The Butcher’s Bride

One Hour

The radio went silent.

Valentina stared at it as though Luca’s voice might return and tell her none of it was real.

Forty-seven women.

Three children.

Elena screaming in the background.

Her brother had taken all of them because of her.

Roman removed the radio from his soldier’s hand and crushed it beneath his shoe.

“You aren’t going alone.”

Valentina looked at him.

“You heard what he said.”

“I heard your brother make a threat.”

“He’ll burn the warehouse.”

“Then we reach him before he lights the match.”

Roman turned toward his men.

“Call Alessio. I want Pier Nine surrounded without being seen. Snipers on every rooftop, boats beneath the eastern bridge, and men inside the old rail tunnels.”

One of the soldiers hesitated.

“Luca said—”

Roman looked at him.

The man immediately lowered his head.

“Understood, Boss.”

He hurried away.

Valentina stepped in front of Roman.

“You cannot surround the pier. Luca knows how you operate.”

“Your brother does not know how I operate.”

“He knew you would hear the transmission.”

“He wanted me to hear it.”

“Because he wants you angry.”

Roman’s gaze sharpened.

Valentina continued before he could interrupt.

“He knows angry men become predictable. My father taught us that. Make an enemy furious enough, and he stops looking for the trap.”

Roman glanced toward Salvatore.

Her father stood restrained between two DeLuca soldiers, his face pale but smug.

“She finally learned something from me,” Salvatore said.

Valentina crossed the ballroom and struck him with the pistol.

The metal split the skin above his cheek.

Salvatore grunted.

“I learned despite you.”

She turned back to Roman.

“Luca expects soldiers. He expects snipers. He expects you to attack the warehouse.”

“And what do you think he expects from you?”

“He expects me to surrender.”

Roman’s expression hardened.

“No.”

“It is the only reason the hostages are still alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know Luca.”

“You thought you knew him yesterday.”

The words cut deeper than she wanted them to.

Roman saw it.

For the briefest moment, something softened in his face.

Then it disappeared.

Valentina tightened her grip around the gun.

“He followed me for weeks. He sat across from me every morning and pretended he knew nothing. He fooled me because I still believed he was my brother.”

“He is your enemy now.”

“Yes.”

Saying it aloud made it real.

Luca was no longer the boy who had crawled into her bed during thunderstorms. He was no longer the teenager who slipped sweets beneath her door whenever their father punished her.

He had taken women and children to force her obedience.

He had become exactly what their father raised him to be.

Valentina looked toward Salvatore.

“How would Luca move forty-seven women without being seen?”

Her father smiled through the blood on his face.

“I thought I was no longer your father.”

“You aren’t. You’re a source of information.”

Roman’s mouth curved slightly.

Salvatore noticed.

“You find this amusing?”

“I find her amusing,” Roman said. “You, I find temporary.”

Salvatore’s smile faded.

Valentina stepped closer.

“Luca has four vehicles. That isn’t enough.”

“He has access to trucks.”

“From where?”

Silence.

Roman extended his hand toward one of his soldiers.

The man placed a knife in it.

Roman examined the blade.

“Which finger did you break earlier?”

Salvatore’s face tightened.

“His left index finger,” the soldier answered.

Roman crouched in front of him.

“Then we’ll start with the right.”

“Wait,” Salvatore snapped.

Roman rested the blade beneath his fingernail.

“Warehouse Six,” Salvatore said. “There are transport vans stored beneath Warehouse Six.”

Valentina’s pulse jumped.

“Underground?”

“An old freight level.”

“Connected to the service tunnels?”

Her father remained silent.

Roman pressed the knife deeper.

“Yes.”

Valentina turned toward the ballroom doors.

“Pier Nine is a distraction.”

Roman rose.

“You’re certain?”

“Luca wants me at the pier while he moves everyone through Warehouse Six.”

“Where does the tunnel exit?”

“Near the abandoned stockyards.”

Roman pointed at two soldiers.

“Take Russo and Moretti to the cars.”

Matteo struggled at the top of the stairs.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A soldier struck the back of his wounded leg.

Matteo collapsed with a scream.

Roman did not look at him.

“If either of them attempts to escape, remove a foot. Do not kill them.”

Valentina looked at Roman’s shoulder.

The makeshift bandage was already soaked through.

“You need treatment before we leave.”

“I need five minutes.”

“You need a surgeon.”

“I have one.”

“In the ballroom?”

“At my house.”

“We do not have time to drive to your house.”

Roman stepped close.

“Then you’ll remove the bullet.”

“It passed through.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You checked?”

“I saw the blood on both sides.”

“Good. That means you only need to stop the bleeding.”

“I am not a doctor.”

“No, but you’re intelligent and motivated.”

“Motivated by what?”

“Keeping me alive.”

Valentina stared at him.

Roman’s gaze moved to her mouth.

The gunfire, the blood, the hostages, and the bodies surrounding them seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.

“You are incredibly arrogant,” she whispered.

