Valentina POV:
“She’s pregnant, Vally,” Marco whispered after he hung up the phone, his voice laced with a false, conspiratorial intimacy. “She told me tonight. She’s terrified. The Moretti family will disown her if they find out it happened before the ‘official’ family union. She has nowhere else to go.”
He was trying to appeal to my kindness, the part of me he had always used as a lever to get what he wanted. He thought a sob story would be enough to make me accept this.
I felt a sudden, violent urge to pick up the whiskey decanter on the bar and bring it down on his head. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.
He saw the look on my face and his own hardened. “What we have, Vally, is real. This is just… business.”
I thought of all the times he’d brought me soup when I was sick, the way he’d hold me when I had nightmares about my childhood in the system. Was any of that real? Or was it all just part of the long con?
“I’m leaving you, Marco,” I said, the words feeling solid and real in my mouth.
The calm mask dropped from his face. In an instant, he crossed the room and his hand clamped down on my arm, his grip like steel.
“No,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re not.”
He dragged me closer, his eyes burning with a dark fire I had never seen before. “You belong to me. You are mine. You don’t go anywhere unless I say so. Do you understand?”
It wasn’t the voice of a lover. It was the voice of a master. A Don. For the first time, I saw past the charming man I thought I loved and saw the ruthless soldier beneath. He wasn't just ambitious; he was possessive, obsessed with the idea of owning me, not loving me.
My struggling ceased. A cold calm washed over me. I let my body go limp, my face becoming a blank mask. Fighting him physically was pointless. He was stronger, and in this world, he had all the power. But he didn’t own my mind. Not anymore.
The next day, I came home from a long, pointless day at the office to find the front door ajar. I heard voices inside—Marco’s, and a woman’s light, musical laugh.
I pushed the door open and froze.
The hallway was filled with boxes. Isabella Moretti was standing in the middle of our living room, directing two of Marco’s men as they carried in her belongings.
Marco saw me and rushed over, a strained smile on his face. “Vally. I was going to tell you. With the baby… Isabella can’t be on her own. It’s just for a little while. For appearances.”
Isabella turned to me, her face a picture of timid apology. “I am so sorry to intrude,” she said sweetly. “Marco has told me how much this home means to both of you.”
My eyes scanned the room. My gallery wall, filled with the professional awards and commendations I’d earned—the proof of my work, my soul—was bare. In its place, leaning against the wall, was a large, framed portrait of her and Marco, smiling together. One of Marco’s men was holding a hammer and nail, ready to hang it.
They were literally replacing me. Wiping me from the walls, from the very history of this place.
Marco was watching me, his eyes pleading. He was complicit. He was letting this happen.
Isabella walked over to the bare wall, running a hand over the empty space where my proudest achievement—a commendation signed by Dante Lombardi himself—had once hung.
“We’re thinking of putting the baby’s crib here,” she said, her voice dripping with poison. “Don’t you think it will be perfect?”
Marco didn't even flinch. He just watched me, waiting for me to break. He rushed to her side when I didn’t respond, his voice sharp.
“Vally, be nice. She’s pregnant.”
That was it. The final, unforgivable violation. This wasn’t just a betrayal of my heart. It was an invasion. He had brought the enemy into my home, my sanctuary, and was asking me to welcome her with open arms.
