My Valentine

Chapter 5

“Valarie.”

The sound of my name in his mouth pulled every scattered thought into sharp focus. I stood frozen in the entryway of the penthouse, the package still warm from my hands, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs. He stepped closer. The air between us thickened. Then his phone rang—sharp, insistent—and the moment fractured.

He answered without looking away from me. With his free hand he reached out, two fingers sliding beneath my chin, lifting my face until our eyes met. His touch was cool, controlled, yet it sent heat cascading down my spine.

“Some other time,” he said, voice low and certain. A pause. Then, softer, almost intimate: “Valentine.”

The nickname landed like a secret pressed against my skin.

I managed a shaky nod. He released me and turned away, already deep in conversation. I fled.

The elevator ride down felt endless. My legs trembled so violently I had to brace a hand against the mirrored wall. By the time the doors opened onto the lobby I could barely stand. Outside, the city air hit me like a slap. I leaned against the cold stone of the building until the shaking eased enough to walk.

When I returned to work, Laura was waiting.

She crossed the floor the moment she saw me, eyes bright with curiosity and something sharper—concern. “How was it? Your first delivery. Were you scared?”

I forced a smile that felt too bright. “Why should I be scared?”

Before I could say more, Katy appeared on my other side. Together they steered me toward the back door, away from the manager’s line of sight. The three of us had been close since my first week—shared shifts, shared complaints, the quiet solidarity of people who knew how to survive the same place.

Once we were alone, Katy’s voice dropped. “You have to be careful of Mr. V.”

I frowned. “Why?”

Laura glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in, speaking barely above a whisper. “Don’t you know? He’s the head of the Sicily mafia. The Don of the Rossi family. Extremely dangerous.” She hesitated, guilt flickering across her face. “That’s why I faked the injury this morning. I didn’t want to be the one sent over. I’m sorry, Valarie. I had no idea he’d pick you instead.”

I should have felt fear. Instead a reckless little spark of something else lit inside my chest. I smiled. “But he’s so hot.”

Katy slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh my God. You’ve seen him shirtless, haven’t you?”

The three of us dissolved into quiet, conspiratorial laughter. For a few stolen minutes we stood there daydreaming about the man who lived above the city like a king—dangerous, beautiful, and now, somehow, aware of my existence.

Weeks later the call came again.

Another package. Another delivery. This time the penthouse was unusually crowded—security in dark suits, low voices, the sense of movement behind closed doors. I was redirected almost immediately. The instruction was clear: take the package to Mr. V at his office. Rossi Limited Group of Companies. Fifty-Four Street, West Garden Avenue, Manhattan.

The building rose like a blade of glass and steel. Inside, the lobby smelled of money and polished stone. I approached the secretary’s desk, package tucked under one arm, and said, “I’m here to see Mr. Rossi.”

She looked up, already distracted, already moving papers. “Oh—are you the new personal assistant scheduled for an interview today?”

I opened my mouth to correct her.

She didn’t wait. “You can go in now.” A landline rang. She answered, listened, then nodded brisk. “Mr. Rossi has accepted the first person to show up. Lucky you. Please proceed to the office. Take your office card and get input into the company system.” She was already standing, ushering me forward with quick, impatient gestures. “Mr. Rossi needs you now. Arrange the files and follow him. He’s in a hurry.”

There was no time to protest. The misunderstanding had already hardened into fact.

I stepped into the office.

He stood with his back to me, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Manhattan skyline. The navy-blue suit he wore had been tailored to him with almost cruel precision—every line of his shoulders, the lean power of his torso, the long clean cut of his legs visible even through the fabric. He was on a call, voice low and decisive. Without turning, he spoke.

“Pack the files. We leave now.”

“Okay,” I managed.

I gathered the folders he indicated, the original package still in my arms, and followed him out. He never once looked at me. His attention remained locked on the conversation, on the next move, on whatever world he ruled beyond these walls. We descended to the private garage. A black 2025 Rolls-Royce waited, engine already purring. The driver held the rear door. I slid in, files stacked carefully on my lap. Mr. V took the seat beside me. The door closed with a solid, expensive thunk, and the car pulled into traffic.

Ten minutes passed in silence broken only by the low murmur of his call. Then he ended it.

He turned his head.

His gaze found me—files, package, nervous hands, the whole improbable picture—and something shifted in his expression. A slow, almost amused tilt of the head.

“Well,” he said. “Isn’t it my Valentine.”

Heat flooded my face so fast I felt sixteen again, sitting beside a crush I had no right to want. I stammered an explanation—the delivery, the secretary’s mistake, the cascade of assumptions that had landed me here. “Should I drop the package now and take the subway back to work, sir?”

The smirk that curved his mouth was dangerous and unmistakably sexy. “Nope. It’s your job to keep. You’re already my staff. Just see this as a promotion.”

He took the files from my hands, began reviewing them with the same focused intensity he gave everything. After a moment he addressed the driver.

“When is the meeting, Jack?”

“Two p.m., sir.”

Mr. V checked his watch. “It’s only twelve. Too early.” A brief pause. “Jack. Stop at Crystal Beauty House.”

The beauty house was a temple of quiet luxury—soft lighting, the faint scent of expensive perfume and fresh flowers, staff who moved like they had been trained never to startle. I remained in the car for a moment after we parked, still absorbing the impossible turn the day had taken, until his voice reached me through the open door.

“Come down, Val.”

Inside, he spoke to a woman named Tatiana with the same calm authority he used everywhere else. “Give her a makeover. My PA can’t be seen like this.”

Then he retreated to a low leather chair in the waiting area, opened a magazine, and left me in their hands.

They worked with efficient grace. Dresses appeared and disappeared. Shoes were slipped onto my feet and discarded. My hair was washed, cut, styled into soft waves that framed my face. Nails were shaped and polished. Makeup was applied with a light, expert hand—enough to make my eyes look clearer, my mouth softer, without turning me into someone unrecognizable.

When they finished, they led me out.

Mr. V looked up from the magazine. His gaze traveled over me once, deliberate and assessing. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.

“Now you look good for the meeting,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Back in the Rolls-Royce the city slid past the windows in a blur of light and steel. I sat very still, hyperaware of the new clothes against my skin, the unfamiliar weight of the makeup, the way my reflection in the tinted glass no longer quite matched the girl who had delivered packages that morning.

He reached over without warning. Fingers brushed my temple, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was brief, precise, and devastating. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred against my skin, and whispered so only I could hear:

“You look beautiful, Valentine.”