Page 51 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
Her gaze meets mine, and for a moment, the fire in her eyes falters. But then she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin.
“And if I can’t do this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You will,” I say, stepping back toward the door. “Because there’s no other option.”
Without waiting for her response, I turn and leave, closing the door behind me.
But somehow, as I walk down the hall, her words linger, gnawing at the edges of my mind. For the first time in years, a crack splits through my iron resolve, and a cold and unwelcome feeling seeps in.
It’s a while before I can put a name to it.Doubt.
20
VALENTINA
The silence between Luca and me stretches over days, taut as a bowstring ready to snap. It’s not the first time we’ve fought, but this time, it’s different. It feels like standing on the edge of something steep and unfathomable.
The house buzzes with activity tonight, the kind of hushed frenzy that comes with preparing for one of the Salvatores’ infamous galas. Staff scurry through the hallways, balancing trays of polished crystal and silver, adjusting towering floral arrangements that perfume the air with their extravagance.
I’m in my room, sitting by the window, staring out at the estate's sprawling grounds. The sky is bruised with twilight, streaked with the deep indigos and purples of evening. From here, the world looks serene, like nothing inside these walls could ever touch it. But my mind refuses to settle.
I trace the edge of my gown absently. It’s a masterpiece of crimson silk, the fabric whispering against my skin like a secret. Donna Maria had insisted on it, because tonight, I am Luca’s wife, and the world will see it, whether I want them to or not. The thought of Luca sends a pang through my chest, sharp and unwelcome. He’s home tonight, somewhere in this labyrinth ofa house, likely overseeing the final details for the evening. He’s been distant, cold even, but I know him well enough to recognize the storm beneath the surface.
And me? I’m heartbroken.
Not just because he threatened Sofia, though that is a betrayal I can’t forgive. It’s the realization that no matter how angry I am, no matter how impossible this life feels, I can’t seem to stop loving him. It’s a cruel, unrelenting truth that digs into me, making everything so much harder.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. One of the maids steps in, her expression neutral but her tone polite. “Signora, the gala will begin shortly. Donna Maria asked me to ensure you are ready.”
I nod, forcing a smile, and she disappears as quietly as she came. I rise, smoothing my gown, and catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks poised, elegant, like she belongs in this world of power and intrigue. But my eyes—my eyes betray the turmoil underneath.
By the time I descend the grand staircase, the house is alive with the hum of voices and laughter. The sound swells as I approach the main hall, where guests are already mingling beneath the glittering chandeliers. The smell of expensive perfume and cigar smoke clings to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
And then I see Luca near the bar, his back to me at first, dressed in a tailored suit that fits him like a second skin. He’s magnetic, even from across the room. When he turns, his eyes find me immediately, locking onto mine with a heat that makes my pulse stutter.
I straighten, refusing to let him see how much his presence affects me. I’m supposed to stand by his side tonight, play the role of his adoring wife. But how can I, when I’m barely holding myself together?
He approaches, and for a moment, the noise and movement around us seem to blur into nothing. “You’re late,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“I wasn’t aware there was a timetable,” I reply, keeping my tone even.
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Stay close tonight,” he says simply, then offers me his arm.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before taking it, allowing him to guide me into the room. The evening is a careful dance of veiled tension. Luca introduces me to guests with practiced charm, his hand never straying far from mine. To everyone else, we must look like the perfect couple, but every touch feels like a silent reminder: you are mine.
The enormity of it all—the guests, the grandeur, the suffocating expectations—presses down on me until it’s hard to breathe. My mind drifts, unbidden, to our child. I glance at Luca, his profile sharp against the light, and wonder: could he ever leave this world behind for us? Would he even want to?
The answer feels as unreachable as the stars outside. A toast is called, drawing the room’s attention, and Luca steps forward, his presence commanding. I take the moment to slip away, retreating to a quieter corner of the room.
My heart pounds as I sip from a glass of champagne, letting the cool liquid settle the fire in my throat. The thought of running flickers through my mind again, but it feels like a betrayal now, not just to Luca, but to myself. I don’t want to run. But staying means raising my child in a world where death lurks in every shadow, where love is a dangerous weakness.
As I stand there, lost in thought, Luca finds me again. He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me with an intensity that makes my skin flush. “You look beautiful,” he says finally, his voice deceptively soft.
I want to hate him for making me feel like this, but I can’t. Instead, I nod, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”
And as the evening wears on, and the gala finally heads, giving me the opportunity to run back to my room as quickly as I can, I realize the truth: loving Luca might destroy me, but I don’t think I can stop. The silence in the bedroom is unbearable. Luca stands by the door, his presence heavy, filling the room as much as my resentment. He looks at me, waiting for something, maybe a fight, maybe forgiveness. I give him nothing.
I climb into bed without a word, pulling the covers up to my shoulders and turning my back to him. He exhales sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade.
