Chapter 2: Twenty-Four Hours Earlier
Valentina's POV
The crystal chandelier above the dining table cast prismatic light across my father's face, making him look almost ethereal. Almost angelic.
I knew better.
Vincent Romano was many things, a saint wasn't one of them. But as he sat at the head of our family's dining table, discussing the upcoming charity gala with the same intensity most men reserved for business deals, he looked every inch the respectable businessman he pretended to be.
"The mayor confirmed?" My father cut into his steak with surgical precision. Everything he did was precise. Controlled. Calculated.
"Yes, sir." Paulo Santoro, our consigliere, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He was a thin man, all sharp angles and nervous energy, with wire-rimmed glasses that constantly slipped down his nose. "Along with three city councilmen, the police commissioner, and half the board of the children's hospital."
"Good." My father's approval was a subtle thing, just a slight nod, but Paulo practically glowed under it. "Valentina, you'll wear the blue Valentino. The one with the modest neckline."
It wasn't a question.
"Of course, Dad." I took a sip of wine, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle over my shoulders like a fur coat. Beautiful but suffocating.
Across from me, my younger brother Marco snorted into his pasta. At nineteen, he still hadn't learned the art of silent rebellion. Everything he felt played across his face like a movie screen.
"Something funny, Marco?" Our father didn't look up from his plate.
"Nothing. Just thinking Val's probably tired of being dressed like a nun for these things." Marco reached for his wine glass, his fourth of the evening. "She's twenty-five, not twelve."
"Marco." My father's voice dropped to that quiet register that made grown men flinch. "Your sister understands that image is everything. Perhaps if you'd learned that lesson, you wouldn't have gotten thrown out of three clubs this month."
Marco's jaw tightened. His knuckles went white around his fork.
I kicked him under the table before he could say something stupid. His eyes flicked to mine, angry and hurt and so achingly young despite his attempts at swagger. I gave him the smallest shake of my head.
Not worth it. Never worth it.
He subsided with a muttered, "Yes, sir."
"The Romano name means something in this city." My father continued as if the exchange hadn't happened. "Respectability. Class. Power. We're not like the other families, scrambling in the dirt for scraps. We build hospitals. We fund scholarships. We make this city better."
And in the shadows, we ran protection rackets, laundered money through legitimate businesses, and made problems disappear. But we didn't talk about that at the dinner table.
The dining room door swung open, and my cousin Lucia breezed in wearing designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, and her makeup was flawless as always.
"Sorry I'm late, Uncle Vincent." She kissed my father's cheek before sliding into the seat next to me. "Traffic was a nightmare."
"Lucia." My father's tone softened slightly. He'd always had a weakness for Lucia, probably because she was the daughter of his late brother and reminded him of happier times. "We were just discussing the gala."
"Oh, I already have my dress. Dior. It's gorgeous." Lucia squeezed my hand under the table, a quick gesture of solidarity. We'd been more like sisters than cousins since my mother died when I was eight. She was the only person in this family who really knew me.
Well, almost the only person.
"Excellent." My father pushed back from the table, meal apparently over despite half his steak remaining. He never finished his food. Said it showed weakness to be seen as gluttonous. "Valentina, my study. Five minutes."
My stomach dropped.
Paulo gathered his things and scurried after my father like a faithful dog. Marco immediately reached for the wine bottle, and Lucia's hand tightened on mine.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
"Nothing." And that was true. I'd been perfect lately. Perfect daughter, perfect hostess, perfect Romano princess. I attended every event, smiled at every associate, and never once stepped out of line.
So why did I feel like I was about to be punished?
"Maybe it's about Alessandro," Lucia suggested, her voice carefully neutral.
Alessandro Greco. Ambitious underboss, my father's protégé, and the man everyone expected me to marry. Handsome in a cold, classical way. Smart. Ruthless. Everything my father wanted in a son-in-law.
Everything I didn't want in a husband.
"Maybe." I stood, smoothing down my dress. Also blue. Also modest. I had a closet full of clothes designed to make me look untouchable. "I should go."
"Want me to wait?" Lucia's eyes were concerned.
"No, it's fine. Probably just gala details." I forced a smile I didn't feel.
Marco was already on his second glass of wine, staring at nothing. Lucia watched me with worried eyes. And I walked toward my father's study with the same feeling I'd had walking into that warehouse.
Like I was heading toward something that would change everything.
My father's study was everything he was: impressive, intimidating, and meticulously organized. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, filled with leather-bound first editions he'd probably never read. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface clear except for a single lamp and a crystal tumbler of scotch.
He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the manicured grounds of our estate. Paulo hovered near the desk like a ghost.
"Close the door, Valentina."
I did.
The click of the latch sounded very final.
"Alessandro has asked for my blessing." My father didn't turn around. "He wants to marry you."
There it was. The ax I'd been waiting to fall.
"I see." My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"I told him yes."
Of course he did. Alessandro was perfect on paper. Loyal, competent, ambitious but not too ambitious. He'd been groomed for leadership, and marrying the boss's daughter would cement his position. It was smart politics.
It was also my nightmare.