Page 13 of Brutal Union
"What are you doing?" Sofia asks.
"Clearing the table." Valentina stacks plates efficiently. "Despite popular opinion, Bernardi women weren't raised by servants. My mother insisted we learn to take care of ourselves."
She moves with capable hands, balancing crystal and china like she's done it a thousand times. There's something mesmerizing about watching her perform such a mundane task, this woman I stole from her wedding now clearing my family's table by choice. She moves through my space like she belongs here, and something dangerous tightens in my chest. This was supposed to be about possession, control, preventing an alliance. But watching her handle my family's casual cruelty with grace, seeing her choose to help rather than sulk changes things. It becomes something I didn't plan for and can't afford.
I follow her to the kitchen, drawn by the sight of her working in my space. She doesn't acknowledge me, just continues loading the dishwasher with mechanical precision.
"You didn't have to do that," I say.
"I know." She rinses a wine glass, holding the crystal up to check for spots. "But sitting still makes me feel more trapped than moving."
Through the doorway, I hear Sofia talking to Alessandro: "She's different than I expected. Not what I thought a Bernardi princess would be."
"Different how?" Alex asks.
"Stronger. More interesting. The way she handles herself… it's not what I expected from their family."
"She has decent taste in dresses at least," Sofia adds, which from my sister is practically a declaration of friendship.
Valentina hears it too. Her hands pause on the crystal she's drying, a flicker of something crossing her face. Not quite victory, but satisfaction maybe. She's earned respect from the most dangerous family in Chicago.
"They don't hate me," she observes.
"They don't hate you," I confirm, moving closer until I can smell her perfume mixing with dish soap. "That's essentially approval in this family."
She reaches past me for a dish towel, her breast grazing my arm. The contact shoots straight to my cock, and I see her nipples harden beneath the black dress.
"Your brother smiled," she says, voice slightly breathless as she sets down the glass. "Dante actually smiled at me."
"You surprised him. That's rare." I study her profile, the elegant line of her throat, the way wisps of dark hair escape from her careful style. "You surprised all of them."
"Did I surprise you?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I'm not ready to examine. Four days since I tasted her, since she called me husband while coming apart, and she's still revealing new facets. Each one more intriguing than the last.
"You have hidden depths," I admit, watching her hands move precisely. "Makes me wonder what else you're concealing behind that Bernardi princess facade."
She turns to face me fully, those dark eyes unreadable. "Everyone has secrets, Marco. Even men who think they know everything."
"I intend to discover all of yours." The promise comes out darker than intended. "Every hidden thought, every concealed skill, every secret you've buried under years of survival."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." I catch her wrist, thumb finding her pulse. It jumps beneath my touch, fast and fluttering. "You're a Rosetti now, even if you don't accept it yet. You've proven yourself worthy of the name tonight. But worthiness and trust are different things."
Her pulse races beneath my touch, but she doesn't pull away. I can smell her arousal beneath the perfume, faint but unmistakable. "You don't trust me?"
"I don't know you. Not really. Tonight showed me that clearly." I release her wrist, stepping back before I do something stupid like bend her over this counter. "But I will. Every dark corner, every hidden strength, every secret you think you've buried deep enough to never surface."
She returns to the dishes, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands grip the crystal a fraction too tight. Good. Let her wonder what methods I'll use to investigate her secrets. Let her worry about what I'll find.
My family filters past the kitchen, offering goodbyes and surprisingly civil nods to Valentina. Even Sofia pauses at the doorway.
"Try to last two weeks at least," she says to Valentina. "It would be embarrassing if you proved me right about the one week thing."
After they're gone, the compound feels too quiet. The scent of garlic lingers. Valentina finishes with the dishes in silence while I watch, noting every movement, every micro-expression. She's not what I expected when I stole her from that altar. She's more. The question is how much more, and whether that's dangerous or delicious.
"Ready to leave?" I ask, though we both know she has no choice.
