Chapter 3: Twenty-Four Hours Earlier (part two)
Valentina's POV
"He'll make the formal proposal at the gala." My father finally turned, and his face was softer than usual. Almost kind. "I know you hoped to marry for love, princess. But love is a luxury people like us can't afford."
Princess. He only called me that when he was about to do something I wouldn't like and wanted to soften the blow.
"I understand, Dad." What else could I say? No? That I didn't want Alessandro, didn't want this life, didn't want any of it?
I'd tried that once, at seventeen, when I'd confessed to having feelings for someone inappropriate. Someone from a rival family. Someone whose name I hadn't spoken aloud in years.
My father had been very clear about what happened to girls who defied their families for love. He'd shown me pictures of my mother's sister, who'd run away with a man my grandfather disapproved of.
They'd found her body in three different states.
"Alessandro is a good man." My father crossed to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. His grip was firm. "He'll take care of you. Give you children. Build a life with you. Sometimes that's better than love."
Was it? My parents had been arranged too, and my mother had died sad and lonely despite having everything money could buy.
"When?" The word came out barely above a whisper.
"He's thinking a summer wedding. August perhaps." My father kissed my forehead, a rare gesture of affection. "Make me proud, princess."
It was a dismissal.
I walked to the door on numb legs, my mind spinning. August. That gave me less than six months of freedom. Six months before I became Mrs. Alessandro Greco. Six months before my life stopped being mine.
"Valentina." Paulo's reedy voice stopped me at the door. "Your father loves you. This is for the best."
I looked at him, really looked at him. Paulo had been with our family for fifteen years, always hovering at my father's elbow, always offering advice that somehow benefited him as much as us. I'd never liked him, but I'd never quite known why.
Looking at him now, with his thin smile and his eyes that never quite met mine, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"I'm sure it is," I said.
Then I left before either of them could see my hands shaking.
Lucia was waiting in my room, sprawled across my bed like we were teenagers again. She took one look at my face and sat up.
"That bad?"
"Alessandro proposed. Dad said yes. Wedding in August." The words came out flat, emotionless.
"Fuck." Lucia had never bothered with ladylike language when it was just us. "Val, I'm so sorry."
I crossed to my window, looking out over the same grounds my father had been contemplating. The gardens were beautiful even in late winter, everything trimmed and controlled and exactly as it should be.
I felt like those gardens. Pretty and useless and slowly dying from too much cultivation.
"It's fine. It was always going to be someone." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "At least Alessandro is decent. He's never been cruel."
"Decent." Lucia made a disgusted sound. "What a ringing endorsement for marriage."
"What did you want me to say? That I'm in love with him? We both know that's not how this works."
"It could be." Lucia came to stand beside me, her reflection appearing in the window next to mine. "You could leave. Tonight. I have money saved. We could go to Europe, or Asia, or anywhere. Just disappear."
For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Packing a bag, stealing away in the night, becoming someone else somewhere far from here. It was a beautiful fantasy.
It was also suicide.
"They'd find us," I said quietly. "You know they would. And then what? Your mother would never forgive me for getting you killed."
"My mother barely remembers I exist." But Lucia's voice had lost its conviction. She knew I was right.
We stood there in silence, two women trapped in different ways by the same cage. Lucia was luckier. Her father's death had left her with money but no real power, no real expectations beyond marrying well eventually. She had freedom I'd never known.
But she was still Romano. Still bound by blood and history and the unspoken rules of our world.
"There's something else." I turned to face her, lowering my voice even though we were alone. "Have you heard anything? About Dad, about the family?"
Lucia's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Just... things feel off lately. Dad's been tense. More meetings. More security. And Paulo's been acting strange."
"Paulo always acts strange. He's a weasel."
"More than usual." I couldn't explain it, this creeping sense of dread that had been building for weeks. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."
Lucia studied my face, her expression shifting from dismissive to concerned. "You're serious."
"I think something bad is coming. I just don't know what."
"You want me to ask around? I still know people, have contacts."
"Carefully." I gripped her hand. "If I'm right, if something is happening, I don't want you caught in the middle."
"We're Romanos." Lucia squeezed back. "We're always in the middle."
She stayed until nearly midnight, talking about everything and nothing, pretending tomorrow wasn't coming. Pretending my life wasn't about to become a cage I could never escape.
After she left, I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, thinking about choices and consequences and the price of being born into this life.
Somewhere in the house, I heard my father's study door close. Heard footsteps in the hallway. Heard the familiar sounds of our home settling into sleep.
I didn't know it would be the last normal night of my life.
I didn't know that in less than twenty-four hours, everything would shatter.
I didn't know that by this time tomorrow, I'd be standing in a warehouse with blood on the floor, facing a man I'd once loved, begging for his help.
If I'd known, would I have done anything differently?
Probably not.
That was the tragedy of it all.