I watched her carefully. “Your pragmatism borders on alarming.”
“Says the guy who literally profits from organized crime.”
“Careful, Valentina,” I muttered. “That’s your Manolo fund talking.”
“My Manolo habit thanks you for your service,” she said sweetly, tapping her nails against her glass. “You know, this is exactly why I prefer older men.”
I glared at her. “I keep forgetting you’re a child.”
She was young.
Twenty-two.
I knew that. I’d known it since the first time I saw her, becausehow could I not know it?Everything about herscreamed it—the impulsiveness, the stubbornness, the way she did things just to see what would happen. The way she acted like the world would always be interesting no matter how many times it tried to kill her.
“Don’t say that too loudly. I hear judges frown on child marriage,” she said as she popped a piece of crust into her mouth. “But relax. I’m sure this is the least concerning thing in your file, Marco.”
“My record is clean.”
“Sure,” she drawled. “And I’m the fucking Virgin Mary.”
“Bold claim,” I shot back, “given your reputation.”
Valentina smiled sweetly, unoffended. “Funny. You’re awfully judgmental for someone who makes his living off people who belong behind bars.”
I smirked. “At least I make a living instead of profiting off poor, miserable men.”
“And are you?” she wondered. “Poor and miserable?”
“Not as miserable as you’d like me to be,” I admitted.
Valentina laughed. “Give me time. I can be very persuasive.”
“I’m painfully aware,” I muttered dryly. “Usually to my detriment.”
She leaned back, amusement dancing in her eyes. “That’s because you’re too stubborn to admit you enjoy it.”
I arched a brow. “Enjoy what, exactly? Your talent for trouble, or the constant migraine?”
“Both,” she replied. “Admit it—without me, your life would be contracts, caffeine, and crippling loneliness.”
“My life was perfectly organized before you,” I countered.
“Organized,” she echoed softly. “Soundsriveting.”
“Some of us prefer structure.”
She smirked. “But you married the walking definition of disorder.”
“Temporary insanity,” I deadpanned.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dipping lower, deceptively innocent. “Insanity defense won’t hold up, lawyer. We both know you knew exactly what you were getting into.”
“Clearly, my judgment was impaired.”
She laughed lightly but didn’t respond. Instead she reached for something beneath her chair, pulling out a small, plain box. She set it casually on the table, sliding it toward me.
I eyed it suspiciously. “What’s this?”
