Page 21

The air in Lorenzo Romano’s study was thick with cigar smoke, aged whiskey, and the suffocating weight of old traditions. The room was dimly lit, the glow from the ornate chandelier casting long shadows over the heavy oak desk where Lorenzo sat, his fingers steepled, face unreadable.

On one side, Valentina sat stiff-backed, arms crossed over her chest in what felt like a futile attempt at self-preservation. From what, exactly, she wasn’t sure―maybe the relentless whirlwind of thoughts crashing through her mind.

She hadn’t been surprised when her father immediately agreed to a meeting with Ilya. Lorenzo had always wanted an alliance with the Nikolai family that was beyond silly invites to family events, and now, with his youngest daughter carrying a Nikolai heir, the opportunity had practically fallen into his lap.

But that was just it. Was that all this was? A convenient arrangement?

Ilya hadn’t been the cold bastard she’d expected when he found out about the pregnancy. He had assured her―without hesitation―that he would be there for her, that she wouldn’t go through it alone. He had said it with so much conviction that, for a moment, she had believed him.

“What kind of man do you think I am, Valentina? You’d think I’d walk away from my own blood?”

But what if that was just duty? What if, while she was here, hopelessly in love with him, he was only doing what was expected?

She knew what marriage meant in their world. It wasn’t just about love or two people―it was about power, legacy, and securing alliances that could shift the balance of the underworld. A union like this wouldn’t just tie them together; it would elevate Ilya’s status, giving him more standing among the Bratva elite.

Everyone knew how the Nikolai cousins were treated like second-class citizens, himself included. He had told her about it. So what if this wasn’t about her at all? What if he was only doing this to gain an upper hand within his own family?

The thought sent nausea rolling through her. The taste of the pancakes from this morning soured at the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard against it. Whether it was the onset of morning sickness, the stress clawing at her ribs, or the simple, undeniable fact that Ilya’s presence in the room pulled all the air from her lungs―she didn’t know.

Because there he stood, calm and unreadable, broad shoulders squared, dark and imposing, like none of this rattled him in the slightest―while she was spiraling on the inside.

She schooled her expression into one of indifference, pretending like she was not affected by his encompassing presence as her father exhaled slowly, tapping ash from his cigar into a glass tray.

“You know why we’re here,” Lorenzo said, his voice deep and lined with a reminder that he was getting older by the second. “I trusted you to protect my daughter, not get her pregnant.”

Valentina’s jaw tightened, her nails digging into her palm. Ilya, however, remained unmoved, his gaze steady across the desk.

“I’m here because I want to marry her,” he said. He said it so easily, so casually, that it irked Valentina a bit.

Lorenzo leaned back, his dark eyes narrowing. “And I assume this is to do right by her?”

Ilya didn’t flinch. “No. I’m marrying her because I want to. Pregnant or not.”

Valentina stiffened. Her cold exterior―one she’d carefully worn since the meeting began―wavered.

Her father studied him, his stubby fingers drumming against the desk. “You know what this means. Marriage ties our families. It’s bigger than the two of you.”

Ilya nodded. “I know. And I welcome that.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice measured, unwavering, completely under control. “But I need you to understand something. This isn’t about strategy for me. If we’re talking business, I couldn’t care less about the weight of this alliance or what it means for our families. I want Valentina for who she is. She could be the daughter of a nobody―hell, she could even be a waitress in some rundown diner, a woman with no name, no ties―and I’d still want her.”

The room was silent.

Lorenzo’s calculating gaze rested on Ilya, searching, assessing. Valentina, on the other hand, sat frozen, her fingers tightening against her arms, her lungs constricted.

She had expected him to be respectful. Expected him to make his case with cool, logical reasoning because that’s who he was. But this? This was something entirely.

He wasn’t just stating his claim―he was laying himself bare.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he continued, shifting his stance slightly. “That I’m just saying what you want to hear. That I’ll say whatever it takes to make this official.” His voice dipped lower, firm with conviction. “But if you think for a second that I would stand here and promise myself to a woman for anything less than what she deserves, you don’t know me at all.”

Lorenzo took another slow drag, exhaling through his nostrils. “Go on.”

