Leona didn't ask questions when she handed Valerio the envelope. De Luca had looked her dead in the eye when he passed it over — not threatening, not warm, but something in between. Calculating. Curious. And just a little too interested in her for Valerio's comfort.
She had barely spoken since they got back.
The letter wasn't sealed. She could've read it. Every second of the car ride, the temptation scratched at her. But she didn't. Maybe because she sensed it wasn't meant for her — or maybe because, deep down, she already knew it would bring nothing but trouble.
Valerio took it with a nod and disappeared into his study without a word.
The door clicked shut.
And she stood outside, hands clenched, staring at the wood like it might give her answers.
Inside, Valerio sat in his leather chair, the envelope untouched on the desk for a full minute. He stared at it like it was ticking.
Then, he opened it.
The letter
Valerio,
Let me start by saying I've always respected you. Not liked, not trusted — but respected. You lead like your grandfather did. With sharp eyes and a sharper instinct.
But respect only goes so far.
I know she works for you now. Leona Vale. She delivered this letter with that same soft expression she wears like a mask — sweet, innocent, a little clumsy. It's convincing. Very convincing.
She doesn't belong in your world, does she? That's the story you're telling yourself. That you're protecting her.
But you're wrong.
She doesn't belong to you, Valerio.
She belongs to me.
I saw her before you did — in Prague, two years ago. She was working under a different name. I remember the way she smiled at a mark right before she vanished into the crowd. Even then, she was lightning bottled in skin. I didn't touch her. I was waiting for the right moment. For the right reason.
I have that reason now.
I want her.
Give her to me, and I'll step back. No blood. No games. Just a clean trade. You know I don't bluff — and if you refuse, I won't be subtle.
I'll start with your businesses. Then your allies. Then your family.
You lost your grandfather because someone whispered the wrong name to the wrong ears. Don't make the same mistake.
I don't want to strike. But I will. And when I do, you'll be the one holding the smoking gun — because you chose her over peace.
She's not what she seems. You know it, even if you won't admit it.
You think you're protecting her? No, Valerio. She's the storm. I'm just the man trying to keep it from tearing down your entire empire.
Make the right choice. While you still can.
— Salvatore De Luca
Valerio's jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
He folded the letter with slow, deliberate precision and tucked it into the bottom drawer of his desk. Locked it. His hand lingered on the key. The rage in his chest felt oddly calm — quiet like the sea before a hurricane.
There was a beat of silence, then a soft knock.
"Valerio?"
Her voice. Gentle. Cautious.
He didn't turn. "You should rest."
"I'm not tired."
"I am," he muttered.
The door opened anyway.
She stepped in barefoot, his white shirt brushing her thighs. The familiar comfort of her in his space should've eased something in him. But instead, it tightened the knot in his chest.
"What was in the letter?"
He didn't answer.
Leona tilted her head. "I assume it wasn't a birthday card."
"Don't, Leona," he warned.
She blinked. "Don't what? Ask questions about the letter I was made to deliver? About the man who looked at me like I was already his property?"
Valerio stood up, sharp, eyes dark. "I'm handling it."
"By locking yourself in here with your secrets?"
He turned away, jaw ticking.
"What did he say, Valerio?"
"I told you. Nothing important."
"You're lying."
A pause.
"Yes," he said flatly. "I am."
Leona crossed the room in three steps. "Then tell me the truth."
His voice was lower now. Dangerous. "The truth is — you don't want to know what that letter said."
"Try me."
"He wants you," Valerio snapped.
Leona froze.
"He wants you, Leona. Not dead. Not silenced. His. Like some… twisted trade-off for peace. Like you're a pawn I'm supposed to give up in exchange for keeping everything else."
She stared at him, face unreadable.
"And?" she said quietly. "Are you going to give me up?"
Valerio's eyes flickered, the answer rising and choking in his throat. The fact that she had to ask cracked something in him.
"No," he said, voice hoarse. "But you should hate me for even thinking about it."
Silence stretched between them, tight and full of things neither dared say.
Then she whispered, "So what now?"
Valerio looked at her like she was a loaded gun he couldn't put down. "Now I do what I always do, Leona. I fight."
"And me?"
He stepped closer, eyes burning. "You stay close. You don't leave this house. And you don't talk to De Luca again."
"And if he comes here?"
Valerio's expression hardened. "Then I'll put a bullet through his offer."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded — but the distance between them stayed. The fracture wasn't from De Luca's words. It was from the way Valerio had tried to protect her.
By hiding the truth.
Valerio didn't leave his study for another hour.
The locked drawer might've sealed the letter, but it didn't stop its words from echoing through his mind. She was working under another name… she smiled before vanishing into the crowd… I didn't touch her. I was waiting.
The phrasing hadn't been angry. That was the part that got under his skin the most. De Luca wasn't threatening — not in the usual way. He wasn't warning Valerio about Leona because she was dangerous. He was watching her. Claiming her. Like she was a piece in a game that Valerio didn't even know had started.
And the worst part?
The possibility — the horrifying possibility — that De Luca wasn't lying.
She had shown up out of nowhere. No family. No connections. A resume that checked out just enough. She laughed like sunlight and tripped over crates and asked naïve questions that didn't fit in a place like his.
Too naïve.
Or too perfectly naïve.
He sat back in the chair, one hand running over his face.
Was it real?
Everything she was — Leona — the soft smiles, the genuine confusion at mafia politics, the visible fear when anyone mentioned Vesper. The way she avoided violence like it made her sick.
Or was all of it… fabricated?
Because De Luca hadn't said she was a threat. He hadn't said she was Vesper. No. That would've been easier to dismiss. He'd said she was living under another name. That she vanished after smiling at a mark. That she was used to disappearing.
That she was lying.
And that… felt personal.
Valerio stared at the floor, jaw clenched.
If De Luca had seen her before — if Leona had lived another life before this one — why would she hide it? Was she running? Hiding something worse? Or… was she simply trying to survive?
You're protecting her like she's fragile, De Luca had written. But she's not. She's the storm.
Valerio stood abruptly, the chair creaking behind him.
His first instinct was to storm into her room and ask — demand the truth, force it out if he had to. But then what? Watch her flinch? Watch her eyes fill with tears as he accused her of something he didn't even understand?
He rubbed at his temple. No. Not like that.
The woman who stood beside him every day — who leaned over the bar to tease him about his drink order, who made his mafia empire feel almost bearable — she didn't act like someone trained to vanish. She acted like someone terrified of being found.
And maybe that was the point.
If she was hiding something… maybe it wasn't from him.
Maybe it was from De Luca.
Or worse — from herself.
His phone buzzed once — a security update. The house was locked, the perimeter monitored. He'd made sure of it the moment she stepped into his life.
And still, for the first time since she'd arrived, Valerio didn't know if he was keeping Leona safe from the world — or the world safe from her.
He walked to the window and stared out into the dark yard. Somewhere out there, De Luca was watching. Waiting. Certain that Valerio's emotions would make him weak.
Valerio exhaled slowly.
He didn't know if the letter was a lie. But he knew one thing — he wasn't giving her up.
Not yet.
Not until he had the truth from her lips. Not from De Luca's pen.
And if Leona was hiding something… if this identity of hers was a mask over something broken, or deadly, or buried in blood —
Then he'd burn with it.
Because she was his now. Even if that meant holding hands with the storm.