“Well, on the bright side,” she said lightly, clearly trying to ease the tension she’d accidentally created, “you still ended up in a position to argue for a living.”
“Every kid’s dream.”
“Better dream than mine,” she muttered absently.
I looked at her, curious despite myself. “What was yours?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I wanted to be gold digger.”
“Excuse me?”
“From the moment I tried on my mom’s heels, I knew my destiny.” She stretched her arms over her head, dramatic as ever. “No taxes, no work, just yachts and cocktails and pretending to care about stock prices while my husband slowly withers under the weight of my spending.”
I gave her a long, slow blink, genuinely unsure if she was serious or not. Knowing Valentina, it was probably both. “Ambitious. And how’s that going for you?”
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes in playful accusation. “Well, considering my current husband is a grumpy, workaholic lawyer with zero yachts, I’d say it’s going terribly.”
I raised an eyebrow, amused despite myself. “Yet here you are, making grilled cheese for him.”
She shrugged lightly, suddenly interested in the crust of her sandwich. “Maybe I’m hoping to charm my way into your will.”
“Bold strategy, but I guess I am worth more dead than alive.”
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her lips. “Interesting. How much more?”
I took another slow bite, savoring the simplicity of the grilled cheese before answering calmly. “Enough to make it tempting, apparently.”
Valentina smiled softly—the kind of smile that probably hid knives. “Tempting enough to risk poisoning your grilled cheese?”
“There are cleaner ways to kill a man,” I said, matter-of-fact.
She watched me carefully. “As a war criminal, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
I almost choked on my sandwich.
Tommy must’ve told her about my past. Of course he’d tell her. Tommy didn’t have secrets, didn’t understand why other people needed them.
“That subject is off-limits.”
She stared at me for a moment longer, deciding whether to press further or retreat.
Her curiosity irritated me. It always did.
Valentina didn’t respect boundaries—not mine, not anyone’s—but somehow, she always knew exactly how far she could push before I’d shut her down completely.
And damn, if I wasn’t tempted to let her this time.
It bothered me how easily she did that—how effortlessly she made me second-guess lines I’d been drawing clearly foryears before I even met her. She was relentless in her curiosity, persistent in a way that was as maddening as it was intriguing.
She wasn’t wrong. It was understandable she’d want answers. She was my wife after all. But she’d agreed to this marriage under the terms I’d laid out—terms that specifically avoided anything resembling emotional intimacy. Yet here she was, acting like she’d stumbled across some great injustice simply because I refused to talk about birthdays or childhood memories or anything else that reminded me of things I’d rather not bring up.
“We’re married, remember? Call me crazy, but usually, people in our position know things about each other. If not about your work past, then basic things like birthdays and where you grew up.”
I stared at her blankly. “Faubourg Marigny.”
She blinked. “What now?”
I smirked.“Faubourg Marigny. It’s a neighborhood in New Orleans. That’s where I grew up.”
