting jagged shadows across his face. His presence, his words… they’re suffocating and magnetic all at once. I want to scream at him, push him away, and yet some traitorous part of me aches to hold my ground, to show him I’m not as fragile as he thinks.

“I wouldn’t risk hurting anyone,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best effort. “Especially not you.”

He freezes, his gaze narrowing. For a brief second, I wonder if I’ve managed to reach some part of him beneath all that ice. But then he smiles, slow, dangerous, and far from reassuring.

“You’re lying,” he says softly, like he’s savoring the words. “If you were innocent, your pulse wouldn’t race every time I step closer.”

He’s right. Damn him, he’s always right. My pulse hammers in my ears as he leans back again, taking his time like he owns every second of it.

“Now there’s a child in the equation.”

The mention of the baby hits me like a physical blow. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, though it’s still flat and unchanged. A bitter laugh escapes him as his gaze follows the motion.

“That’s right,” he says, voice hardening. “Our child. Someone I’ll protect with everything I have. Someone who will inherit more than you can imagine. Wealth. Power. My name. And you’d rip that away from them?”

I blink at him, stunned into silence.

“You don’t get to make that choice, Valentina,” he continues, each word dropping like a stone. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”

My chest tightens as his words sink in. He’s not wrong. Not entirely. But the world he’s describing—the power, the legacy—is drenched in blood. How do I bring a child into that? How do I look at them, knowing I chose this for them?

“What kind of life is that?” I whisper, more to myself than him.

His jaw tightens, and for the first time, I see something flicker in his eyes that isn’t control. It’s pain.

“A better life than you think,” he says, softer now, but no less firm. “No one will touch what’s mine. Not you. Not our child.”

Mine. The word sends a shiver down my spine, and not just from fear. It’s the way he says it—absolute, unshakable. Like I’m already bound to him in ways I can’t escape.

And the terrifying part is, I don’t know if I want to escape.

“Luca…” My voice cracks, betraying the storm building inside me. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of it.”

“No,” he agrees, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “But now it’s yours. And you don’t run from what’s yours, Valentina.”

He steps closer, towering over me now. I force myself to stay still, though every nerve in my body screams to pull back. His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is almost gentle, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Think with your head,” he murmurs. “Not your fear.”

He straightens, and just as quickly as the intensity came, it’s gone. “Get some rest,” he says, stepping back. “You’ll need it.”

Before I can respond, he’s halfway to the door. My throat is dry, my mind spinning, and then he stops.

“Who sent the basket?” he asks, his voice calm again. Too calm.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. My gut twists as his gaze sharpens.

The way he looks at me tells me he’s not convinced, not in the least. “Unfortunate that you’d say that,” he replies coldly, and then he’s gone, leaving me drowning in questions, guilt, and the shadow of his impossible promises.