In any of this?
My heart pounding, I begin to dial the only phone number I know by heart.
For a moment, I hover over the final digit.
The screen’s glow casts a pale light across my knuckles, illuminating the faint bruises blooming from our earlier tussle.
The room’s silence presses in, broken only by the distant hum of air conditioning.
My pulse thuds frantically in my ears.
And finally, I press that last button.
The line connects with a soft click, the ringtone echo tinny through the speaker.
One ring stretches into eternity, making my breath catch.
Two rings, and my mind races through scenarios—my father ignoring it if he sees Dante’s name or answering with calculated calm, masking whatever storm brews beneath.
On the third, doubt creeps in.What if he doesn’t pick up?
Finally the call connects, and the line crackles to life with a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
There’s no immediate greeting, just a heavy silence that tells me he’s there, waiting, assessing.
My father’s voice finally emerges, low and edged with the wariness of a man who’s navigated too many traps.“Russo.”
His voice is neutral, guarded—no hint of recognition or alarm, as if this could be any late-night business call.
But beneath it, I sense the coiled readiness that I’ve witnessed in countless negotiations.
He knows.
I clench my free hand in the sheet.“Papa, it’s me.”The words escape in a rush, but my voice is steadier than I feel.
I’m his daughter, through and through.
“Valentina.”His voice cracks open, raw urgency bleeding through, the paternal instinct overriding the don’s composure.
Suddenly my eyes sting with unshed tears.
This is his worst nightmare come true.
“I’m…” I pause, the word hanging heavy, my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth.Dante continues to watch me; his regard is as cold as it is calculated.“I’m safe.”
“Are you hurt?I’ll send?—”
“I’m fine.”I cut him off, the interruption sharp, my breath hitching as I force the words out, each one a calculated step on this precarious tightrope.
The phone warms in my grip, a lifeline that’s also a chain under Dante’s watchful eyes.“I’m with Dante Moretti.”
A sharp inhalation ricochets across the distance.“What the—” He follows with a string of low, venomous profanities in Italian.“Thatfiglio di puttana.I’ll have his head?—”
His fury is a living, breathing thing.
“I’m unharmed.”That’s mostly true.The cut on my foot is a minor sting compared to the bruise on my soul and the self-recrimination bouncing around my head.
How the hell could I have been stupid enough to let anyone—especially a Moretti—get so close to me?
