THE HUNTED VALENTINO HEIRESS

Chapter three

SIENNA

Father was waiting in his study when I arrived home. The Kensington mansion was lit up like always. Every window glowing, security patrolling the grounds. I grew up here. Sometimes I thought I would die here too.

Marcus delivered me to the study door like a prisoner, then took up position outside. My other brothers were already inside. Nico by the window, cleaning his nails with a knife like a cliché, and Leo sprawled in a leather chair looking bored.

Vincent Valentino sat behind his massive desk, backlit by the Tiffany lamp that once belonged to my grandfather. He was sixty-three but looked fifty, silver hair immaculately styled, Savile Row suit without a wrinkle. He built this empire from my grandfather's small loan sharking operation into a multinational criminal enterprise. People were terrified of him.

I was terrified of him.

"Sienna." He didn't look up from the papers he was reviewing. "Dmitri called and he was very upset."

I stood in the center of the room, hands clasped in front of me like I was back in Catholic school. "The sculpture was a forgery. I had to authenticate honestly, my... my professional reputation..."

"Your professional reputation?" Now he looked up, and his eyes were cold. "Your professional reputation exists because of this family. The gallery, the clients, the invitations to elite auctions. You have all of that because you're a Valentino."

"I earned..."

"You've earned nothing." He set down his papers with precise care. "Everything you have, I gave you. The education, the position, the freedom to play at being an art expert. And in return, I ask for loyalty."

"I am loyal." My voice was shaking. I hated that it was shaking.

"Are you?" He leaned back in his chair. "Because embarrassing my associate in front of London's elite doesn't seem loyal. It seems like you were showing off. Making a point."

Nico laughed from the window. "She was trying to impress that guy. The one who touched Dmitri."

My father's expression didn't change, but I felt the temperature in the room drop. "What guy?"

"Nobody," I said quickly. "Just someone who helped when Dmitri got aggressive."

"Marcus?" Father's eyes shifted to the door.

My brother entered, efficient as always. "Dante Rossi. Owns a boxing gym in Southwark. Small operation, clean record, invited to the auction by the Petrov family. I've already started a full background check."

"Southwark." Father said it like a disease. "And you gave this nobody your attention?"

"He was being kind..."

"Kind." Father stood, walking around the desk toward me. He wasn't a tall man, but he carried himself like he owned every room he entered. Because he did. "Men are never kind to you, Sienna. They're either afraid of me or they want to use you to get to me. Which do you think this Dante Rossi is?"

I thought of Dante's eyes, the way he looked at me like I was a person instead of a pawn. "Maybe neither. Maybe he was just..."

"There is no 'just.'" Father cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. It looked affectionate. It wasn't. "You're a Valentino. That means everything about you is a weapon, your beauty, your name, your connections. Men will try to use those weapons against us."

"I'm not stupid..."

"No, but you're naive." He released me, turning away. "The wedding is in six months. Antonio Marchese's son is flying in from New York next week to finalize arrangements. I need you focused on that, not distracted by some gym owner from the wrong side of the river."

The wedding. My arranged marriage to a man I had met twice, both times with our fathers present, negotiating the merger like I was a company being acquired.

"What if I don't want to marry him?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

The silence was deafening.

Leo straightened in his chair. Nico stopped playing with his knife. Marcus closed the door from inside. Father turned back to me very slowly.

"What did you say?"

I should have taken it back. Should have apologized, should have laughed it off as pre-wedding nerves. But I was so tired of performing, of being the good daughter, of pretending my life was mine to live.

"I said what if I don't want to marry Antonio Marchese? I don't love him. I don't even know him."

"Love." Father laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Your mother didn't love me when we married. It was arranged by our families. Twenty-eight years later, we have a successful partnership and four children. Love is a luxury for people who can afford to make poor decisions."

"Maybe I want to make my own decisions."

"No. You don't. Because I've spent your entire life protecting you from the necessity of making decisions. You want to run the gallery? I made that happen. You want to attend elite schools, travel to Paris for art authentication training, have a career that makes you feel accomplished? I provided all of it. In return, you marry who I tell you to marry, when I tell you to marry them."

"That's not fair..."

