My Valentine

Chapter 3

New York was supposed to be my fresh start, a city big enough to swallow my past and spit out something better. But at twenty-four, I’m still wiping down counters in a bar that smells like stale beer and broken promises, dodging my boss’s insults and the leering eyes of drunks. It’s not worse than Wyoming, but it’s not better either. Harassment is just part of the job now, a daily grind I never dreamed of when I was a kid running from Kentucky’s dust and my parents’ fists. Two years ago, a man in a tan suit—V, they called him—pulled me from Spin’s dungeon, handed me cash, a map, and a phone, and gave me a second chance. I used it to get here, hoping for a life that didn’t hurt. But hope’s a slippery thing, and I’m still chasing it.

Everything changed one evening when my boss called me into his office, his voice sharp as a switchblade. “Valerie, you’re moving to our Manhattan branch. Tomorrow.”

I protested, my stomach twisting. “Manhattan? I can’t afford to live there, and my apartment’s on the other side of town!”

He didn’t budge, his eyes cold. “Pack your s**t and go.” So I did, dragging my life across the city to a new bar, where they gave me a tiny room in the back—a closet with a cot, really—to crash during the week. Every weekend, I’d haul myself back to my rundown apartment, the commute eating what little money I had. It was a grind, but I kept my head down, pouring drinks and dodging groping hands, telling myself it was better than a rusty room with a gun to my head.

One evening, the bar was eerily quiet, the usual hum of chatter replaced by a tense hush. I asked Donna, a waitress with a laugh like a foghorn, what was going on. “Mr. Vittorio Rossi’s coming,” she said, as if that explained everything. I blinked, confused. “Who’s that?”

Every eye turned to me, the air heavy with disbelief, like I’d asked something forbidden. A moment of silence stretched, and I laughed awkwardly to break it. Donna’s grin split wide. “What! You don’t know New York’s number one bachelor, billionaire Vittorio? Worth over fifty billion, founder of Rossi Airlines, Rossi Cars, Rossi Tech?”

I shook my head, still clueless. Sandra, wiping a beer glass in the staff room, chimed in. “You don’t know he owns Rossigram? The social media app? And this bar?”

My jaw dropped. “He owns this place?” The idea that a billionaire owned the grimy counter I scrubbed every night felt like a bad joke. We were still gossiping about Vittorio Rossi—his wealth, his charm, his empire—when the manager burst in, his face flushed. “Quiet, everyone! Mr. Rossi’s here!”

The door swung open, and a tall figure stepped inside. A realm of light seemed to follow him, as if an angel had descended into the dive bar. His aura hit me like a wave, commanding the room from a thousand miles away. As he drew closer, I saw his face, and my heart stopped. It was him—the man in the tan suit, the one who’d saved me from Spin two years ago. My pulse raced, my palms sweated, my throat tightened like a boulder was lodged there. I stood frozen, watching as he moved with a grace that didn’t belong in a place like this. His jawline was sharp as a blade, his nose pointed like a finely sharpened pencil, and when he turned toward me, his ocean-blue eyes nearly knocked me over. I’d never seen a man so majestic, so handsome, not even in my dreams.

“Valerie!” the manager’s shout snapped me out of it. “Go serve Mr. Rossi his drink!”

My legs shook like leaves as I approached, my hands trembling. “What can I get you, sir?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

The man beside him answered, “Whiskey.”

I fetched a bottle of 1934 aged whiskey, my fingers clumsy as I poured. Vittorio lifted his face, and those blue eyes locked onto mine. I froze, the bottle slipping, and whiskey splashed across his thigh. Panic surged through me. “Sorry, sir!” I stammered, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at his leg, my hands shaking harder as I realized I was touching him. I jumped back, horrified, apologies spilling out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He didn’t speak, just watched me, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his eyes piercing mine. “How are you, Valerie?” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Glad you found your way to New York.”

I stuttered, my mind reeling. “Do you… remember me?”

A devilish smile curved his lips. “Of course, Valerie.”

The room spun. The man who’d saved my life, who’d walked away in a Rolls-Royce, was sitting in front of me, owning the bar, owning half the city, and saying my name like it mattered. My past—Kentucky, Eric, Spin—crashed into this moment, and for the first time, I felt something flicker inside me. Not hope, not yet, but something close.