The Moretti estate was too quiet.
Not peaceful never peaceful but hushed like a snake coiling in the grass before it struck. The chandeliers glowed low like dying stars above Valentina's head as she padded barefoot through the east wing, the marble floor cool beneath her feet.
She passed an antique mirror and didn't recognize the woman reflected there.
Her black silk robe clung to her curves, her hair mussed from the wind she'd let tear through it on the balcony. Her mouth red, raw, wanting betrayed the war storming in her chest. Not from Emilio. No, not even from her father's threats echoing from Madrid.
It was Lupo.
Lupo with his cursed restraint and holy fury.
Lupo who looked at her like she was fire and still stepped into the flames.
She should leave. She should lock her door and pretend the heat pooling between her legs didn't throb at the memory of his hands on her hips days ago, steadying her when Emilio shoved her during their "engagement dinner" fight. Lupo had said nothing. Just looked at his brother like he was already digging his grave.
And that kiss.
One. Unholy. Kiss.
She still hadn't decided whether it had saved or condemned her.
But tonight, Valentina was done with pretending.
She turned down the last corridor and stopped in front of the door with the crimson insignia the one none of the staff dared linger near.
Lupo Moretti's quarters.
She didn't knock.
He answered anyway.
The door creaked open, and there he stood, shirtless, damp from a shower, dark hair curling at the ends and dripping down his sculpted chest. His sweatpants rode low, revealing the carved lines of his hipbones and the kind of danger a woman couldn't recover from.
Her breath hitched. His eyes narrowed.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"You've said that before," she answered coolly.
"And yet, here you are again. Testing me."
"I'm not here to play, Lupo."
His name was a sin on her tongue. He stepped aside silently, jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked along his cheek.
She entered.
His room was cavernous but raw. No gold. No marble. Just stone walls, leather chairs, shelves lined with knives and books, and a large oak desk littered with maps, ledgers, and encrypted dossiers. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty beside a glass he hadn't touched.
"Why are you here, Valentina?" he asked, closing the door with finality.
She faced him, arms crossed, robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. "Because I'm tired of being controlled. Tired of being passed from man to man like a forged document. I needed one moment that's mine."
"You think I'm safer than the rest of them?"
"I think," she whispered, stepping closer, "you're the only one who doesn't lie to me."
His eyes darkened. "You're wrong. I lie to myself about you every night."
His confession hit her like a slap of cold air. She didn't flinch.
"I don't care," she said.
"You should."
He turned away from her, muscles rippling under the low light. She crossed the room slowly and touched the map on his desk, tracing the red string that connected Mexico to Italy to Spain and then to her father's sigil.
"You've been tracking my family?"
"I track all enemies. Allies don't exist in this world."
She looked up. "And me? What am I?"
His silence stretched too long.
She spun on him. "Tell me, capo. Tell me if I'm just a weapon you plan to use to gut Emilio."
He stalked toward her, every step slow and lethal. "You think this is about my brother?"
"Isn't it?"
He stopped inches away. "You've turned me into a man I don't recognize."
His hand brushed her waist. Not possessively. Curiously. Reverently.
Valentina didn't breathe. Couldn't.
"I've watched you navigate this world like you were born in it. But I know you weren't. You bleed when they think you don't. You bite your tongue when they expect you to scream." His hand rose to her cheek, cupping it gently. "You're a walking act of vengeance."
She leaned into his touch like a woman drunk on pain. "Then ruin me."
A guttural sound tore from his throat, and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was nothing like the stolen one on the staircase days ago.
This one was devastation.
He kissed her like he'd held back a thousand nights. His hands claimed her like territory lost to time. She clung to him, her robe falling away in one motion as he lifted her onto the table, sweeping aside files and maps.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and gasped when he ground against her, still clothed, his heat searing through her skin.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped.
"No," she moaned, pulling him closer. "Don't you dare."
He gripped her jaw and forced her to look at him. "This makes you mine, Valentina Cruz. No going back."
"Good," she hissed, biting his lip. "I don't want to go back."
And then there was nothing but breath and sweat and secrets ripped from mouths too tired to lie anymore.
He undressed her slowly, reverently like peeling back silk over a blade. She traced the scars on his chest as if mapping the places that had made him cruel. He pressed his forehead to hers before sliding into her with a groan so deep she swore it echoed in her bones.
She cried out, not from pain but from the violent, unholy relief of being seen.
Each thrust was a confession. Every moan a pact.
And when they came undone together, bodies trembling like sinners in a storm, they held each other through the aftermath like war survivors clinging to the only warmth left in the world.
Hours Later
The candlelight had dimmed.
She lay on his chest, listening to the beat of a heart that should not care for her. Her fingers danced lightly across the ink on his ribs a wolf entangled with a snake.
"Do you regret it?" she asked quietly.
"No," he said. "But I fear it."
She tilted her head. "Why?"
He turned to face her fully. "Because Emilio will kill you if he suspects. And if he doesn't, your father will."
"I'm not scared."
"You should be. They don't kill for power. They kill for pride."
"I have no pride left," she whispered. "Only vengeance."
He kissed her again, softer this time. "Then we'll feed it. Together."
Valentina smiled darkly, but it didn't reach her eyes.
Because she hadn't told him everything.
Her father had sent her a gift that morning: a black box containing a silver dagger with her initials engraved.
And a note:
"If he touches you, use this. Or don't come home."