Page 56 of Brutal Union
"How bad is it?" she asks, recognizing the shift immediately. This is what we are: lovers in stolen moments, but when war arrives, I become what I've always been. A killer. A leader. The Don of Chicago.
"They're desperate. Irish backing means soldiers, resources, political support." I check my phone again, memorizing Dante's updates. "The war we've been avoiding just arrived at our door."
20 - Valentina
He’s hunched over his desk when I find him in the early hours of the morning, territory maps spread across the mahogany surface like battle plans from a war we’re slowly losing. The lamp casts harsh shadows under his eyes, highlighting exhaustion he’d never show in daylight. Red marks show Irish encroachment, blue shows our territory, and the shrinking blue makes my stomach knot. We’re being pushed back, and every lost block is another crack in his empire.
My body still carries sweet reminders of yesterday. Bruises from his fingers on my hips, that delicious ache between my thighs from being thoroughly claimed for the first time. But the soreness is nothing compared to the knot in my stomach as I watch him work. This man who made me scream his name until dawn now looks like he hasn't slept since.
"You need sleep," I say from the doorway, clutching my silk robe tighter.
He doesn't look up. "Can't sleep when we're losing ground."
I move closer, studying the maps over his shoulder. My fingers drift to my pocket where Mother's rosary usually rests, but I left it on the nightstand. Stupid. I need her protection now more than ever, especially for what I'm about to propose.
"We're being too reactive," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Waiting for them to move, then scrambling to respond. We need to take control of the negotiations."
Now he looks at me, those dark eyes rimmed with fatigue. "What are you suggesting?"
My finger finds the spot on the map that's been calling to me since this war started, the place where my childhood memories tangle with my mother's ghost. "Sapore di Casa. The old restaurant in Little Italy."
"That place has been closed for years."
"But it's still owned by the church. Still hallowed land, which makes it neutral ground." I lean against his desk, feeling the weight of what I'm proposing. The wood is warm from where his arms have rested, and I catch his scent. Coffee tinged with lime and exhaustion. "The Irish want legitimacy. Meeting at the church's historic restaurant gives them that. They'll come."
But even as the words leave my mouth, something twists in my stomach. I was only seven or eight when Father met there, small enough to hide under tables and listen to conversations I didn't understand. My memories are fragments. The smell of garlic, men's voices, the clink of glasses. What if I'm wrong? What if I'm playing at being strategic when I'm really just a woman with childhood impressions and too much desperation to be useful?
Marco's jaw tightens. "It's too exposed. Too many variables we can't control."
"I remember some of it." My voice carries less confidence now, more honesty. "Father used to meet his lieutenants there when I was little. I'd hide and listen. Single entrance from the street, kitchen that connected to the alley, apartment above. It seemed defensible, from what I could tell as a child."
He stands, moving around the desk to face me fully. His presence fills the space between us, making my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy. "You're basing tactical assessment on childhood memories?"
"I'm asking you to trust me." The words hang between us, weighted with everything we've become. Yesterday he was inside me, claiming me, making me his in every way possible. NowI'm asking for something deeper. His faith in my judgment. "I may not know every detail, but I know that restaurant meant something. The old families respected it."
His hands find my waist, pulling me closer with that possessive touch that still makes me wet even after our first night together. "My brilliant strategist," he murmurs, and there's pride in his voice that makes me warm from the inside out. "Planning operations like you were born to it."
For the first time since we started this war, he's looking at me as an equal partner in planning, not just his wife who happens to have insights. The trust in his eyes makes me brave and terrified in equal measure. This is what I wanted. To be more than his captive bride, more than a body in his bed. To be necessary.
"Liam will come," I promise, though something flickers in my chest when I say it. A warning I choose to ignore. "He's desperate to prove himself after what happened at the wedding. A formal meeting at a historic venue? Sanctified ground? He won't be able to resist."
Marco's thumb strokes my cheek, gentle despite the violence we're planning. The same hand that broke Antonio's bones for touching me now traces my skin like I'm precious. "If we do this, you stay here. Safe."
"I should be there." When he starts to protest, I press my finger to his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath. "Not as your weakness. As your strength. Show them you're not hiding me."
He kisses my finger, then my palm, then pulls me against him fully. My body molds to his automatically now, recognizing its home. "Every time I think I know you, you reveal another layer."
"That's the plan," I say, trying for light when my heart pounds with the weight of what I'm suggesting. "Keep you guessing so you never get bored."
His laugh is soft, exhausted but genuine. "Impossible, principessa."
The restaurant smells wrong.
That's my first thought as we enter Sapore di Casa the next evening. It should smell like garlic and basil, the way it did when I came here as a child. Instead, there's only dust and something else, something that makes my skin prickle with unease.
"Too quiet," Dante signs to Marco, his dark eyes scanning the shadowed corners.
He's right. Even abandoned, this place shouldn't feel so hollow. I run my hand along the bar where Grandfather used to pour wine for visiting families, trying to shake the feeling that something's off. The wood is rough now, splintered in places, nothing like the polished surface I remember from when I was small. The booth where I'd hide under tables, listening to Father's meetings, sits in shadow.
