Dirt And Devotion
1229 Words
There were two things Enzo Valdez didn’t believe in: fate and innocence.
And Alora Vito was the walking embodiment of both.
She’d stepped into his house with doe eyes and delicate words, wrapped in satin and the scent of secrets. Her steps were light, graceful even—but every time she moved, it was like he could hear the echo of something calculated.
He hated it.
He hated her.
Because something about her felt too perfect. Too untouched. Like a blade sharpened by someone else’s hand. She hadn’t cracked under his cruelty. Hadn’t flinched when he’d threatened her. She didn’t cry at night, didn’t ask to go home, and didn’t once beg for his approval.
No woman came into the lion’s den and held her ground like that.
Not unless she had something to hide.
And Enzo Valdez was going to find out what.
⸻
He sat in the security wing of the estate, a dark room buzzing with low surveillance hums and flickering feeds. Rafael and Angelo stood nearby, quiet and alert. These were his men—men who had buried bodies for him without blinking. Men who knew silence was sometimes more valuable than loyalty.
“Run a full dig on her,” Enzo said, eyes locked on one of the security screens. Alora was in the courtyard, feeding the koi fish like she had nothing to fear. “Start from the day she was born.”
Rafael shifted. “Boss, she’s the Vito princess. Her father has ears in half the country. If we dig too deep—”
“I don’t care,” Enzo snapped. “I want blood. Dirt. Secrets. You think she came here just to smile at me and warm my damn dining chair? No. She came here with an agenda.”
Angelo nodded, already turning toward the back office. “We’ll pull what we can. Might take a few hours.”
“You have one,” Enzo said, voice ice.
⸻
An hour and seventeen minutes later, the first file landed on his desk.
Angelo dropped it without a word.
Enzo opened the folder and started reading.
Alora had no scandals. No suspicious affiliations. Her schooling was spotless—private academies, straight As, a string of scholarships she never used. Languages: English, Italian, Russian. Studied fencing, ballet, and classical piano since she was nine. Summered in Milan. Winters in Prague. Two nannies, three personal guards since age fifteen.
Everything read like a goddamn fairytale.
Too clean.
Too perfect.
And Enzo didn’t believe in perfection.
He turned to Angelo. “Burner phone?”
“One call. Lasted one minute and twenty-three seconds. Number was destroyed two days after the call.”
“Who was it?”
“Couldn’t trace the owner. But the call came from New York—upper east side. Same block as the Falcone residence.”
Enzo’s eyes narrowed. The Falcones were a smaller family, mostly neutral, but they had ties to international intelligence.
“And she’s never mentioned this?”
“No, sir.”
Rafael added, “She’s also been speaking to one of the maids—Camilla. Long conversations. Too quiet.”
Enzo stood.
“Where is Camilla now?”
“Off-duty. Sleeping.”
“Wake her.”
⸻
Camilla was nervous when Enzo entered the staff quarters. She tried to straighten her dress, eyes wide and shaking. She was young—barely twenty—and had only been in the Valdez estate for two weeks.
Enzo didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“What has Alora Vito said to you?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Valdez—”
He stepped closer, his presence filling the room like smoke. “You do. Don’t lie to me, girl. I’m not in the mood to play games.”
Camilla’s eyes darted to Rafael, who stood by the door like a silent warning.
“She just talks sometimes,” Camilla stammered. “Nothing dangerous. She asks about the staff. About the guards. About… you.”
Enzo’s jaw tightened.
“About me?”
“Yes. She wanted to know what kind of man you are behind closed doors. If you hurt people. If you punish loyalty.”
“And you answered?”
“I didn’t say anything bad! I swear. I just said you were… distant. Cold.”
“You’re dismissed,” Enzo said.
Camilla looked like she might faint from relief.
⸻
He returned to his office and stared at the surveillance footage again. Alora had returned to her room. She sat on the windowsill, gazing out into the night like it held answers.
It made his skin crawl.
She wasn’t just surviving here.
She was studying.
And that made her dangerous.
He grabbed his phone.
“Get me Luca Vito,” he said coldly. “Now.”
⸻
Luca’s voice came over the line minutes later, smooth and deliberate.
“Enzo. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You sent me a wife with secrets.”
Luca chuckled. “You sound surprised.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“She’s young. Unafraid. That’s not a crime.”
“It is when she starts asking my staff about my habits.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then: “She’s sharp. I taught her to watch. She’s not plotting, Enzo. She’s learning.”
“Learning what?”
“You.”
“I’m not a damn subject in a schoolbook.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
Enzo nearly crushed the phone in his hand. “If she oversteps, I won’t protect her.”
“She doesn’t need your protection,” Luca said softly. “She’s a Vito. She was trained for war before you even learned how to lie.”
The line went dead.
⸻
Enzo threw the phone across the desk.
For a long moment, he stood in silence, the fury in his chest simmering dangerously close to obsession.
Alora Vito wasn’t just clever.
She was prepared.
Someone had coached her, molded her. She wasn’t here as a peace offering.
She was here as a spy.
A player.
Maybe even a weapon.
And that meant she wasn’t his to destroy freely—not yet. Because someone else had placed her in his path with a reason.
But he’d find it.
Even if he had to peel away every layer of silk and smiles to get to the truth.
⸻
That night, he watched her sleep.
Not out of affection.
Not out of interest.
But because he needed to understand what kind of girl could lie beside a man who hated her—and still breathe like she wasn’t drowning.
She shifted once. Whispered something in her sleep.
He leaned closer, listening.
“Don’t trust him,” she murmured. “Not yet.”
His eyes went cold.
“Who?” he whispered.
But she didn’t answer.
She only turned her face to the side, her lips parting in some quiet dream.
Enzo straightened, his mind spinning.
She was speaking to someone.
She was protecting someone.
And it wasn’t him.
⸻
The next morning, Alora found her window cracked open. A single black feather lay on her windowsill.
A warning. Or a test.
She picked it up, turned it in her fingers, and smiled faintly.
She wasn’t afraid.
But now she knew—
He was watching.
And the game had begun.
- Writer
