Grief shadows his family.
There’s endless speculation about who pulled the trigger.My father swore it wasn’t us, and I believe him.
My brother believes it was the Russos.Even though they’ve been blamed, proof is thin as smoke.
My breath catches, a sharp inhale that makes his eyes flicker with satisfaction, as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
Emotions flood me—shock first, cold and numbing, followed by a rush of understanding that heats my blood.
It doesn’t matter what the truth is.What he believes is the only thing that matters.
And this is the Moretti revenge.
Fear tightens my throat, but I swallow it down, refusing to let it show.I’m Valentina Russo—daughter of Don Fabrizio, his advisor, his shield.I won’t crumble.
“You know who I am.”
As much as I can, I give a small shrug.“An underling, I assume.”
His grin is sharp.Predatory.
What the hell am I thinking in pushing him?
I continue to meet his gaze as my body remains trapped against the wall.The way his heat envelops me makes it difficult to think clearly.
One thing is clear.He knows who I am.Knew exactly what he was doing.Every part of his abduction was perfectly planned, every word and act expertly executed.
The man is the most challenging opponent I’ve ever faced.
The sweatshirt clings to my skin.I’m damp from exertion, and the drawstring of the pants is loose enough that they’ve slipped a fraction lower on my hips.
His thigh shifts slightly, the movement sending a jolt through me that I clamp down on.I force myself to focus on the ache in my wrist, staying grounded through my pain.
He exhales slowly, his breath warm against my cheek, stirring more strands of hair.
Dante Moretti’s eyes continue to hold mine.They’re unreadable, but I catch a flicker of something raw—pain, perhaps—that’s buried deep.“Your family took something from me.”
His words are measured, each one weighted with accusation, his voice rough around the edges, like gravel underfoot.
The pressure of his forearm eases a fraction, not enough to free me, but enough to let me breathe deeper, the air rushing into my lungs in a shaky inhale.
“It wasn’t us.”My denial slips out automatically, fierce and protective, my loyalty to my family a shield I’ve worn since childhood.
Emotions war inside me—defensiveness for my blood, a pang of empathy for his loss that I quickly quash.
I’ve seen grief twist men into monsters.Is that what he is now?My heart aches unexpectedly at the thought, but I push it aside, focusing on the here and now, the way his body cages mine, the way the scent of blood sharpens the air.
His laugh is bitter, short, vibrating through his chest into mine.“Proof says otherwise.”His thumb stops moving, and he loosens his grip just enough for me to feel the calluses on his fingers, rough from whatever violence he’s wrought in his role.
The contact sends a strange thrill through me—dangerous, unwanted—but I ignore it, my mind latching onto strategy.If this is about revenge, I need to talk him down, find the cracks in his armor.
“What proof?”I challenge, my voice gaining strength, each word pushing back against his hold.My free hand twitches at my side, itching to shove him away, but I hold still, calculating.
The room’s quiet presses in, broken only by our breaths, the distant hum of the house—perhaps guards outside, water running somewhere far off.My bare shoulder itches where the sweatshirt has slipped, cool air kissing my skin, contrasting the heat where our bodies meet.
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes tracing my face, lingering on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
Tension coils in my muscles, and every nerve ending is alive, waiting for his next move.
