Page 38 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
Luca shifts again, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he turns slightly toward me. For a moment, I freeze, terrified that he’s waking. But his breathing evens out again, and the tension in my body eases just a fraction.
My hand hovers over the screen, the weight of the decision pressing down on me like a stone.
Freedom—or Luca.
The choice should be easy. But as I watch him sleep, so unguarded, so achingly human, I realize it’s anything but.
The screen fades to black.
15
VALENTINA
AMonth Later
It’s not running if I don’t leave. That’s the thought that solidifies everything. I’m not leaving, at least not right now. There are too many unanswered questions, too many things I still don’t understand about Luca, his world, and the quiet pull he has on me. Sofia has been incredibly patient through the month it’s taken me to admit that. But the more time I spend with Luca, the clearer it becomes that any escape plan putting her at risk isn’t a real solution, especially when I’m still not sure what I want. She sent another message this morning, asking what I plan to do. I can’t leave her waiting anymore.
The man who promised me power and control last night is the same man I find staring at me with an unspoken need when he thinks I’m not looking. The same man who could command armies yet sits in silence, waiting for my word. There’s no child tying me here. No tiny life depending on my choices except my own. For once, I can afford to stop and see where this will go.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table, Sofia’s name lighting up the screen. I let it buzz until it stops, then type a quick reply:Sorry for being late. Will explain soon.
It’s vague enough to keep her satisfied, but it lets me hold the reins.
Luca isn’t awake when I slip out of the room. The house is quiet, the kind of hush that feels too poised to be natural. I head toward the dining room, where breakfast is usually laid out like a feast fit for kings. My stomach churns, not from nerves, but from hunger.
I’m halfway down the hallway when it hits. At first, it’s just a prickling sensation in my belly, faint and easy to ignore. But it sharpens, a stabbing pain that doubles me over and forces a gasp from my lips.
I grip the wall, the cool plaster grounding me as I fight to straighten up. My vision blurs, black spots darting at the edges. Something’s wrong.
I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady the swirling nausea, but it’s like a storm raging inside me, relentless and unforgiving. My legs wobble beneath me, and before I can stop myself, I drop to my knees, clutching my middle.
“Signora?”
The cleaning lady’s voice comes from somewhere far away, faint and warped like it’s traveling through water. I open my mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a dry heave.
My throat burns, my body convulsing as I crawl toward the nearest doorway. The bathroom. I need the bathroom. The maid rushes toward me, her face a blur of concern. “Signora, are you?—?”
I wave her off, barely making it into the bathroom before the sickness explodes out of me. Acid burns my throat as I retch, each wave worse than the last. My knees dig into the cold tile, and tears stream down my face as my body betrays me.
The door creaks open behind me.
“No, don’t,” I croak, barely finding the strength to lift my head.
But she doesn’t leave. Her voice rises in panic as she calls out, “Signore Salvatore! Please! It’s the Signora!”
A new fear grips me, one that cuts deeper than the pain clawing at my insides. I hear the thunder of his footsteps before I see him. Heavy, deliberate, and full of fury.
The door swings open, and Luca fills the frame, his green eyes narrowing as they take me in, slumped and trembling on the bathroom floor. “What the hell happened?” he demands, his voice sharp enough to slice through my haze.
“She…she just collapsed,” the maid stammers, backing away. “I didn’t know what to?—”
“Out.” The word is a growl, and the maid flees without another word.
He kneels beside me, his movements unnervingly calm for a man who looks like he’s barely containing an eruption. “Valentina,” he says, softer now, but still carrying that streak of absolute authority. “What’s wrong?”
I can barely breathe, let alone answer. Another wave of nausea grips me, and I clutch his arm as if he can somehow anchor me.
