Page 46 of Brutal Union
"Don't." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Being vulnerable to you, because of you… it's the most human I've felt in years. Maybe ever."
"It could get you killed. Love and death are the same currency in our world."
"Everything could get me killed. At least this," he gestures between us, "this is worth the risk. You're worth the risk."
I finish bandaging his left hand, the familiar ritual grounding us both. "You can't afford vulnerability in your world."
"Our world," he corrects. "And maybe that's exactly what I need. Someone who makes me remember I'm more than just violence and strategy. Someone who makes me remember why I'm fighting."
"Good," I breathe. I set the supplies aside, meeting his gaze fully. "Someone should."
16 - Marco
Valentina’s latest note in the margin of Miyamoto Musashi:The greatest victory is surrender that feels like triumph.
It reminds me immediately of her triumphant ‘surrender’ three days ago, when she brought me to my knees in my own apartment. I find myself canceling three meetings to take her to lunch. Something I've never done for anyone.
The realization hits me as Tommy pulls up to the small cafe on North Halsted, its bohemian facade a stark contrast to the power restaurants where I usually conduct business. Through the window, I see mismatched furniture, exposed brick walls covered in amateur art, students bent over laptops and poetry notebooks. The smell of burnt espresso and patchouli incense drifts through the cracked door, someone's folk music leaking from cheap headphones. Everything opposite to my world of leather and gunpowder.
This is her world. The one she inhabited before I took her.
Tommy takes position by the door as we enter, subtle but present. I've already noted the two exits, the narrow windows, the table in the corner with the best sightlines. My hand settles on her lower back as we navigate through crowded tables, a possessive gesture I can't seem to stop making. The silk of her dress is warm beneath my palm, and I feel the slight tension in her spine.
"You're going to hate this place," she says, but there's something playful in her tone. Testing me.
"Probably." I breathe in coffee and patchouli, so different from my usual haunts. "But you love it."
She pauses, looking up at me with those dark eyes that still make my chest tight even after twenty-seven days. Yesterday she held her newborn niece while Ana recovered, competent hands that had delivered a breech baby now gentle with the infant. Three days ago those same hands had my cock in her mouth, swallowing me down like she was born for it, and now she's looking at me with surprise because I remembered her favorite cafe.
Inside, the barista's face lights up. "Val! Oh my God, we haven't seen you in forever!"
"Hey, Diego." Valentina's smile is genuine in a way I rarely see. "This is my husband, Marco."
The word 'husband' in her mouth, voluntary and public, sends satisfaction through me. The barista's eyes widen as he takes me in. The expensive suit, the way my jacket falls to barely conceal my weapon, how I keep my hand on my wife's back like she might disappear.
"Husband," Diego repeats, clearly trying to process this. "Wow. Okay. Your usual?"
She nods, then glances at me. "Espresso for him. The good stuff, not the burnt swill you usually serve."
Diego laughs nervously and hurries to prepare our order. I make a point of introducing her as "my wife" to the manager who comes to check on us, to the student who asks if we're using the empty chair at our table. Each time, the word rolls off my tongue with increasing satisfaction, and I watch Valentina notice, watch her react to my public claiming.
We find a corner table, and I take the seat with my back to the wall, clear view of both exits. Old habits. Valentina settles across from me, looking more relaxed than I've seen her outside the penthouse.
"You used to come here to study," I say, not a question. I've pieced together parts of her life before, though she still surprises me.
"I used to come here to think." She accepts her coffee from Diego with a warm smile that makes something twist in my gut. "To pretend I was just another college student."
The way she carefully doesn't mention her father reminds me of the war we're now fighting on multiple fronts. Alex's warnings echo in my mind. The Irish regrouping, her father making calls, Russians sniffing around the chaos. But that's tomorrow's problem. Today, I'm having lunch with my wife in her favorite cafe, watching her face light up as she explains the terrible poetry readings they host on Tuesdays.
"You'd lose your mind," she says, laughing. "Last time I was here, someone performed an interpretive dance about their relationship with gluten."
"Sounds like torture."
"It was beautiful." Her smile turns wicked. "Especially the part where they writhed on the floor screaming about bread betrayal."
I find myself laughing, actually laughing, at the image. When was the last time I laughed about something that wasn't violence or victory? Maybe when Ana's baby grabbed my finger yesterday, that tiny fierce grip from my new niece.
"Soon you'll be coming here for strategic advice," she teases, indicating the earnest students discussing philosophy.
