As he turns to leave, the guilt deepens, mingled with a wave of confusion. I didn’t ask Sofia to send the fruit basket, and she’s never acted without my go-ahead, but something must have prompted her. It feels like my responsibility anyway, since I was the one who put the idea in her head. And now…now I’ve made everything worse.
The moment Luca takes the chair opposite me, the room feels smaller. He doesn’t sprawl or slouch. Every inch of his body radiates tightly controlled power, like a predator deciding whether to strike. His emerald eyes burn into mine, their intensity making my throat tighten. I don’t dare look away. It would feel like admitting defeat.
His fingers drum once on the armrest, then stop. The silence stretches, thick and tense, before he finally speaks.
“Tell me,” he says, voice quiet, yet it cuts through the space like a blade. “Did you think you’d get away with it?”
I flinch, my hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ache. “I didn’t do anything.”
His brow arches, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Someone did,” he counters. “A basket of fruit and bread. Not exactly a death sentence, but Dante ate enough to drop him flat. And now you tell me you had no idea?”
“I didn’t,” I insist, my voice sharp with desperation. “Luca, I wouldn’t…”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance between us. “Wouldn’t what?” The question hangs in the air, daring me to answer.
The fire crackles behind him, casting jagged shadows across his face. His presence, his words… they’re suffocating and magnetic all at once. I want to scream at him, push him away,and yet some traitorous part of me aches to hold my ground, to show him I’m not as fragile as he thinks.
“I wouldn’t risk hurting anyone,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best effort. “Especially not you.”
He freezes, his gaze narrowing. For a brief second, I wonder if I’ve managed to reach some part of him beneath all that ice. But then he smiles, slow, dangerous, and far from reassuring.
“You’re lying,” he says softly, like he’s savoring the words. “If you were innocent, your pulse wouldn’t race every time I step closer.”
He’s right. Damn him, he’s always right. My pulse hammers in my ears as he leans back again, taking his time like he owns every second of it.
“Now there’s a child in the equation.”
The mention of the baby hits me like a physical blow. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, though it’s still flat and unchanged. A bitter laugh escapes him as his gaze follows the motion.
“That’s right,” he says, voice hardening. “Our child. Someone I’ll protect with everything I have. Someone who will inherit more than you can imagine. Wealth. Power. My name. And you’d rip that away from them?”
I blink at him, stunned into silence.
“You don’t get to make that choice, Valentina,” he continues, each word dropping like a stone. “This isn’t just about you anymore.”
My chest tightens as his words sink in. He’s not wrong. Not entirely. But the world he’s describing—the power, the legacy—is drenched in blood. How do I bring a child into that? How do I look at them, knowing I chose this for them?
“What kind of life is that?” I whisper, more to myself than him.
His jaw tightens, and for the first time, I see something flicker in his eyes that isn’t control. It’s pain.
“A better life than you think,” he says, softer now, but no less firm. “No one will touch what’s mine. Not you. Not our child.”
Mine. The word sends a shiver down my spine, and not just from fear. It’s the way he says it—absolute, unshakable. Like I’m already bound to him in ways I can’t escape.
And the terrifying part is, I don’t know if I want to escape.
“Luca…” My voice cracks, betraying the storm building inside me. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of it.”
“No,” he agrees, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “But now it’s yours. And you don’t run from what’s yours, Valentina.”
He steps closer, towering over me now. I force myself to stay still, though every nerve in my body screams to pull back. His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is almost gentle, but his eyes tell a different story.
“Think with your head,” he murmurs. “Not your fear.”
He straightens, and just as quickly as the intensity came, it’s gone. “Get some rest,” he says, stepping back. “You’ll need it.”
Before I can respond, he’s halfway to the door. My throat is dry, my mind spinning, and then he stops.
