Till Death DO Us Part

Before the Gala

Valentina POV

By Friday evening, the Moretti house looked like it was preparing for war in silk.

Which, in fairness, it was.

The entire estate had shifted into that strange, polished chaos that happened before a major public event.

Staff moved through the halls carrying garment bags, jewelry cases, trays of espresso, and enough fresh flowers to make the house smell like a wedding no one was allowed to be happy about.

Security had doubled by noon.

By three, Adriano had changed the route to the gala twice.

By four, Rafael had threatened to shoot one of the drivers for breathing too suspiciously near my car.

So, really, everyone was handling things beautifully.

I stood barefoot in the center of my bedroom while a makeup artist blended something cool beneath my eyes and my stylist adjusted the fall of my dress in the mirror behind me.

The gown was red.

Not bright red. Not the loud, desperate kind of red women wore when they wanted to be noticed.

This was darker. Richer. The color of the wine held up to candlelight. The color of roses after midnight. The color of blood before it dried.

It fit close through the bodice, elegant rather than obvious, with thin straps and a neckline low enough to be interesting without being vulgar. The skirt skimmed over my hips and fell in a clean line to the floor, the fabric heavy and smooth against my skin.

Old money did not beg for attention.

It expected it.

Rosalia stood near the windows, already dressed in champagne silk, watching me in the mirror with the kind of calm expression that meant she was thinking too much.

"You look beautiful," she said.

The makeup artist smiled as if she agreed but knew better than to interrupt.

I studied my reflection.

Beautiful.

That was the easy part.

I knew how to be beautiful. I knew how to stand beneath chandeliers and make men underestimate me. I knew how to lower my lashes just enough, how to smile without giving warmth, how to let the softness of my face become a distraction from the parts of me that were not soft at all.

Beauty was useful.

Tonight, it would be armor.

"Thank you," I said.

Rosalia tilted her head. "That was not a compliment you were meant to answer like a boardroom email."

"I'm distracted."

"You've been distracted since breakfast."

"Because, since breakfast, I have been informed that I'm being offered to the Russian Bratva like a very expensive gift basket."

The stylist made a tiny sound behind me.

Rosalia's mouth twitched. "A beautiful, heavily armed gift basket."

"That does make it better."

"A little."

The makeup artist finished and stepped back. "Done, Miss Moretti."

I thanked her, then waited as she and the stylist gathered their things and slipped out of the room. Only when the door closed behind them did I let my shoulders drop.

Rosalia crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. "How are you really?"

I turned away from the mirror.

That was the problem with Rosalia. She asked questions like she was laying a silk scarf across your shoulders, soft and gentle, and then somehow it still tightened around your throat.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're composed. That isn't the same thing."

I looked at her for a long moment, then sighed and walked to the vanity. My jewelry had already been laid out in a neat velvet tray. Diamond earrings. A delicate bracelet. A ring that had belonged to my mother.

My fingers paused over it.

The ring was simple compared to the rest. Gold band. Oval ruby at the center. Tiny diamonds around it like light caught in teeth.

My mother had worn it often, not because it was the most expensive thing she owned, but because my father had given it to her before they married, back when everyone had told him she was unsuitable.

Normal background. No family power. No strategic value.

My father married her anyway.

Sometimes, I wondered what it must have felt like to be chosen that way.

Not offered. Not arranged. Not negotiated.

Chosen.

I picked up the ring and slid it onto my right hand.

Rosalia watched quietly. "You're wearing Isabella's ring."

"I needed something of hers tonight."

Her expression softened.

No one in my family spoke about my mother for long. We mentioned her in careful pieces. Her recipes. Her favorite flowers. The songs she used to hum. The way she hated when Alessandro worked through dinner. Surface things. Safe things.

No one talked about the accident.

No one mentioned that it had not been an accident at all.

No one talked about how I had survived because she curled her body around mine while metal tore the world open.

But the silence did not erase her.

It only meant she lived in smaller places.

A ring. A photograph. A nickname no one used anymore.

Vivi.

I swallowed and looked away from my hand.