"Fair?" Now there was heat in his voice. "You want to talk about fair? Your grandfather came to this country with nothing. NOTHING. Built this family from poverty and violence and blood. Your mother came from minor aristocracy with no money and a title that meant nothing. I combined them into power. Real power. And you think it's unfair that I'm asking you to do your part in maintaining that power?"

He was standing very close now. I could smell his cologne. Vetiver and cedar, expensive and suffocating.

"The Marchese family controls New York. Their alliance makes us untouchable on both sides of the Atlantic. Your marriage seals that alliance. It's not negotiable."

"And if I refuse?"

"You won't." Said with absolute certainty. "Because you're smart enough to know what refusal means. It means I cut you off. No money, no gallery, no protection. You'd last approximately three days in the real world before you came crawling back."

He was right. I had never paid a bill, never worried about money, never had to survive on my own. I was twenty-two years old and completely dependent on my father's empire.

"Now." He returned to his desk. "This Dante Rossi. I'm going to have him investigated thoroughly. If he's clean, you can see him casually until the wedding. Consider it a last taste of freedom before you become Mrs. Marchese."

I should have felt relieved. He was giving me permission. But the way he said it, "a last taste of freedom," made my skin crawl.

"And if he's not clean?"

Father's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I'll handle him. Marcus, make sure the background check is comprehensive. I want to know everything about this man. Family, finances, associates, where he was five years ago, ten years ago. Everything."

Marcus nodded and left. I stood there, feeling like I was standing on a cliff edge.

"Dismissed," Father said, already returning to his papers.

I escaped to my room and locked the door. Leaned against it, heart racing.

On my nightstand, Dante's business card sat where I had dropped it. I picked it up, staring at the simple black text.

Russo's Boxing, Southwark

RUSSO?

I looked at the card again.

The name sounded familiar. I disconnected from the house Wi-Fi because father tracked everything. I searched on 5G: Russo Southwark.

No mafia headlines. No gang wars. Just one archived article from twenty years ago.

LOCAL GYM OWNER TOMAS RUSSO DIES IN ELECTRICAL FIRE.

Electrical fire. That was Valentino code for arson.

I scrolled to the funeral photo. A widow clutching two boys. I zoomed in on the younger one. He was about ten, staring at the camera with devastated eyes. The shape of the jaw was softer, but the eyes were identical.

Dante.

The phone shook in my hand. He wasn't just a stranger. He was the son of a man my father burned alive. But even in a grainy newspaper image from two decades ago, I could see the resemblance.

Did he purposely hand me his real name? And actually tell me Dante Rossi.

When in fact it was Dante Russo, written on the card.

I searched for more. Russo + Valentino. Russo + London crime. Russo + gang war. Nothing showed up. Either it had been scrubbed clean, or there was nothing to find. Which possibility scared me more?

I should have told Father. Right then. Shown him the article, let Marcus handle it, protected the family like I always did.

My finger hovered over his contact.

But what if I was wrong? What if it was just a coincidence? Russo was a common Italian name. Lots of people died in electrical fires. I was seeing connections that might not exist, building a conspiracy from one old article and a decade-old grudge.

Or maybe I just didn't want to be right.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to steady them. This was what fear felt like when you couldn't tell anyone about it.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"It was a pleasure meeting you tonight. - Dante"

My hands were shaking. I should have deleted it. Should have told my father immediately. Should have let Marcus and Nico handle this before it became a problem.

Instead, I found myself typing:

"The pleasure was mine."

I hit send before I could think better of it.

Thirty seconds later, another message:

"Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk."

This was insane. He was a Russo. My family killed his family. This was either revenge or a death wish, and either way, I should have run.

I typed: "I shouldn't."

His response was immediate: "But you will."

He was right. God help me, he was right.

"Where?"

He sent me an address. A restaurant in Bermondsey. Neutral territory, but barely. I would need to lie to my security detail, sneak away from my brothers' surveillance, risk everything for dinner with a man I just met.

A man whose family had every reason to hate mine.

I saved his number under a fake name (Sarah, Gallery) and started planning how to escape the mansion without being followed.

As I was pulling up maps of the restaurant location, my phone rang. Antonio Marchese. My fiancé.

I stared at the screen, at the name of the man I was supposed to marry in six months, the man my father had chosen for me, the safe choice, the strategic choice.

Then I looked at Dante's message.

"Tomorrow night. Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk."

I let Antonio's call go to voicemail and confirmed the dinner with Dante.