And Ilya did. “She’s sharp. Stronger than most men I know. She sees everything, even the things people don’t want her to. She’s loyal but doesn’t let it blind her. And she’s fearless.” He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk at the corner of his lips as he glanced at her for a split second, like it was a secret only she was meant to understand. Her cheeks flushed. “Even now, she’s acting like none of this affects her. Like she doesn’t care. But I know her better than that.”

Valentina looked away, biting hard on her bottom lip, her throat tightening.

Ilya looked back at her father. “She’s not just your daughter, Lorenzo. She’s Valentina―a woman who knows her worth and doesn’t let anyone tell her otherwise. A woman who’d rather shoot me in the face than let me tell her what to do. And I’d be a fool not to want her.”

Silence reigned again, save for the distance ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall.

For the first time since she entered the room, Valentina felt something shift. The cold, defensive shell she’d wrapped herself in cracked, piece by piece.

He saw her, and he had said it so simply, so unapologetically. He wanted her. Not because of duty. Not because of the baby. Not because she was the daughter of a powerful man. Not because she was the mother of his child. But because she was her.

Because he loved her.

She glanced at him, heart hammering against her chest, but his eyes were already on her. Steady. Sure. At ease.

Lorenzo studied Ilya for a long moment before watching them both, his brows rising imperceptibly, like he could see the ties that bound them. Then, finally, he exhaled, flicking his cigar into the tray.

“You make a strong case, Nikolai,” he murmured. His lips pressed together as he looked at Valentina, something softer in his gaze. His last-born. His most precious.

He nodded once. “You have my blessing.”

Valentina sucked in a shaky breath, her fingers unconsciously drifting to her belly. It was like the skies had opened, and rain had finally descended after years of drought. She suddenly felt lighter.

Ilya, on the other hand, took the news with his usual unwavering composure. He simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, but there was a quiet certainty in the way he did it. Like he’d known all along that this was inevitable. That he was always going to have her, no matter what.

Valentina was sure now―he hadn’t come seeking her father’s blessing because he needed it. He had done it out of respect, for tradition, for her. But if the answer had been different, if Lorenzo had denied him, would anything have changed?

She glanced at him again, studying the sharp set of his jaw, the way his fingers rested easily on the table as he finally took a seat. No. He would have married her regardless.

The conversation shifted then―to logistics, wedding dates, formalities. A blur of details Valentina barely processed. Her mind was still tangled in his words, in the way he had seen her beyond all of this. Beyond the families, the alliances, and the way their world thrived on games.

And when the meeting finally ended, as they stepped outside and the cool evening air wrapped around her, she felt it―her world shifting, tilting off its axis, settling into a new orbit around Ilya Nikolai. Her bane of existence―now her husband-to-be.

“You want me to take you back to your place?” he asked after a few moments of silence. His voice was quieter now, less formal.

Valentina hesitated. She could say yes. She could ask him to take her back to the life she knew, to the quiet serenity of her condo, to the space that was still hers alone.

But something about tonight had changed everything.

She turned to him, her voice softer than she expected. “No.”

Ilya stopped, one brow lifting in question.

“Take me to where we’ll live once I become your wife.”

For the first time that night, the corner of her mouth lifted into something resembling a real smile. He inched closer, the heat of it lingering between them, his breath teasing her lips.

“Well, someone’s eager,” he murmured, amusement laced in his tone.

A shiver ran down her spine. Then, in classic Ilya Nikolai fashion, he claimed her mouth right there―hot, deep, unapologetic. His hand slid down the arch of her spine, fingers pressing firmly as he cupped the curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him as his tongue swept into her mouth.

Valentina let out something between a gasp and a moan before she managed to pull away, her face flushed, a breathless giggle escaping her throat as she wiggled against him. “My father could see us right now. And there are guards everywhere.”

He tugged her right back, his grip firm. “Does it look like I care?”

“No,” she admitted, brushing her lipstick from the corner of his mouth, ignoring the heat curling low in her stomach. “But I do.”

He exhaled a sigh, letting her go―but not without one last squeeze. Then, unlocking the car door, he looked at her and murmured.

“Alright, Krasivaya . Let’s go home.”