Marco watches me, long and steady, then nods once.
“Then I’ll be there,” he says. “I’ll walk my little girl down the aisle.”
His shoulders square again, decision made.
But he leans forward slightly, his gaze sharpening.
“I know you love her Salvatore and surprisingly, you seem like an okay guy, so let me give you a piece of advice. If you want her to love you completely, you have to let her choose you.”
I don’t respond.
“If you force her, control her, cage her…” he continues, his fingers pressing into the wood now, “you’ll never have all of her.”
He gives me a minute to let it sink it.
“Love isn’t obedience.”
My jaw tightens.
“Valentina doesn’t belong to anyone,” he adds, quieter now. “Not even you.”
I stand, the chair shifting softly beneath me. “See you at the wedding, Marco.”
He rises as well, straightening slightly.
“I want one thing.”
“You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“I know.” He holds my gaze.
I wait.
“Those flowers she wanted… they’re called forget-me-nots. Make sure she gets them.”
“I will.”
He exhales slowly, something like disbelief crossing his face. “Crazy world,” he mutters. “My daughter… marrying a fucking Vitale.”
He looks at me a moment longer, like he’s measuring something he’s finally decided to accept.
“You going to start calling me Dad, Mr. Vitale?” he asks, a hint of dry humor in his voice.
I pause at the door, my hand resting on the handle, then glance back.
“No. But you can call me Salvatore.” He nods in agreement, and just like that, forty years of hate, tension, and family fued doesn’t disappear… it bends.
Now, I deal with the one person she trusts most.
* * *
“Boss.” Nico meets me at the door. “She’s been here twenty minutes. Came without a fight. Walked right through the front gate like she’d been here before.”
Something almost like amusement moves through me. “Of course she did.”
I take my time. I pour a drink I don’t particularly want, but I know enough about her to know I’ll need one anyway. Then I go to meet Valentina’s best friend.
Lindsay is sitting with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Dark blazer. Sharp eyes. Posture so composed it looks rehearsed, and it probably is. She walks into rooms full of dangerous men for a living, and she has learned to wear stillness like armor.
