The Reaper's Mob Princess

Chapter 3

Valentina:-

The letter slipped from her fingers, fluttering down to the ruined sheets. Her heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her ears, could feel her pulse throbbing in every bruise he'd left on her body.

"Figlio di puttana," she breathed, but there was no heat in it. Just shock. Just something terrifyingly close to wonder.

Ten years. He'd been watching her for ten years. Every club she'd bought, every competitor she'd buried, every Sunday dinner at her mother's cramped little apartment in the old neighborhood—had he been there? Somewhere in the shadows? Those impossible green eyes tracking her rise?

Her hand found the velvet box. It was heavier than it looked.

She cracked it open.

The ring inside stole her breath—an antique setting, art deco, a deep red ruby surrounded by diamonds that caught the morning light and scattered it across her naked skin like drops of blood. Old money. Real money. The kind of ring that came with history and obligations and a throne.

She thought about her father's old zippo, still sitting on her desk downstairs. The Rolodex, her fathers old Rolodex, is full of connected names that had built her empire. A deal made before she was born.

Promised. To Him.

Her reflection stared back at her from the window—bite marks on her throat that one red angry and swollen to the touch right at the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, mascara smudged under her eyes, hair a disaster, looking more wrecked than she'd ever let anyone see her.

She slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

A laugh bubbled up from her chest—wild, disbelieving, edged with something that might have been hysteria or might have been joy.

"Sunday gravy it is then, you manipulative southern bastardo," she murmured to the empty penthouse, twisting the ruby so it caught the light, already planning what dress would make him regret walking out before she woke up.

Talley:-

Whiskey River Key was a small Village on the Old Great River Road in Louisiana the Remnants of a great Spanish Plantation. There was the old Stone Church with its bright and beautiful stained glass windows and the old church bell that told every hour on the hour.

Next was old Grocer’s and Mercantile sitting across from each other.

The ancient Haberdashery had been converted in the 1920s into a gas station and still sold clothes. But up on the hill on the edge of town stood the big restored Spanish Hacienda style house. Two stories sprawling across at least two acres.

Talley sat in the interior courtyard alone sipping a glass of ice cold sweet tea and reading an old copy of Huck Finn.

Valentina:-

The black town car rolled to a stop at the edge of the property, gravel crunching under expensive tires. Valentina stepped out before the driver could open her door, heels sinking slightly into the Louisiana dirt.

She'd dressed for war—a fitted black dress that hugged every curve, modest enough for a church town but tight enough to remind him exactly what he'd walked away from. The ruby ring glinted on her finger, catching the afternoon sun. She hadn't taken it off since she'd put it on three days ago.

The humidity hit her like a wall after Manhattan's air-conditioned sterility. Already she could feel her hair starting to curl, the silk of her dress clinging to her skin. Spanish moss hung from ancient oaks lining the drive, and somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled the hour.

"Madonna santa," she muttered, taking in the sprawling hacienda. "He's got a whole f*****g kingdom down here."

She didn't knock. Didn't wait for permission. Just walked through the wrought-iron gate into the interior courtyard like she owned the place—because if that ring meant what she thought it meant, she would.

And there he was.

Lounging in the shade like some kind of plantation prince, sweet tea sweating in his hand, reading Mark Twain like he hadn't turned her world upside down and disappeared into the bayou.

"You missed Sunday gravy," she said, voice flat, arms crossed under her chest. "My mother made fresh pasta. She was devastated."

The ruby caught the light as she moved closer.

He looked up from his book, those luminescent green eyes finding hers with infuriating calm, a slow smile spreading across his face as he took in the ring on her finger.

"Had some business to settle first, Kitten," he drawled, setting Huck Finn aside and patting his thigh like she was a cat he expected to curl up in his lap. "But I see you got my message loud and clear."

She didn't sit—just stood there with the Louisiana heat pressing against her skin and three days of fury burning in her chest. "You left me naked and leaking c*m in a bed that cost more than this whole town, stronzo—you think a pretty ring and a cryptic letter makes that okay?”

That little sexy smirk tugging at his oh so yummy mouth spread wider. “I recall just how Ieft you Kitten,” He shook his head. "I called your mother and sent flowers to her. Did she get them?" He asked, "And I really didn't want to leave you, really I didn't. But I was concerned you'd throw things. Not to mention not believe me,”

Her jaw tightened at the mention of her mother—of course the bastard had called ahead, probably charmed the old woman senseless with that honeyed drawl and whatever bullshit story he'd spun.

