THE FALCONE'S STOLEN BRIDE

THIRTY DAYS

“Valentina stares at the photograph until her eyes burn”.

That's not possible.

It's timestamped twelve minutes after the fire started. “Adriano's voice is low, controlled in a way that scares her more than shouting would”. Your father was there. Watching.

Maybe he heard about the fire and went to see—

Nobody 'happens' to show up at a burning house twelve minutes in wearing a coat and gloves in August. “He pockets the phone”. He knew exactly what was happening. Which means he either lit it himself or knew who did.

“Valentina's legs give out slightly. She catches the edge of the dresser.”

I need to talk to him.

No.

He's my father—

He's a suspect in an arson that killed the one witness who could've told us who really ordered my father's murder. “Adriano steps closer, and there's nothing soft in his face now.” You don't get to talk to him. Not yet.

Then when?

When I say so.

“Something in her snaps.” You don't get to decide when I talk to my own family.

I decide everything that happens to you right now. “His voice doesn't rise, which somehow makes it worse.” That's what being property means, Valentina. Did you forget the contract already?

“The word lands like a slap.”

“She steps back, jaw tight, refusing to let him see it hit.”

Fine, “she says”. Then tell me what happens next. Since you're so busy deciding everything.

“Adriano studies her for a long moment. Something shifts behind his eyes — not quite regret, but close enough to make her wonder if he heard himself.”

Thirty days, “he says finally.”

What?

You have thirty days in this house. “He starts pacing, restless, like standing still costs him something”. In thirty days, I decide what you're worth to me. Alive as an asset. Or handed over as evidence in whatever case I build against your father.

Handed over.

To the authorities, if there's enough proof he's dirty. Or to someone worse, if there isn't. “He stops pacing, looks at her directly.” Either way, you don't get a say in it. Not for thirty days.

And after that?

After that, we'll see what you're actually useful for.

“Valentina's hands curl into fists at her sides.”

You talk about me like I'm inventory.

You are inventory. Your father made sure of that the second he signed the contract. “Adriano's voice hardens”. I didn't create this arrangement. I just inherited it.

You could let me go.

I could. “He says it simply, like it costs him nothing to consider and less to dismiss”. But then I lose the only leverage I have over a man who might have murdered my father. So no.

“Silence stretches, heavy and airless.”

Thirty days, “Valentina repeats quietly”. And what am I supposed to do until then? Sit in this room and wait?

You eat. You sleep. You stay where I can see you. “Adriano moves toward the door”. That's all that's required of you.

That's all that's required. “She laughs, short and bitter.” Like I'm a piece of furniture you're renting.

“He pauses at the door, hand on the frame, back to her.”

Careful, “he says, voice quiet”. Furniture doesn't talk back. You clearly haven't figured out which one you are yet.

I know exactly what I am. “Her voice cracks despite herself, and she hates it”. A hostage in a war I didn't start, married off by a father who apparently burns houses down for fun.

“Adriano turns halfway, just enough to look at her over his shoulder.”

You think I chose this either? “Something raw slips into his voice before he catches it”. You think I wanted a stranger's daughter in my house the same week I found out who killed my father?

Then let me go.

I can't.

Won't.

Can't. “He says it again, harder this time, like the word is costing him something to admit.” Because the second you walk out that gate, whoever's covering for your father finishes what they started with Marco. And I'm not interested in explaining to the Commission why I let a material witness die on my watch.

“Valentina opens her mouth to argue and finds nothing there.”

So it's not about me, “she says slowly”. It's about what I represent.

Everything is about what you represent right now. “His eyes flick over her face, jaw working like he's biting back something else.” I wish that weren't true."

“He recovers fast, jaw tightening, and turns fully for the door.”

Get some sleep, he says. "There's a guard outside your door tonight. Not to keep you in."

Then what for?

“He doesn't answer that either. The door shuts behind him, and this time she doesn't hear the lock engage at all — just his footsteps retreating down the hall, slower than before.”

“Valentina sinks onto the edge of the bed, staring at the door, replaying the sentence he didn't finish.”

Not to keep you in.

“She's still turning it over in her head when a sound cuts through the silence — glass, somewhere below her window, shattering against stone.”

“Then a second sound. Closer.”

“Footsteps, running, right outside her door — and a voice she doesn't recognize, low and urgent, cutting through the hallway.”

He's inside the compound. We lost him at the east wall.