Page 29 of Unholy Union
“Fuck you,” she breathes.
I chuckle at the stubborn glare she gives even now. But before I turn to go take a piss, I make sure she understands one more thing.
“Oh and, principessa? If you ever try to kill me again, make sure I don’t enjoy it.”
Chapter 8
Sabrina
You Don’t Own Me - SAYGRACE featuring G-Eazy
The morning after our wedding night, I’m driven to the Valente estate. My things are already waiting for me. They’ve been picked up from Papi’s house and delivered there.
And then unpacked by the Valentes’ staff.
They work like a well-oiled machine, almost robotic in how they scurry up and down the sweeping staircase and through the polished halls.
Compared to Nella, who works only with the help of a chef and handyman, the Valente home is run like a corporation.
I’m promptly led up the staircase and down a wide hallway that eventually leads to a large bedroom I realize belongs to Cato.
“Oh no—” I start with a fervent shake of my head.
But the staff member pulls me over to the massive his-and-her closet, where just about everything I own has been neatly stowed away.
The closet’s bigger than most luxury Manhattan apartments. White lacquered cabinetry lines the walls in clinical fashion. The marble-topped island in the middle of the room divides my side and Cato’s, his adorned by things like expensive watches and a wide selection of ties and cufflinks. Mine has compartments for jewelry, purses, and perfumes.
I turn from the long line of Cato’s suit jackets, dress shirts, pants, and everything else in his wardrobe back to my side, where my things have been hung up.
There’re some clothes I don’t recognize.
“These aren’t mine,” I say.
“Mr. Valente has selected them for you,” the staff member answers impassively, then herds me away from the closet before I can lodge any more complaints.
I’m given a tour of the rest of the Valente residence. The estate is almost double the size of the property Papi owns.
The Valentes believe in overindulging to the max. Their dark gray stone mansion drips of legacy and opulence, giving true gilded elite vibes. On the inside, everything’s a variation of an off-white cream shade, perfectly arranged and tasteful.
It’s picture-ready and impressive in the way a museum tends to be.
But it doesn’tfeellike a home.
Papi’s house might be smaller and aged with time, but there’s a rustic charm about it. Something endearing about the occasional chip in a stone column or how there’s a wall on the second floor with faded markings showing my and Leo’s height measurements through the years as kids.
There’s life in the wild way the grape vines have grown all over the beams of our pergola in the back garden. It’s not the perfect manicured hedges found on the Valente estate, and Ipreferit that way.
Beauty lies in imperfection. It seems the Valentes feel the opposite.
But as the staff lead me from the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen into the foyer with its high windows and polished floors, I realize this is my life now.
Apparently, being a mafia wife comes with monogrammed towels and absolutely no privacy. The staff follow me wherever I go, practically predicting my next move as I go into the home library and they rush to fluff the cushions on an armchair before I can even think of sitting down.
They’re my shadows the entire day, the Valentes themselves nowhere to be found.
When I ask, I’m told Don Valente and his sons are busy with the family business, and Allegra, Cato’s mother, flew out this morning on a five-day spa retreat.
I’m alone with the staff the whole day until the sun finally sets and Cato returns. My husband strides through the front doors with an impatient air, quickly stripping off his tie and shooting an order to the closest staff member.
