Virgin status confirmed. High value as leverage against E. Marchetti.
Dated two weeks before the masquerade.
I wrote those words. Typed them with my own fingers, assessing her like an asset rather than a person. And then I walked into that club and saw her standing there in that body paint, hibiscus in her hair, and something in me shifted. Cracked. Broke open to let in light I hadn't known I was missing.
Rafael would tell me to delete it. Drake already warned me about secrets.
But Rafael isn't the intelligence officer. I am. And this file isn't a standalone confession sitting in a drawer waiting to be discovered. It's woven into the Marchetti dossier, cross-referenced with Enzo's operations, his bodyguards' schedules, the security gaps her patterns revealed. Pulling it out means compromising the structural integrity of an active operation against a man who traffics women and launders money through children's charities.
I don't make operational decisions based on sentiment. That's how people die.
Beyond that, the file sits behind three layers of encryption on a secured server Ilona has no reason to access and no ability to breach. The risk of exposure is negligible. I've managed far more dangerous information for far longer.
I close the folder.
The file serves the mission. The mission serves justice. And when Enzo Marchetti is buried, the file becomes irrelevant history that nobody needs to revisit.
Clean. Contained. Under control.
The October light shifts through my windows, casting long shadows across my desk. Somewhere in this city, Enzo Marchetti is searching for his daughter, not knowing she's about to become untouchable.
Tomorrow she becomes my wife.
Tonight, I prepare for both.
Eight
Ilona
The morning sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting long golden fingers across a bed that swallows me whole.
For one disorienting moment, I don't know where I am. The ceiling is too high, the sheets too soft, the air scented with something warm and woody that tugs at memories I've been trying to bury. Then it all crashes back. The interview. The photos.
I raise my hand. The ring sits heavy on my finger, diamonds and rubies catching the morning light, reminding me of a promise I never intended to make.
I draw in a slow breath, hold it until my lungs ache, then release it in a controlled exhale. The trembling in my chest settles. Barely.
Today I become Mrs. Valentina.
I push myself upright and take in the guest room I claimed after spending all of yesterday exploring Luca's mansion. The space is enormous, all dark wood and cream fabrics and windows thatstretch from floor to ceiling. A fireplace dominates one wall, cold now but clearly functional, the marble mantle carved with vines and flowers that look almost alive in the shifting light.
The place isn’t what I expected.
I'd braced myself for something cold and sterile. The kind of modern minimalism rich men use to project power without personality. Chrome and glass and sharp angles designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
Instead, we drove through wrought iron gates marked with an elegant "V" in the middle of either side, and then I found myself staring at a Gilded Age mansion that looked like it had been plucked from another century. Grey limestone walls. Black iron accents. Gothic revival architecture that should have felt oppressive but somehow managed to feel like a sanctuary.
The interior surprised me even more. The first thing I noticed once my driver-slash-bodyguard opened the front door was the original hardwood floors. They creaked beneath my exhausted feet the more I explored. Then there were the coffered ceilings painted in deep colors. And fireplaces in nearly every room, some with fires already crackling against the October chill.
And the library. My word… I caught a glimpse of it on my way to this guest room, and I was tempted to just stay there.
My chest tightens just thinking about the amount of time and money that must have gone into supplying all the copies of various books I saw. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with volumes that looked actually read rather than decoratively arranged. The scent of sandalwood and old paper and leather bindings caught my attention too. Luca actually spends time there and for some reason I don’t really want to explore rightnow, that warms my heart. I imagine he loves the overstuffed chairs positioned near the windows. They looked worn and well-used. It is a space designed for comfort and for losing yourself in stories.
I hate that I love it.
I hate that when I walked through these halls last night, exhausted and terrified and pregnant with a stranger's baby, some traitorous part of me whispered,You could be happy here.
Last night I left a grocery list on the kitchen counter before I came up to bed. Just three things in my looping black ink. Ginger candy. Saltines. The herbal tea Luna swears by for nausea. A small list, but it felt huge. The first time I've written down what I need without asking permission first.
