Page 46 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
She takes a deep breath, her hands resting on the table. “It means that while you’re off handling ‘business’, there are things happening here—things that matter just as much, if not more.”
“Valentina—”
“We need to talk about the baby.”
“We’ve already talked.”
Her face falls. “No, we haven’t. I need to know you’re willing to change. That you’ll choose our family over this...empire.”
The words strike me like a blow. “You’re asking me to give up everything I’ve fought for. Everything I’ve bled for. For what? Some fantasy of a quiet life that doesn’t exist?”
“For our child,” she snaps, her voice rising, a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
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 driveto 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.