Rosalia rose and came to stand beside me. "She would have loved this dress."

I laughed softly. "She would have told me to wear a shawl."

"She would have told you to wear a shawl and then whispered that the dress was perfect."

That hurt more than I expected.

I turned back to the mirror before it could show on my face.

My reflection stared back at me. Red dress. Dark hair in soft waves over one shoulder. Blue eyes lined just enough to look sharper than usual. Ruby ring on my finger. Gun strapped high beneath the slit of my gown, hidden by fabric and experience.

A mafia princess, if someone was stupid.

A warning, if they were smart.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," I called.

The door opened, and Rafael leaned in.

Then stopped.

His expression changed so quickly it would have been funny if it had not made my chest tighten.

For all his violence, for all his chaos, for all the blood I knew he carried under his charm, Rafael still had the same eyes when he looked at me that he had when we were children. Protective. Open.

A little too breakable for a man who pretended nothing could touch him.

"Damn, Vale," he said quietly.

I lifted a brow. "That sounded almost respectful."

"I'm capable of growth."

"No, you aren't."

He grinned, but it faded when his gaze dropped to my hand. "Mama's ring."

I nodded.

For a moment, none of us spoke.

Then Rafael stepped fully into the room, hands in his pockets, dressed in a black suit that looked too elegant for someone who had once broken a man's jaw in our wine cellar. "Adriano is downstairs making everyone miserable."

"That's his hobby."

"He says it's leadership."

"Men are always renaming their worst qualities."

Rosalia laughed softly.

Rafael pointed at her. "See? This is why you're my favorite sister-in-law."

"I'm your only sister-in-law."

"Still winning."

I walked to the full-length mirror and smoothed one hand over the front of my dress.

"Is Papa ready?"

"He's been ready for an hour." Rafael leaned against my dresser, studying me too closely. "He's pretending he isn't worried."

"He's bad at that."

"He's terrible at it."

I met Rafael's gaze in the mirror. "And you?"

His mouth tightened.

There he was.

Not the jokester. Not the easy brother. Not the golden retriever with blood on his knuckles.

The dangerous one.

The brother who snapped into something darker when the people he loved were involved.

"I don't like this," he said.

"I know."

"No, Vale. I really don't like this."

I turned to face him. "You don't have to."

"That's not enough."

"It has to be."

His jaw flexed. "He is not like us."

I smiled faintly. "We're such warm, gentle people."

"You know what I mean."

I did.

The Sokolovs were different. Colder. More brutal in ways even our world noticed.

The Morettis were dangerous, but there was warmth beneath us. Family dinners. Loud arguments. Kisses on cheeks. My father's hand on the back of my head. Rafael's hugs. Adriano's controlling affection. Rosalia's quiet care.

From everything I had learned in the last three days, the Sokolovs had none of that.

Mikhail Sokolov had not raised sons.

He had manufactured heirs.

And Nikolai was apparently the best of them. Or the worst. I had not decided yet.

"Rafael," I said softly. "I'm not marrying him tonight."

"Not funny."

"I wasn't joking."

"You're meeting him tonight. That's the beginning."

"Maybe."

His eyes sharpened. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm going to look him in the eye before I decide how much of a problem he is."

Rosalia smiled a little. "That sounds like you."

"It sounds insane," Rafael muttered.

"No," I said. "It sounds fair."

He pushed away from the dresser and crossed to me. For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. Then he reached out and adjusted one of my earrings, even though it did not need adjusting.

The gesture was so tender and so unlike the man the rest of the world knew that my throat tightened.

"You call me if you want to leave," he said quietly. "You don't ask. You don't explain. You call me, and I'll come get you."

I placed my hand over his. "I know."

"I mean it."

"I know."

His gaze searched mine. Whatever he saw there did not comfort him, but he stepped back anyway.

Another knock came, sharper this time.

Adriano did not wait for permission before opening the door.

Of course.

He stepped inside in a dark navy suit, clean and authoritative, every inch the oldest son of Alessandro Moretti. His gaze moved over Rafael first, probably checking whether he had caused damage, then Rosalia, then me.

