Valentina POV:
“Where are my things?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “My awards. The photos.”
Marco waved a dismissive hand. “They’re in storage. It’s just stuff, Vally. We can get it out later.”
“That wasn’t ‘just stuff,’ Marco,” I said, the cold rage building inside me. “That was my career. That was the work that paid for half of this penthouse.”
He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “This penthouse is in my name. It belongs to the family. It belongs to me. You live here because I allow you to.”
His words struck a raw nerve. I had spent my entire childhood being moved from one foster home to another, a guest in other people’s lives. The one thing I had promised myself was that I would build a home that was truly mine, a place no one could ever kick me out of. Marco had known that. And he had just used it against me.
Isabella glided over to Marco’s side, looping her arm through his. She leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “She’s so dramatic. You’re lucky to have a wife who understands what’s important.”
Then she looked directly at me, her eyes glittering with malice, and placed a hand on her flat stomach. “Our baby will have the best of everything. A proper home. A powerful father.”
“Get her out of here,” I said, my voice shaking with the effort of holding myself together.
“No,” Marco said, his jaw tight. “I told you, she’s staying. Stop being so selfish.”
“Selfish?” The word ripped out of me, a raw cry of anguish. “I gave you everything! My work, my career, my loyalty! I sacrificed everything for you, and you call me selfish?”
“For God’s sake, Vally, just be patient!” he roared back, his face contorted with anger. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”
Isabella smirked. “It’s because she has nothing else. No family, no real position. Without you, Marco, she’s just another orphan.”
The insult was so direct, so cruel, that it momentarily stunned me into silence.
“You’re wrong,” I said, finding my voice. “I built his entire public profile. He wouldn’t even be a soldier without my strategies. He’s nothing without my work.”
Isabella laughed, a high, tinkling sound. “Oh, sweetie. He told me all about your little ‘projects.’ He thinks it’s cute that you like to play with numbers.”
I went to my bedroom—our bedroom—and began pulling my clothes from the closet, stuffing them into a suitcase. My hands were shaking. I grabbed the box from under the bed that held my most important documents—birth certificate, social security card, copies of my professional certifications. The proof that I existed.
Marco followed me into the room. He stood in the doorway, watching me.
His voice was softer now, that manipulative, placating tone he used when he wanted something. “Vally, don’t do this. We can work this out.”
He walked over and picked up the Lombardi commendation from the box where one of his men had dumped it. He looked at the heavy paper, at the Don’s signature.
“This is what this is all about, isn’t it?” he said, a sneer in his voice. “Your precious work. Your little awards. They don’t mean anything, Vally. Not in the real world.”
I froze. For three years, he had praised my work, told me I was a genius, taken credit for my successes. And now, he was dismissing it all as a silly hobby. He didn’t just betray me; he had never respected me in the first place.
“You son of a bitch,” I screamed, years of repressed anger and pain finally erupting. “I gave you everything!”
I lunged for the award in his hand, but he held it out of reach.
“It’s just a piece of paper!” he yelled, his face inches from mine. He took a step back, bumping into the small table by the door. A framed photo—the one of us on our binding day—crashed to the floor, the glass shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.
He looked at the broken photo, then back at me, his eyes filled with a rage that mirrored my own. And then he walked out, leaving me alone with the wreckage of our life.
