Page 8 of The Hidden Heir

To his credit, Eddie asks nothing. But when he reaches for the car seat, Valentina steps between them, and the look she gives me could strip paint.

"Michael is the Petrucci heir," I tell her. "He's worth more to us alive than you."

The words land like a slap. They're meant to. She lets Eddie take the sleeping boy inside, and she watches every step he climbs like she's memorizing the fire exits.

I bring her into the living room and close the doors. Get the fire going. Pour two glasses of scotch.

"No, thank you," she says.

"Excellent." I bring her the glass anyway.

She takes it, and our fingers brush. Neither of us moved; I'd swear to that in court. Her breath catches before she can stop it, and she snatches her hand back like the glass burned her, furious at her own skin, and drinks like it's medicine.

Firelight finds her where she plants herself by the window, tracing the line of her hip under the robe, and I make myself look at the fire instead. It doesn't help. I already know the shape of her by heart, which should be impossible after four hours.

A knock; Eddie hands her a baby monitor. "He's fast asleep, ma'am. This is for you." A small kindness she wasn't braced for. She murmurs a thank-you and holds the thing with both hands, the way her son held the cup.

"The Michelangelo Room," she says when he's gone, turning the name over like a stone she wants to throw. "Do all your cells have names?"

"Only the ones with lake views."

"How generous. Alcatraz had those too."

I've killed men for less than the tone she's using, and all I want is more of it. Concerning.

"Why didn't you go back to the Mancusos?" I ask instead. "Two years alone with an infant. He'd have taken you in."

Her laugh is short and airless. "You've met my stepfather. His family is not mine. It never was." Something older than two years moves behind her eyes when she says it. A debt of blood. I make a note to pull the file.

"And Stefano?" I keep my voice level. "How does Mancuso's stepdaughter end up carrying my brother's child, then vanish so completely that his own family never hears the boy exists?"

She stares into her glass for a long moment. "I found out I was pregnant," she says at last. "And Stefano stopped taking my calls. Stopped answering messages. Like I'd never existed."

"Convenient."

Her head snaps up.

"My brother goes silent. You disappear. Two years later, someone hands Mancuso his location gift-wrapped." I set my glass down. "That's the story the evidence tells, Valentina. And evidence is all I have, because everyone who could confirm your version is dead."

She looks at me for a long, cold moment. Then she sets her glass on the mantel with a click of finality.

"You want to canonize your brother? Go ahead. Light a candle. I'm not going to be the one who tells you what he really was."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning ask someone who was allowed to know him." She folds her arms. "I'm done answering questions about Stefano."

Something moves behind her eyes. Hurt, real or performed, I can't tell. That's what makes her dangerous.

That's what makes me want to believe her. Which is worse.

"So here is where we are," I say. "Mauro Mancuso is coming for your son, and now he's coming through me to do it. He will not stop, because he cannot afford to. And there is exactly one thing in our world that makes a woman untouchable. Not distance. Not money." I hold her gaze. "A name."

She goes very still. "No."

"Mine, Valentina. You're going to marry me."

The glass trembles in her hand. "You're insane. There is nothing on this earth that would make me marry you."