He went still for half a second.

Only half.

But I saw it.

"You look like Mama," he said.

The room quieted.

Adriano rarely said things like that. He loved deeply, but he kept his emotions in locked rooms, opening the door only when no one expected it.

I looked down at the ruby ring on my hand. "That's probably why."

His face tightened faintly, then smoothed again. "Papa is waiting."

"Of course he is."

"We leave in ten."

I lifted the edge of my skirt slightly and slipped my feet into the heels waiting beside the vanity. "Are you here to escort me or issue commands?"

"Both."

"Efficient."

Rafael snorted. "He practiced that in the mirror."

Adriano ignored him. "Security will travel in three cars. You ride with Papa. Rafael and I follow behind. Rosalia will be with me."

I stared at him. "Was I consulted in this arrangement?"

"No."

"Shocking."

"It wasn't meant to be democratic."

"Nothing with you ever is."

His eyes narrowed. "Vale."

There it was. The older brother's voice. The one that used to tell me not to run too fast down the marble stairs, not to sneak into business meetings, not to follow Rafael into places where men carried guns.

The voice that forgot I had grown up.

I softened my tone because fighting him now would only make things worse for everyone. "I'll ride with Papa."

His expression eased by a fraction.

Rafael rolled his eyes. "You fold too easily with him."

"I pick my battles."

"No, you pick the ones that cause the most damage."

I smiled. "Exactly."

Rosalia crossed to Adriano and touched his arm. "Let her breathe tonight."

He looked at his wife.

Something passed between them, quiet and private.

Their marriage had been arranged, yes, but Rosalia had done something few people could. She had learned how to speak to Adriano without challenging him directly, and somehow that made him listen.

His jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

"I am letting her breathe."

Rafael laughed. "You changed the motorcade twice."

"For security."

"You threatened the florist."

"He was standing too close to the west entrance."

"He was holding lilies."

"He had hands."

I covered my mouth to hide my smile.

Rosalia did not bother hiding hers.

Adriano looked deeply unimpressed by all of us. "Are we finished?"

"For now," I said.

He offered me his arm.

I looked at it, then at him. "You know I can walk downstairs by myself."

"I know."

But he did not lower his arm.

Something in me softened.

Adriano had been twelve when our mother died. Old enough to remember everything. Old enough to understand the screaming, the blood, the funeral, our father's silence, and the way my nightmares split the house open for months afterward.

He had never stopped trying to make sure nothing reached me again.

Even when his protection felt like a cage.

Even when I resented it.

Even when I loved him for it.

I took his arm.

Rafael opened the door for us with a dramatic bow. "After you, future Russian hostage."

Adriano shot him a look sharp enough to cut.

I laughed, because if I did not, I might have remembered too clearly that he was not entirely joking.

We walked downstairs together.

The house grew quieter as we descended, as if everyone inside it knew this was not just another gala.

At the bottom of the stairs, my father waited in the foyer beneath the chandelier, dressed in black, his silver hair combed back, his face unreadable.

When he saw me, his expression changed.

Only slightly.

But I saw it.

Pain. Pride. Grief.

For a second, Alessandro Moretti was not the ruthless head of our family. He was just my father, looking at his youngest daughter in her mother's ring before sending her to meet a man none of us trusted.

He crossed the foyer and took my face gently between his hands.

"My beautiful girl," he murmured.

I closed my eyes for half a second.

Then I opened them and smiled.

"Don't look so worried, Papa."

His thumb brushed my cheek. "I am always worried about you."

"I know."

"That does not mean I doubt you."

My throat tightened.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then stepped back and offered me his arm.

I took it.

The front doors opened.

Evening air swept in, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of rain that had not yet fallen.

Beyond the steps, the cars waited in a perfect black line.

Somewhere in Manhattan, Nikolai Sokolov was probably putting on a suit and convincing himself he was walking into a business arrangement.

I looked down at my mother's ruby on my finger, then lifted my chin.

Let him think that.

By the end of the night, he would know better.