And that, more than anything, reminded me exactly who I was.
“Yeah?” she asked softly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glanced at her sideways. It hit me then, just how badly I’d let her in. She wasn’t a mere complication anymore, something to keep at arm’s length. She’d moved in closer, piece by stubborn piece, settling somewhere deep in my chest, right next to all those empty places Remy had left behind.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
She tipped her head slightly. “You ever tell anyone else that?”
“Tell them what?”
“That you’re proud of them.”
“No.”
“And you mean it?” she asked.
Some people needed to hear things. Needed to believe them. Needed to hold onto them like proof, like a lifeline. Valentina wasn’t one of them. She didn’t need me to mean it. She just needed to ask.
“Yeah,” I admitted gently.
“You don’t have to mean it, you know,” she said softly. “I’m not fragile. I won’t shatter if you lie.”
“If I wanted to lie to you, Valentina, I’d tell you I don’t give a shit.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Well, thank you.”
I stilled.
Those words shouldn’t matter—they were only words after all. Common courtesy. But they meant something to me, because Valentina didn’t do common courtesy. She didn’t thank anyone for anything. Not even when she should’ve. Especially not me. She’d always been that way—stubborn, spoiled, incapable of gratitude even when it was obvious.
It drove me insane.
Because “thank you” meant something. It was acknowledgment. Proof someone recognized the effort, the sacrifice.
Proof someone had been paying attention to me.
I’d spent months waiting for it. Every time I got her out of trouble, cleaned up a mess she’d left behind, pulled her out of harm’s way. Hearing her say it out loud each time affected me more than it should. It caught me off-guard too.
“You’re welcome,” I finally said.
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. “I probably won’t say it again.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to.”
But that wouldn’t stop me fromwantingher to.
She turned toward the window, and the rest of the drive passed in silence. Not comfortable silence—the kind that set your nerves on edge. The kind you heard too loudly. Because underneath it was something else. Something louder. A constant reminder of just how fragile this situation was. How easily it could break.
If Valentina ever found out the truth—if she ever figured out exactly who’d pulled the trigger on her husband—she’d have plenty to say.
And I knew damn well none of those words would be “thank you.”
CHAPTER 33
VALENTINA
It had only been a week. One week of waking up and knowing he was already gone. Of hearing the quiet click of the door somewhere around seven, maybe earlier.
