Page 7

VALENTINA

I ’m not sure what stuns me more, the room I’m in or the man I’m going to marry.

The chandeliers are real crystal, not that it matters.

Everything here glows. The walls are gold-leafed, the floors polished so smooth I can see the hem of my dress in them.

People move in quiet circles, sipping, watching, deciding who matters.

Luca himself looks about a million dollars.

And then there’s me, feeling like a centerpiece, a fragile porcelain figure set out for admiration.

Luca never strays far, his hand a constant weight on my lower back or resting lightly on my arm.

It’s not exactly oppressive, but it’s a reminder.

A signal to everyone watching that I’m his now, in every way that matters.

I try to focus on the champagne flute in my hand, its delicate stem cool against my palm. The bubbles fizz lazily, mocking my failed attempts to calm myself.

“You’re holding it too tightly,” Luca murmurs beside me, his voice soft enough that only I can hear.

I glance at him, startled. His lips quirk into a faint smile, and he leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my ear. “It’s just a party, Valentina. Try to enjoy yourself.”

Enjoy myself. The words feel almost cruel in their simplicity.

“Easy for you to say,” I whisper back, surprising even myself. “You’re not the one being paraded around like a prize.”

He pulls back slightly, studying me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. “You’re not a prize,” he says softly, his tone unreadable. “You’re my wife.”

Before I can respond, a voice interrupts us.

“Valentina! There you are.”

I turn to see my mother approaching, her face glowing with something I haven’t seen in years: peace. She looks radiant, her pale blue dress catching the light as she moves.

Luca steps forward to greet her, extending a hand. “Mrs. Russo,” he says, his voice smooth and respectful. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening.”

My mother hesitates for half a second before taking his hand. “I am, Mr. Salvatore. Thank you for everything.”

She glances at me as she says it, and there’s a look in her eyes I can’t quite decipher. Gratitude? Relief?

“What did you do?” I ask Luca softly as she walks away, her steps lighter than I’ve seen in years.

He shrugs, but there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I moved her into a better place. A condo near the waterfront. It’s fully furnished, and there’s someone on staff to help her with anything she needs.”

My breath catches. “You didn’t have to?—”

“She’s your mother,” he interrupts. “And now she’s part of my family. I take care of my own, Valentina.”

The words settle over me, and they feel unreasonably tender.

It’s not just the gesture—it’s the thought behind it. My mother has spent years struggling, scraping by after my father’s mistakes left us drowning in debt. Luca didn’t just solve her problems; he gave her a life she could never have dreamed of.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

The evening stretches on, a blur of introductions and forced smiles. Luca keeps me close the entire time, his hand moving from my back to my arm to the curve of my waist with a familiarity that makes my skin tingle.

When the music shifts to something slower, softer, he doesn’t give me a choice.

“Dance with me,” he says, already leading me toward the center of the room.

I want to protest, to tell him I’m not in the mood, but the words dissolve on my tongue. His hand slips into mine, the other settling firmly on my waist, and suddenly we’re moving.

The crowd fades away, the music wrapping around us like a cocoon.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips so close to my ear that I feel the words more than I hear them.

I glance up at him, searching for some hint of mockery, but there’s none. His green eyes are dark, focused entirely on me, and for a moment, the tension between us feels less like a battle and more like the aftermath.

“This is the beginning,” he continues, in that damnably deep and rich voice of his, “Of our life together.”

There’s a promise in his words, but I can also hear the warning: you're mine, Valentina, and don't you ever forget it.

I don't think I could if I tried.

The hand on my waist tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My pulse quickens, and I hate the way my body reacts, the way his touch sends ripples of heat through me despite everything.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.”

The conviction in his voice leaves me breathless.

His hand shifts, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of my hip, and I feel my resolve cracking, splintering under the weight of him.

I glance toward Sofia, seated at a table near the edge of the room. She’s watching us with a mixture of concern and something else—hope, maybe.

She catches my eye and offers a small, encouraging smile.

When I look back at Luca, he touches my chin lightly. “You’re trembling,” he whispers, his lips so close I can feel the heat of his breath.

