Page 47 of Brutal Union
"Well, if they're anything like you, maybe I will." Her eyebrows hit the roof. "Your analysis has proven… valuable," I admit, choosing my words carefully. "The Torrelli supply chain weakness. It worked exactly as you predicted."
Her eyes widen. "You used my strategy?"
"I use everything that gives me an advantage." I lean back, studying her. "And your insights are becoming… significant.You see patterns I miss, connections I overlook because I'm too focused on the direct threat."
She flushes at the praise, and I want to continue, to tell her how her margin notes in my books have changed how I approach territory disputes, how her suggestion about the dock workers prevented a strike that would have cost millions. But the words stick in my throat. Admitting how much I rely on her intelligence feels more vulnerable than anything physical we've shared.
"Your Clausewitz interpretation was brilliant too," she says softly. "About fog of war being internal rather than external. I never thought of it that way."
We're leaning toward each other across the small table, lost in discussion of military theory in this ridiculous bohemian cafe, when I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Someone at a corner table, trying too hard to look casual. The way he holds his newspaper. No one under forty reads physical newspapers in cafes anymore. I file it away, shift slightly to keep him in sight while maintaining the conversation.
"Valentina?"
The voice cuts through our discussion like a blade. She goes rigid, color draining from her face as she turns toward the speaker.
A man stands beside our table. Tall, clean-cut, the kind of safe handsomeness that belongs in law firms and country clubs. Everything about him screams respectability, from his khakis to his Columbia University sweatshirt. Everything I'm not.
My hand moves immediately to my weapon, a reflex as natural as breathing. Tommy shifts by the door, alert to the tension.
"James." Her voice is barely a whisper.
James. The name isn't in any of my files, but the way she says it tells me everything. College boyfriend, from the way they lookat each other. The kind of normal she might have had before her father ended her education.
"I couldn't believe it when I saw you through the window." His eyes flick to me, taking in the danger I represent even in this peaceful setting. "I heard about… the wedding. Are you okay?"
The question hangs in the air. The entire cafe seems to pause, other patrons sensing tension even if they don't understand it. The man with the newspaper has definitely stopped pretending to read. Are you okay? As if I'm holding her hostage. Which, technically, I did. At first.
"I'm fine," Valentina says, but her voice wavers.
James steps closer, deliberately ignoring the warning in my posture. "Val, if you need help, if this man is forcing you—"
"Choose your next words very carefully." My voice drops to that tone that makes grown killers step back.
He turns to me fully now, and I see him register what I am. The gun under my jacket. The scars on my knuckles. The way I sit coiled, ready for violence even in this peaceful place.
"You're Marco Rosetti." Not a question. "The criminal who kidnapped her from her wedding."
The cafe has gone completely silent. Someone drops a cup, the shatter echoing in the stillness. Tommy's hand drifts toward his concealed carry. Everyone's watching now. Students looking up from laptops, the barista frozen mid-pour, all aware that something dangerous has invaded their safe space.
"Yes," I say simply. "I am."
"You're a killer." James's voice rises, playing to the growing crowd of onlookers. "A monster who forces women into marriage. Val, I tried to help before. Your father made it clear what would happen to me if I persisted, but I should have—"
"James, stop." Valentina's voice cuts through his building tirade.
"No, Val. Someone needs to say it. Someone needs to stand up to these people who think they own everything, own everyone." He reaches for her hand. "Come with me. Right now. We can leave, I'll keep you safe—"
My hand tightens on my weapon, violence coiling through me. One more inch toward my wife and this college boy will be bleeding out on sustainable bamboo flooring. Tommy takes a step forward. The man with the newspaper stands, and I recognize him now. One of the Torrelli soldiers. Watching. Waiting to see weakness.
But before violence erupts in this peaceful place, something extraordinary happens.
"Yes, he is."
Valentina's voice rings clear through the silent cafe. She stands, moving between James and me with a grace that makes something shift in my chest, violent and irreversible.
"He's exactly what you say he is. A criminal. A killer." She turns to face James fully. "And he's mine."
The words hit me hard. Mine. Not I'm his, but he's mine. The distinction rewrites everything I thought I knew about power between us.
