Page 24 of Brutal Union
9 - Valentina
Marco Rosetti stands at the stove whisking eggs with the smooth movements of someone’s Italian grandmother. The sight stops me cold in the kitchen doorway, silk nightgown suddenly too thin, too revealing, as sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows painting Chicago gold.
For a moment, I can't process what I'm seeing. This is the same man who destroyed Antonio's hand for touching me. The same man who carries a gun like other men carry wallets. But here he is, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that flex with each movement of the whisk, looking almost… domestic.
My traitorous body responds immediately. Nipples tightening beneath the silk, that familiar ache building between my thighs. Two weeks of sleeping beside him, breathing his scent, and my body has learned to crave him like an addiction I can't break. The marble is cold beneath my bare feet, making me hyperaware of every step, every shift of silk against sensitized skin as I move closer.
The shoulder where I stitched him moves without stiffness now, mostly healed from the Irish blade. My hands remember the warmth of his blood, how I chose to heal instead of run. The memory makes something twist in my chest. Not quite regret, not quite satisfaction, but something dangerous in between.
"You're awake," he says without turning. Of course he heard me approach. This man misses nothing.
"You cook." The words escape before I can stop them, tinged with genuine surprise.
He glances over his shoulder, a smile playing at his lips that carries just enough edge to remind me who he is. "My nonna insisted all her grandsons learn. 'What if you marry a woman who can't feed you properly?'" His voice softens on the word 'nonna,' carrying a tenderness I've never heard from him before. Then his eyes darken as they travel down my body, visible through the thin silk. "Though I'm learning you have other appetites I'm more interested in satisfying."
The intimacy of this moment feels more dangerous than any threat he's made. This is Marco without the armor of his suits, without the cold control. This is a man who learned recipes from his grandmother, who whisks eggs with the same precision he uses for everything else.
"That's her carbonara sauce," he continues, nodding toward a pan where cream and cheese bubble gently. "She'd threaten to disown any grandson who used store-bought sauce."
Despite myself, I drift closer, drawn by curiosity and the incredible smell. The kitchen is a marvel of modern design and expensive appliances, but right now it feels almost… normal. Like any kitchen where someone is making breakfast for someone they care about.
No.I can't think that way.
"Carbonara for breakfast?" I ask.
"Just a dollop to flavor the scrambled eggs," he says with a wink. "Don't tell anyone."
I huff out a not-quite laugh.
"Espresso?" He pours from an Italian machine, not waiting for my answer. The cup he hands me is delicate porcelain, the coffee inside rich and perfect.
I accept it because refusing feels petty, and the first sip makes me close my eyes involuntarily. It's extraordinary. Of course itis. Everything in this penthouse is designed to seduce through luxury.
"Your nonna taught you well," I admit, watching him plate the scrambled eggs smoothly.
"She taught all of us. Said a man who can't feed his family isn't worth the family name." He sets a plate before me, then takes his own seat at the breakfast bar. Close. Too close. His thigh brushes mine, and the contact shoots straight to my core. "The memory of her teaching us, it's one of my favorite ones from childhood."
The admission hangs between us as I take my first bite. The flavors explode on my tongue. Rich, creamy, perfectly balanced. A small sound of pleasure escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes darken at the sound, pupils dilating with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. "Keep making those sounds, principessa, and breakfast will end very differently than planned."
Heat floods my face, pooling lower as my core clenches at the promise in his voice. I shift on the barstool, trying to ease the ache, but the movement only makes it worse. The thin silk of my nightgown provides no barrier. I can feel the cool leather against my bare skin where it's ridden up.
Outside, the sunrise continues its slow crawl across Chicago's skyline, bathing everything in gold. The light transforms the penthouse from a prison to something else, something that looks almost like a home. I push the thought away, but it lingers.
"And how had you planned it to end?" I ask, despite myself. "Breakfast, I mean."
His fingers drum the counter while he thinks. "Perhaps with a lively debate about novels."
The noise of disbelief escapes me before I can stop it. "I'll believe you read fiction the same day that a crow becomes Mayor of Chicago."
His mouth twitches as though he's caught me in a trap. "Have you read Calvino?"
"Italo Calvino?" I blink at him. "You really read fiction?"
"Why so surprised?" He takes his seat at the breakfast bar, close enough that I catch his bergamot cologne. "Did you think I only read military strategy?"
"Well, considering that you have three shelves of…"
