Page 30 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
She tries to pull away, but I don’t let her. My hands stay firm on her waist, grounding her, keeping her where I can see her. Whatever this is, it’s not something I’m letting her carry alone.
“Valentina,” I repeat, softer this time but no less resolute, “talk to me.”
Her breathing hitches, and she glances away, her gaze darting to the bandage on my side. The graze stings, but it’s nothing compared to the tightening in my chest as I watch her struggle to form words.
Her hands rise, tentative, shaking. And then she touches the edge of the bandage, her fingertips grazing the spot where blood still clings to my skin.
The gesture is so light, so careful, but her touch sends a shiver through me—not of pain, but something far more visceral.
“I got a call,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words hit like a warning shot, sharp and brimming with unspoken weight.
“What kind of call?” I demand, my attention narrowing entirely on her.
Her whole body shakes as she presses her hand flat against my side, her warmth bleeding through the bandage. “They—” She swallows hard, her gaze snapping back to mine, filled with anguish. “They said they’d help me escape, give me everything I’d need—papers, money, freedom.”
The knot in my gut tightens, but I keep my expression still. “Go on.”
Her voice cracks. “All I’d have to do is kill you, Luca.”
She looks up at me, her eyes glossy with unshed tears, and for a moment, the room feels suffocatingly quiet. The silence is a weapon, one I wield as I stare at her, letting her words sink in. She doesn’t look away, even though I can see the fear twisting through her.
“They want you dead,” she continues, her hand trembling against my side. “They said... it would be easy. That when you—when you’re weakened by love, I could...”
She trails off, unable to finish, but I don’t need her to. I already know.
The fire in my chest flares, burning hotter than the graze on my side. There’s no room for doubt, no hesitation. I wrap my hand around her wrist, gently but firmly pulling it away from the bandage.
“Is that what you want, Valentina?” I ask, my voice even, quiet—but it’s the kind of quiet that turns storms into catastrophes. “Freedom, at the cost of my life?”
Her lips part, but no words come out at first. She shakes her head, her breath hitching. “No,” she says, the word breaking as it leaves her throat. “No, I could never?—”
“Then why are you shaking?” I cut her off, my grip tightening slightly on her wrist.
Her tears spill over, one sliding down her cheek. “Because I hate this. I hate that they think I’m capable of it. I hate that I’m stuck in this world where they even see me as a pawn intheir game. I hate—” She stops herself, her breathing shallow, and when her eyes meet mine, there’s nothing but devastation in them. “I hate that I don’t know who I am anymore.”
For a moment, I forget the ache in my side, the betrayal still fresh from the warehouse. All I see is her, terrified, furious, breaking apart in my arms. “Valentina,” I say, and my hand moves on its own, cradling her jaw and forcing her to look at me. “You’re not a pawn. Not to me.”
Her laugh is bitter, choked. “Aren’t I? Isn’t that all I am in this marriage?”
“No.” My voice is sharp. “You’re my wife. And no one—not them, not anyone—will use you against me. Do you understand?”
Her tears fall faster now, but she nods. I pull her closer, pressing my forehead against hers, forcing her to feel the weight of my words. “Good,” I murmur. “Because anyone who threatens you, anyone who thinks they can touch you or twist you into their weapon, will learn exactly what it means to cross me. You’re mine, Valentina. And I don’t share.”
Her breath hitches again, but this time it’s not from fear. I can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, in the way her body relaxes slightly in my hold. And even as the storm rages within me, I feel her quiet resolve wrapping itself around the chaos. I let her go, slowly, deliberately. But when I speak again, there’s no room for argument.
“You’ll tell me everything about that call,” I say. “Every detail.”
No one—no one—takes what’s mine.
12
VALENTINA
The phone sits in my lap, its smooth screen as dark and still as the room around me. My fingers curl around it, gripping tighter than necessary, as though holding onto it will stop my thoughts from spiraling. It doesn’t.
I told Luca about the call. I thought he’d be mad, perhaps he’d even try to hurt me. Instead, he showed only… is it love? I want to call it love, the fiereceness with which he held me, the grim set of his jaw, the way his eyes burned. But in this world, everything is slippery, and I’m not sure where I stand. Luca’s watching, waiting, probably already ten steps ahead. If the person on the other end thought they could use me to hurt him, they didn’t understand who they were dealing with.
