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I stand, pacing the room, the anger simmering beneath my skin. “You think walking away will make you safe? Make us safe? It won’t. The second I let go of this kingdom, we’ll become prey. The wolves don’t just disappear because you’ve stopped fighting them.”

Valentina rises too, her hands clenched into fists. “So, what’s the answer, Luca? Keep the child locked away like a prisoner? Teach them to survive in this world of yours, where every step comes with a price? Is that what you want?”

Her words sting because they’re too close to the truth, and I don’t have an answer for her. I do what I always do when backed into a corner—I lash out.

“You don’t understand what it takes to protect a family,” I say, my voice cold. “This life is the only way to ensure our child has power, security, everything they’ll ever need.”

She recoils as if I’ve struck her. “You mean control. That’s what this is about for you, isn’t it? Control.”

I don’t deny it. Her face crumples for a moment before she steels herself, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and sadness. “I can’t do this right now.”

She turns and walks out, leaving me standing alone in the room. Against all instinct, I don’t stop her. Over the next few days, Valentina makes it her personal and primary mission to ignore me. She’s fantastic at it.

I catch glimpses of her—walking through the halls, sitting by the window in the study—but every time I try to approach her, she turns away, retreating to whatever corner she’s found to avoid me.

I send messages. Flowers. Small gestures meant to coax her back into my arms. But each one is ignored or met with cold indifference. And with every rejection, my frustration grows.

Marco notices, of course. There’s very little that escapes his attention. “You’re taking this too personally,” he says one evening as we sit in the study, a glass of whiskey in my hand.

“Everything about this is personal,” I snap. “She’s my wife. She’s carrying my child.”

“Then why are you letting her slip away?”

The question cuts deeper than I care to admit. I drain the glass and set it down with a sharp thud. “She’s not slipping away. Someone’s pushing her.”

Marco raises an eyebrow. “You think it’s Sofia.”

“I know it’s Sofia,” I growl. “She’s been poisoning Valentina’s mind against me since the wedding, whispering in her ear, making her question everything.”

Marco smirks faintly. “So, what’s the plan? A friendly chat?”

I shoot him a look that says he already knows the answer.

The drive to Sofia’s apartment is silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic drumming of my fingers against my knee.

Marco sits beside me, his expression unreadable, though I know he’s as unimpressed with this detour as I am.

But enough is enough. Valentina’s antics—her constant attempts to flee, her icy dismissal of me, her stubborn refusal to see reason—have frayed the last thread of my patience.

I know Sofia is behind it. She’s the only one Valentina would trust with such dangerous ideas.

The car slows as we approach a modest building, worlds away from the sprawling luxury of the Salvatore estate. Marco exits first, scanning the area before gesturing for me to follow. I step out, adjusting the cuffs of my suit as I take in the surroundings with a disdainful glance.

The door to Sofia’s apartment is cheap wood with peeling paint. Marco raps his knuckles against it sharply, his presence enough to send a message before I even speak.

When the door opens, Sofia stands there, petite but defiant, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks at me like I’m a stray dog that’s wandered into her home—annoyed, but not surprised.

“Salvatore,” she says pleasantly.

“Sofia.” My voice is low, but not the tone of someone seeking a civil conversation. I step inside without waiting for an invitation, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the cramped space.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, closing the door behind us.

Marco takes up his post by the door, leaning against it with the casual menace of a man who’s seen more violence than most people could imagine. His presence alone silences Sofia’s initial protests.

I glance around the apartment, noting its simplicity—bookshelves crammed with mismatched novels, a couch with fraying edges, a small table set for one.

It’s not what I expected for someone so adept at meddling in my business.

“You’ve been filling my wife’s head with ideas,” I begin, turning my full attention to her.

My voice is calm, but every word carries the weight of a storm on the horizon.

“Telling her to run. To betray the life I’m trying to give her. ”

Sofia doesn’t flinch. Instead, she squares her shoulders, her chin tilting up in defiance. “I’ve been telling her to protect herself. Big difference, don.”

The title drips with mockery, and Marco stiffens beside me.

“I’m only going to say this once,” I continue, ignoring her jab. “You will stop. Whatever you think you’re doing, it ends now.”

Sofia lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “You really think scaring me will fix things with Valentina? God, you’re clueless.”

My patience snaps, and I take a step closer, towering over her. “Careful, Sofia.”

“Or what?” she challenges, her voice unwavering. “You’ll kill me? That’ll really win Valentina over, won’t it?”

The audacity of this woman would almost be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating. Marco’s chuckle breaks the tension, and I shoot him a look that silences him instantly.

Sofia smirks, clearly emboldened. “Here’s a free piece of advice, don. If you want Valentina to trust you, stop treating her like a prisoner. Maybe try listening to her instead of barking orders like she’s one of your soldiers.”

I grind my teeth, unwilling to admit that her words hit closer to the truth than I care to acknowledge. Before I can respond, a faint chime comes from Sofia’s phone. She pulls it out, and her smirk turns into a full grin as she swipes at the screen.

“Valentina,” she says sweetly, holding the phone up for me to see.

My heart drops. There, on the screen, is my wife, her face half-lit in the glow of her own phone. Her expression is a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Luca,” she says, her voice icy. “I can’t believe you’d sink so low as to threaten my best friend.”

The line disconnects before I can respond. For the first time in years, I feel the distinct sensation of losing control.