THE HUNTED VALENTINO HEIRESS

The marble bust was a forgery. I knew it the moment my fingers touched the stone. It felt too smooth and too perfect. It lacked the tiny imperfections that came from four hundred years of existence. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was not just a piece of art. The seller was Dmitri who was one of my father's most aggressive associates. If I announced it was a fake then I would cost a dangerous man millions of pounds. If I lied then I would destroy my professional reputation. My reputation was the only thing in this world that actually belonged to me. The ballroom buzzed with the noise of London’s elite. I felt trapped. "Well?" Marcus asked. His voice in my earpiece made me flinch. My brother was watching from the balcony like a sniper. He expected me to protect the family business. He expected me to lie. I looked up and saw him. A stranger stood by the bar. He was watching me with dark and intense eyes. He did not look like the other soft men in the room. He looked like a weapon wrapped in an expensive suit. He held my gaze and waited to see what I would do. Something about his attention made me reckless. "It is a forgery," I announced. My voice rang out in the sudden silence. "It is a late nineteenth century copy." The room erupted. Dmitri pushed through the crowd with a red face. The auctioneer stammered. Marcus swore in my ear. But I kept my eyes on the stranger at the bar. I saw a flicker of approval on his face. "You do not know what you are talking about," Dmitri spat as he reached me. "I have documentation." "Your documentation is fake," I said. My hands shook but I kept my voice steady. "The wear patterns are inconsistent." "You arrogant little girl." Dmitri grabbed my wrist. His grip was hard enough to bruise. "Your father will hear about this." The room went deadly quiet. Everyone knew Vincent Valentino. Everyone knew you did not touch his daughter. Marcus was too far away to help me. My security detail was too slow. But the stranger moved. He appeared out of nowhere. He did not rush and he did not shout. He simply placed his hand over Dmitri's wrist and applied pressure. Dmitri gasped and released me. "The lady said it is a forgery," the stranger said. His voice was calm and low. "I suggest you accept her expertise and leave." Dmitri looked ready to fight until he looked into the stranger's eyes. The older man paled. He backed away and muttered something in Russian before he disappeared into the crowd. I rubbed my wrist and stared at my defender. He was devastatingly handsome up close. He had a scar through his left eyebrow and a jaw that looked like granite. "Thank you," I said. "You did not have to do that." "Yes I did." He looked at my wrist. "No one should put their hands on you." It was the first time in my life a man had defended me without being paid by my father. "I am Sienna," I said. "Dante." He offered his hand. "Dante Rossi." I took it. His skin was warm and rough. "Do you collect art Mr. Rossi?" "I collect beautiful things," he said. His eyes stayed on mine. "But I prefer boxing." "Boxing?" I asked. He looked too elegant for a fight. "I own a gym in South London." He smiled slowly. "I learned something tonight. I learned that some people value truth over safety. That is rare." Heavy footsteps approached us. Marcus appeared at my shoulder with violence radiating off him in waves. "Is everything alright Sienna?" Marcus asked. He stared at Dante with suspicion. "Fine," I said. I did not step away from Dante. "Mr. Rossi was helping me with an aggressive client." Marcus tightened his jaw. "We should go. Father wants to see you." My stomach dropped. I had humiliated a family associate. There would be consequences. I knew I should leave. I should get in the armored car and be the obedient soldier my father created. But I looked at Dante and I felt a spark of rebellion. "Do you have a card Mr. Rossi?" I asked. Marcus gripped my shoulder in warning. I ignored him. Dante reached into his jacket. He produced a simple card with black ink on cream paper. Russo's Boxing. Southwark. Russo. Not Rossi. "Call me if you want to learn how to throw a real punch," Dante said. "A beautiful woman like you should know how to defend herself." Marcus practically dragged me away. I sat in the back of the car and watched London blur past the window. My brother lectured me about loyalty but I did not listen. I looked down at the card in my hand. Russo. Why did that name feel like a memory?