"She got them," Valentina admitted through gritted teeth. "White roses and lilies. She hasn't shut up about 'that lovely Southern boy' since. Apparently she thinks you're un gentiluomo."

She moved closer, heels clicking against the terracotta tiles of the courtyard. The humidity was making her dress cling in ways that should've been uncomfortable but just made her more aware of every bruise still fading on her skin—his bruises, his marks, still there days later.

"Your father told you that. What else did he tell you about me, Talley? What else have you been studying for ten f*****g years?"

Her hand came up, the ruby flashing.

"You knew my favorite wine. Knew I'd climb into that car. Knew exactly how to—" She stopped, swallowing hard, refusing to say it out loud in the broad daylight of his pretty courtyard.

A mockingbird sang somewhere in the oak trees. The church bell finished its tolling. The sweet tea sweated in his hand.

"I don't like being played, bello." Her voice dropped low, dangerous. "I don't like being a piece on someone else's board.”

Talley:-

He wore comfortable jeans slung low on his hips and a tailored black short sleeve Henley that clung to him perfectly. She noticed that he had tattoos. From his wrist running up his arms and disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt. Ancient jagged runes like tribal designs with bright ivy scrollwork the color of his eyes snaking through them.

Her eyes traced the ink despite herself—those jagged runes crawling up forearms she remembered ripping her hips hard enough to bruise, disappearing under sleeves that stretched over biceps she'd clawed bloody. The green scrollwork matched his eyes exactly. Of course it did.

"Pretty," she said flatly, nodding at the tattoos. "Get those done while you were watching me for a decade?"

She still hadn't sat. Still hadn't taken the bait of his patted thigh. The Roman Queen didn't heel on command—not in daylight, not sober, not when she was still furious.

But god, he looked good. Relaxed in a way she'd never learned to be, all that dangerous power leashed under worn denim and soft cotton. The Louisiana heat suited him. Made sense of him in a way Manhattan's sharp edges never could.

"You owe me answers." She moved closer, close enough to smell him now—sweet tea and something woodsy, cedar maybe, and underneath it the same scent that had soaked into her sheets. "Real ones. Not cryptic bullshit about deals and promises."

Her hand reached out before she could stop it, fingers brushing the ivy scrollwork on his forearm, tracing the green that matched his impossible eyes.

"Who are you, Talley Silverhand?" The question came out softer than she intended. "Who was your father to mine? And why—"

Her voice caught. "Why did you wait so long?”

He sighed nodding at her* "Sit down please" He gestures to the over stuffed chair next to him.

She hesitated—every instinct screaming not to give him even that small victory. But her feet ached in these stupid heels and the humidity was making her head swim and she was so tired of standing there on guard.

"Fine," she muttered, sinking into the overstuffed chair with as much dignity as she could muster. "But only because I've been traveling for six hours and these shoes cost more than your truck."

The cushions swallowed her in a way that felt dangerously comfortable. She crossed her legs, the slit of her dress falling open to reveal the wolf tattoo on her thigh—the one she'd gotten the night she made her first million. His eyes tracked it and she pretended not to notice.

A ceiling fan turned lazy overhead, stirring the thick air. Somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, cicadas screamed their endless summer song.

"Talk," she said, reaching over to steal his sweet tea without asking, taking a long sip. "Dio, that's sweet enough to rot your teeth."

He nodded. “Yeah I wasn’t paying attention and added too much sugar. But it's good and cold. so I'll deal with it until it's time to make a new batch.”

she didn't put it down. Just held the cold glass against her throat, letting the condensation drip down her collarbone while she waited.

"Start from the beginning. Your father. My father. This—" She held up her hand, the ruby catching the dappled light filtering through the oak leaves. "Whatever the hell this arrangement actually means."

Her golden eye found his green ones, steady now, the fury banked but not gone.

"And don't you dare leave anything out.”

He leaned forward looking out the courtyard gate at his black King Ranch F350 4x4. Sitting glossy and shining in the bright southern sun. "Those are some fancy shoes you got there," He drawled teasingly as he leaned back looking at her again. "I got the Tattoos when I was stationed in Cairo Egypt. They glow bright blue in the dark,”