Page 7 of Owned By the Russian

Despite his intimidating aura, he couldn’t deny the rare smile that slipped from his mouth when he watched his children bicker or joke around. He was dressed casually in a black nightshirt and matching pants, but the gold signet ring that glinted under the chandelier’s light was a reminder that he was no ordinary man.

He was dangerous when he needed to be, and he controlled worlds beyond their walls with the flick of a hand.

To his right, the eldest sibling—Enrico—sharp-eyed and serious, carved into a piece of roast with the perfection of someone accustomed to responsibility.

His voice carried weight, and though he rarely smiled, there was a protective air around him. There was a need for it. After all, he was the next in the line of succession after their father stepped down from his position. He had been training all his life for it.

Next to him, the middle sibling—Aldo—filled the room with laughter as he recounted an exaggerated story. He was the lighter of the two siblings, like Viktor, charming and effortlessly charismatic. Unlike Enrico, he always had something funny to say.

Across the table, Lucia—the second youngest Romano sibling—rolled her eyes but smiled regardless. Her quiet demeanor was a stark contrast to Aldo’s liveliness. She was the peacemaker in the family, often mediating between the strong personalities around them.

Then there was Valentina, the youngest. The apple of her father’s eye. She sat closest to Lorenzo, her plate piled high with her favorites. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she occasionally snuck glances at her father, measuring his mood.

She was the one her siblings met if Lorenzo was stubborn to their demands. There was a way she spoke to him that made him calm. Sometimes, Valentina wasn’t sure if it was because she was truly his favorite child or because she was the only one of the four of them who was the exact replica of their mother.

With her manners intact, she cut out a piece of lasagna with her fork and knife but was yet again unimpressed by the taste. Times like this reminded her of just how much she missed her mother.

Valentina was only a child when her mother left, but her face was still crystal clear in her memory. She had inherited her auburn hair, while the rest of her siblings grabbed their own share of her father’s—black mane of hair.

The Lasagna was a family recipe, one her mother created herself. Her mother wanted to be a chef, and the light in her eyes shone every time she spoke about cooking for a large number of people in her kitchen.

But ovarian cancer killed that dream. It killed many things if Valentina was being honest. It killed not just her mother but the warmth only a mother could give her. The pendant around her neck was a constant reminder that her mother still lived in her memory, but sometimes, it just wasn’t enough.

The cold jewel against her neck could never be compared to the feeling of being in her mother’s arms again. Remembering her voice could never be the same as listening to her sing Valentina to sleep. Inheriting her smile wasn’t the same as seeing it directed at her in real life, and it would never be.

No matter how much she tried to hold on to the memories, they were just fragments—like a mosaic with pieces missing, the full picture forever incomplete.

Valentina placed her fork down gently, her appetite fading with each thought. Her siblings were deep in conversation, voices weaving through the air with the easy rhythm of familiarity. But Val felt distant, as though she was somewhere far from reach, watching her family behind a glass wall.

“You don’t look well,tesoro,” Lorenzo pointed out, his deep voice breaking through her reverie. “Is the food not to your liking?”

Val blinked, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay, Papa. I’m just thinking.”

“About what?” Enrico interjected with a frown. His sharp gaze narrowed on her. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Val hesitated, running her fingers along the chain of her mother’s pendant. She thought of telling them, of letting them know how much she missed their mother, but she stopped herself like she always would.

They wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t the same for her as it was for them. They had known their mother longer, had spent more time with her—time that she would kill to have. And yet, none of them seemed to carry the grief the way she did.

Besides, the last thing she wanted was for her to sound like a baby. They coddled her enough as it was.

So, she shrugged, deflecting. “It’s nothing. I’m just not hungry tonight.”

Aldo snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Well, that’s a first. You’re usually the one fighting for seconds.”

Val’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She was not in the mood for her brother’s lame jokes.

“You need to eat, Val,” Lucia chimed in softly. “Mama would have wanted that. You know how much she cherished family dinners.”

The words stung more than they were meant to. Val reached for her glass of water, taking a slow sip to fill the void in her chest, but it was useless.

“Mama would have wanted many things,” she said stiffly, her voice strong but cold. “She’s not here anymore to tell us what they are. If we can’t do anything to honor her memory, then at least we can have the fucking lasagna tasteright. I don’t think it’s too much of a demand for the chefs to follow the recipe.”

The table fell silent. Even Aldo, always quick with a clever remark, stayed silent. Her father’s expression tightened, but he didn’t scold her. He didn’t have it in him to do so. He never did when the subject of his dead wife came up.

“Valentina,” Lorenzo began after a tense moment, his voice calm and measured, “your mother’s not gone from this table. She’s here in the food, in the recipes she left us. I understand your concern, but at the same time, it’s not just about getting an accurate result from the recipe but the love that comes from sharing food together as a family. That mattered more to your mother than how good the food tasted. She’s here in you, in all of us. And you know that.”

Val looked down, her fingers curling into fists in her lap, nails digging into her flesh. She knew he meant well—he always did—but it wasn’t enough. A recipe couldn’t hug her or sing to her. A memory couldn’t whisper words of comfort.

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