Chapter 1 — The Marriage Deal
Valentina
The clinking of cutlery against ceramic plates filled the warm air of La Rosa Trattoria, mingling with the faint strains of a violin playing from the kitchen radio. The restaurant brimmed with evening diners—locals laughing over wine, children slurping spaghetti, and the occasional regular who greeted Valentina with a fond nod as she moved through the room. This was her sanctuary, her solace amidst the chaos of her family’s world. But tonight, even the rich aroma of marinara sauce and garlic couldn’t dissolve the tension that gripped her chest.
Her father’s summons had been abrupt, delivered with the kind of weight that sent a chill down her spine. Marco Russo rarely called meetings during dinner service, and the presence of his silent guards lurking near the wine racks only deepened her unease.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Val straightened her posture and approached the private back booth. The trattoria’s wooden floorboards creaked faintly beneath her boots, each sound magnified by her heightened nerves. She caught snippets of jovial conversations from the diners around her, a cruel contrast to the storm brewing within her.
Marco sat waiting, his broad shoulders hunched over a glass of red wine. The faint scent of tobacco clung to him, and his sleek cigar cutter rested idly on the table, its steel glinting under the dim amber light. His weathered face was unreadable, but the tight grip he had on the glass betrayed his usual calm. Beside him, his two men stood like statues, their suits immaculate and their gazes sharp.
“Papa,” Val greeted, sliding into the booth across from him. She smoothed her apron, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to shake. “You called?”
Marco’s hazel eyes, so much like her own, pinned her in place. “Take off the apron, Valentina. This isn’t about the restaurant.”
Her stomach knotted. Slowly, she untied the strings and set the apron aside, folding her hands on the table to mask the tension coiling in her fingers. “What’s going on?”
Marco leaned back in his seat and placed the cigar cutter in his pocket, his fingers grazing the rim of his wine glass. “The Moretti family is making moves. Dante’s been pushing into our territory, and he’s not being subtle about it. Last week, one of our men was found at the docks. Beaten. Barely alive. It was a message.”
Val felt her chest tighten. She knew better than to ask for specifics—Marco rarely shared the details of his business with her, and she preferred it that way. But the mention of Dante Moretti sent a ripple of unease through her. The man was all charm and venom, a predator lurking beneath a polished exterior.
“What does this have to do with me?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Her father’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s time to solidify our alliances. The DeLuca family has agreed to a union. You’ll marry Adrian.”
The words struck her like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. For a moment, the din of the trattoria faded to nothing but a muffled hum. “What?”
Marco’s tone remained calm, but there was a heaviness to it, like a storm cloud waiting to break. “It’s the only way to secure peace. The Morettis won’t dare move against us if we’re united with the DeLucas. This marriage will guarantee it.”
Val’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. “You mean sacrificing me to protect your empire,” she said, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury.
“This isn’t a debate, Valentina,” Marco interrupted, his voice hardening. “This is about survival. About protecting this family.”
Her heart pounded, anger and disbelief warring within her. She wanted to slam her fists against the table, to scream at him for daring to reduce her life to a pawn in his game. “When did my life become another one of your business deals?”
Marco’s jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, he hesitated, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. “Your life is this family. Everything we’ve built, everything your mother sacrificed for, is at stake.”
The mention of her mother was a low blow, and they both knew it. Val’s throat tightened as memories of warm laughter, gentle hands, and the scent of her mother’s perfume flooded her mind. “She wouldn’t have wanted this,” Val murmured, almost to herself.
Marco’s voice softened, though his tone remained firm. “You think I want this for you? You think I like the idea of handing my daughter over to the DeLucas? But this isn’t about what you or I want, Valentina. It’s about what needs to be done.”
The weight of his words pressed down on her, suffocating. She wanted to believe he felt some semblance of guilt, but the man before her was a fortress—unyielding and resolute.
“Adrian DeLuca will keep you safe,” Marco added, his tone purely pragmatic. “He’s ruthless, but he’s also disciplined. He’ll protect you in a way no one else can.”
Val let out a bitter laugh. “Safe? He’s the heir to a crime family, Papa. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘safe.’”
“Neither does being my daughter,” Marco said quietly, and the truth in his words hit her harder than she cared to admit.
For a long moment, the only sound between them was the muffled clatter of dishes and distant laughter from the dining room. Val stared at the table, her mind racing. She wanted to refuse, to walk out and never look back—but where would she go? Her world was a cage, built with gilded bars of loyalty and blood.
“When?” she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Sunday,” Marco replied.
Four days.
Val stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. “I need to get back to work.”
Marco nodded, his expression unreadable. “Valentina—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Turning on her heel, she strode back toward the kitchen, her breath coming in shallow bursts. The trattoria’s warm light seemed harsher now, the cheerful din grating against her nerves.
Grabbing a cutting board, Val set to work chopping parsley with quick, precise movements. The steady rhythm of the knife against the wood was controlled, unlike the storm raging inside her.
“Val?”
She looked up to see Luca standing in the doorway, his dark hair falling into his eyes. His boyish face was filled with concern, his lanky frame awkwardly leaning against the doorframe.
“What happened?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Nothing,” she said curtly, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Luca said, tilting his head. “You’re chopping parsley like it insulted you.”
Despite herself, a small, bitter smile tugged at her lips. “It’s fine, Luca. Go finish your homework.”
He hesitated, his gaze searching hers. “You know you can tell me, right?”
For a fleeting moment, Val considered confiding in him. But what good would it do? Luca was just a kid, caught in the same web of expectations and danger. She wouldn’t drag him into this.
“I’m fine,” she said, softer this time. “Go on.”
Luca frowned but nodded and left, the door swinging shut behind him.
Val set the knife down and leaned against the counter, her hands gripping the edge. She stared at the flickering flame of the stovetop burner, the small, shifting light reflecting the chaos inside her.
Four days.
Four days to figure out how to survive a life she never wanted.
And four days to find a way to protect the one thing she still had left: herself.