“It’s not fear,” I reply, though I don’t know if I’m convincing him or myself.

His lips curve into a smile, and I don’t know if I want to run from him or toward him.

Hours later, when everything is over and the last of the wine has been drunk and the final guest has left, he leads me upstairs.

The suite meant for both of us has a plethora of rooms, but Luca steers me towards one, the inside of which is a masterpiece of old-world elegance and modern luxury.

Dark wood paneling lines the walls, offset by the soft glow of amber lighting.

A massive four-poster bed dominates the room, draped in satin and velvet that practically shouts wealth and decadence.

But all I see is Luca.

He stands near the door, his tie loosened just enough to hint at the man beneath the polished exterior. His green eyes burn with an intensity that makes the air in the room feel heavier, charged with something I can’t name but can’t escape.

I take a step back, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. My pulse thunders in my ears, my breath shallow as I try to make sense of the storm raging inside me.

Luca doesn’t move right away. He simply watches me, his gaze unrelenting, taking in every flicker of emotion that crosses my face.

“You’re nervous,” he observes.

I let out a brittle laugh, though it doesn’t carry the strength I want it to. “Nervous isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Then what would you call it?” He takes a step closer, the certain pace of a predator closing in on its prey.

“Trapped,” I reply, forcing the word past the lump in my throat. Even as I say the word, though, I’m unsure how much I mean it. In fact, I have no idea what I’m feeling. Maybe it's the alcohol. Or what he’s done for my mom. Or him , damn him for being so infernally handsome and powerful.

Luca stops, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of something—regret, maybe—but it’s gone too quickly to be sure.

“Trapped,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. Then he moves again, closing the distance between us in three strides.

Before I can react, his hands are on me, one sliding around my waist, the other brushing against the curve of my jaw. His touch is firm, commanding, but not rough.

“You’re not trapped, Valentina,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet. “You’re mine.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, and I hate how my body reacts to him. The heat of his hand against my skin, the steady pressure of his grip—it all works against me, eroding the walls I’ve spent the entire day building.

I place my hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but the solid warmth beneath my palms makes my breath catch. He’s so close now, his scent—something dark and smoky, with a hint of spice—wrapping around me like a cocoon.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I snap, though my voice trembles.

He smirks, his lips curving into that infuriating, knowing smile. “Liar.”

The word hangs between us, leaving his mouth and landing on the tip of my lower lip, delicious, impossibly so.

Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is slow at first, deliberate, like he’s giving me time to pull away. But I don’t. My fingers curl against the fabric of his shirt, gripping it tightly as the heat between us builds.

Luca deepens the kiss, his hand sliding up my back, pulling me flush against him. The world around me fades, the suite, the bed, the tension of the day, all of it disappears, leaving only him.

My mind is screaming at me to stop, to push him away, to remember that this isn’t what I want. But my body doesn’t listen.

If anything, it’s intoxicating. I’ve never been kissed by this before, by someone who’s doing it like he means it, like he means to own every inch of me with just his mouth and his feverishly hot, indulgent tongue.

His lips are soft but insistent, his touch a perfect balance of control and restraint. I hate how easily I melt into him, how my body seems to recognize something in his that my mind refuses to acknowledge.

When he pulls back, his eyes search mine, his breathing uneven.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, echoing the words he said earlier during the dance.

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. “What do you expect, Luca? You’ve ripped my life apart and put it back together the way you wanted. Do you really think I’d be calm about that?”

His face darkens, his grip on me tightening slightly. “You think I don’t know what I’ve done to you? You think I don’t see it?”

He pauses, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising to meet my eyes again. “I see you, Valentina. Every part of you. And I promise you, this will be better than you think. We will be better.”

I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words don’t come.

Instead, I let him guide me toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to resist. But I don’t.

The battle inside me rages on, but as his hands slide over my shoulders, unfastening the delicate clasps of my dress, I know I’ve already lost.

Luca leans in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “Let me show you, Valentina.”

And despite everything—my fear, my anger, my uncertainty—I do.