Valentina — Seven Years Later
---
The click of my Louboutins on marble cuts through the casino's noise like a loaded gun.
Every man watches me like I'm dangerous.
Every woman watches me like I'm a threat.
Good.
That's the point.
The casino smells like old money and cheap luck. I move through it like I own the place — and tonight, I do. Half the guards work for my family. The other half just haven't figured it out yet.
I'm not here to gamble. I'm here to win.
A flash drive. Names. Accounts. Leverage. Small enough to fit inside my clutch — powerful enough to ruin anyone stupid enough to cross me.
This is the game.
It's always the game.
Seven years ago, I couldn't survive my own birthday party without hiding in the garden. Now I walk into rooms like this wearing silk and secrets — and I don't hide from anything.
Not even myself.
---
I let a man at the bar offer me a drink. He tries too hard to look rich. I smile just enough to make him think he's interesting. I touch his wrist, lean in close, then leave before he can ask my name.
I like the game. I like the chase. I like being wanted — but I never stay long enough for anyone to think they have me.
Because the moment something feels real, it can break.
And I've broken enough.
---
I'm almost out the back exit when I hear it.
"Still setting fires you can't put out?"
The voice slices through the hallway.
Low. Rougher than I remember. But sharp enough to cut through seven years of silence like a knife.
I turn.
He's standing half in shadow, hands in his pockets, eyes on me like no time has passed at all.
Matteo.
The moment I see him, I know this isn't by accident.
He's not here to catch up.
He's not here for old times.
He's here for the same thing I am.
And suddenly the flash drive in my purse feels heavier than gold.
I hate that my pulse stutters.
I hate that he still does that to me.
So I lift one eyebrow. Let my gaze drag over him — bored, amused, cold.
"Sorry. Do I know you?"
Then I turn my back on him and walk away.
Because I am Valentina De Luca.
And I don't look back.
Not even at the boy who left without saying goodbye.
---
I slide into the backseat of the waiting Aston Martin. The driver doesn't say a word — my father trained him well.
I open my clutch. Just to be sure.
The flash drive is still there. Cold metal. Warm power.
I lean back, legs crossed, eyes on the city lights flashing by. One hand resting on my thigh like I'm calm.
But inside?
I'm not calm at all.
If Matteo's back —
It means something.
And Matteo Russo never does anything for nothing.
Not in our world.