“I’ve earned the right.”

He placed his uninjured hand against the small of her back and guided her toward a side room.

Valentina should have resisted.

Instead, she followed.

The library had escaped most of the fighting. One window was shattered, but the shelves remained intact. Roman removed his jacket and dropped it across a chair.

His white shirt was soaked red from shoulder to elbow.

“Take it off,” Valentina said.

His mouth tilted.

“The shirt.”

“I knew what you meant.”

Roman unbuttoned it with one hand.

Valentina tried not to watch.

She failed.

Scars crossed his chest and abdomen. Some were thin and pale. Others were thick, ugly reminders of bullets and blades that had come close to killing him.

Roman saw her looking.

“Disappointed?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“How many of those men survived.”

“Very few.”

He pulled the shirt from his injured shoulder.

The bullet had torn through the muscle high above his chest. The wound was ugly, but it had missed the bone and major blood vessels.

Valentina opened the medical cabinet hidden behind the library bar.

Her father kept supplies in nearly every room.

Powerful men expected violence even inside their own homes.

She found antiseptic, gauze, and a suture kit.

Roman sat on the edge of the desk.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

“I helped the women my father hurt.”

His expression darkened.

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Valentina cleaned the wound.

Roman did not flinch.

“Some came to me bleeding,” she continued. “Some couldn’t walk. One was sixteen.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“My father said she lied about her age.”

“Did she?”

“No.”

Valentina pressed gauze against the wound harder than necessary.

Roman’s eyes held hers.

“Tell me his name.”

“Whose?”

“The man who touched her.”

“He is already dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I arranged an accident.”

Roman smiled.

There was genuine warmth in it this time.

It made him more frightening.

“You were never your father’s innocent daughter.”

“I had to look innocent.”

“Not anymore.”

Valentina wrapped the bandage around his shoulder and chest.

Roman’s hand settled on her hip.

She stopped.

“Move it.”

“No.”

“You are bleeding on my dress.”

“There is no part of that dress left to save.”

His thumb brushed the torn fabric at her waist.

Valentina’s breath caught.

Roman’s voice lowered.

“When this is over, I’m burning it.”

“It is my dress.”

“It has Matteo’s blood on it.”

“It has everyone’s blood on it.”

“Exactly.”

His possessiveness should have angered her.

It did.

It also sent heat curling through her stomach, which angered her more.

Valentina tightened the final bandage until Roman hissed.

“Finished.”

“You enjoyed that.”

“A little.”

Roman rose.

He stood close enough that her body nearly touched his.

“You may enjoy hurting me whenever you like.”

Her pulse stumbled.

“As long as I survive it,” he added.

Someone knocked on the library door.

Roman stepped away.

“Enter.”

A tall man with dark hair walked inside.

Unlike the soldiers, he wore no tactical vest. A knife was strapped to his thigh, and blood covered one side of his neck.

“Pier Nine is empty,” he said.

Roman looked at Valentina.

She felt no satisfaction at being right.

“Warehouse Six?” Roman asked.

“Thermal scans show at least sixty people below ground. Two trucks are moving toward the western exit.”

Valentina grabbed her gun.

“They’re already leaving.”

The man looked at her blood-covered dress, then at Roman.

“This is her?”

Roman’s expression turned cold.

“She has a name, Alessio.”

Alessio inclined his head.

“Valentina.”

She recognized the name. Alessio DeLuca was Roman’s cousin and second-in-command.

“How many armed men?” she asked.

“Approximately twenty inside. More near the stockyards.”

“Luca?”

“We haven’t located him.”

Roman collected his jacket but did not put it on.

“We split the men. Alessio takes the stockyard exit. Valentina and I enter through the eastern tunnel.”

Alessio looked at Roman’s bandaged shoulder.

“You were shot.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re bringing her?”

“She’s bringing me.”

Valentina looked at him.

Roman smiled faintly.

Alessio appeared uncertain whether Roman was joking.

He wisely chose not to ask.

They returned to the ballroom.

Salvatore and Matteo had already been taken outside. The estate felt strangely empty without the screams of guests and gunfire.

Valentina stopped beside the shattered engagement cake.

White frosting and sugar flowers covered the floor.

The silver knife was gone.

She had left it upstairs beside Matteo’s blood.

Roman followed her gaze.

“What is it?”

“My life was supposed to begin tonight.”

“It did.”

She looked at him.

“This is not the life I planned.”

“Plans are fragile things.”

“And your plan?”

Roman stepped beside her.

“Destroy your family. Take their territory. Kill anyone who resisted.”

“And now?”

“Destroy your family. Take their territory. Marry you.”

Valentina almost laughed.

Instead, she reached into the ruined cake and removed the untouched silver topper.

Two elegant initials had been twisted together.

V and M.

She broke Matteo’s initial from hers and dropped it into the frosting.

Roman watched.

“You’re serious about the marriage,” she said.

“I have never been more serious about anything.”

“You don’t know me.”