THE BREAK-IN
3531 Words
MARIA
The lock clicks open. Three seconds flat.
I’m getting too good at this s**t.
Brian’s penthouse smells like money and secrets. Cold air conditioning slaps my face when I slip inside. Two AM. He’s supposed to be in Atlantic City until tomorrow morning. Some bullshit business meeting about expanding the fight clubs. I’ve got maybe ninety minutes before his driver checks in.
Ninety minutes to plant the bugs. Clone his laptop. Photograph everything in that f*****g safe.
Ninety minutes to get one step closer to watching his world burn.
My hands are steady. It wasn't the first time I had done this—broke into some trust fund asshole’s SoHo loft six months ago, ran a practice run, even ever hyperventilating the whole time. But that was before. Before I learned what I’m capable of. Before I understood that good girls who play by the rules end up dead in crashed cars with their skulls caved in.
Like Sarah.
I move through his living room fast. Everything’s exactly where it should be—white leather couches nobody sits on, abstract art that probably costs more than my mom’s annual salary, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park like he owns the whole fucking city.
Maybe he does.
The Valente family own half of New York. What they don’t own, they control. Drugs. Guns. Protection rackets. The kind of s**t that makes people disappear. The kind of s**t that gets twenty-three-year-old nursing students murdered, and their deaths ruled accidents.
I know because I’ve spent two years investigating my sister’s death.
And three months fucking the man who probably ordered it.
God. Theat word—f*****g. It’s accurate though. We don’t make love. We don’t have s*x. We f**k. Hard. Angry. Like we’re both trying to hurt each other. Like maybe if we do it rough enough, we won’t have to feel anything real.
He’s good at it. Too good. I went to his office three times last week, bent over his desk, skirt hiked up, his hand in my hair pulling my head back while he pounded into me from behind. I was supposed to be searching for his computer. Instead, I was screaming his name and hating myself for how much I liked it.
Focus, Maria.
I head to his studies. Laptop’s on the desk—he’s a creature of habit. Works for exactly two hours every night before bed. Scotch in the same crystal glass. Then shower. Then bed. I know his routine better than my own class schedule.
I plug in Isabella’s USB drive. Some hacker s**t I don’t understand. The screen says seven minutes.
Seven minutes when everything has to go perfectly.
I photograph the contracts on his desk. Shipping manifests. A handwritten note in Italian. Then I move to the safe hidden behind the Rothko print because, of course, this fucker has a Rothko in his study.
The combination was his mother’s birthday.
I know because he told me when he was drunk. The only time I’ve seen him vulnerable. Only time he talked about her—how she was killed when he was sixteen, how he was useless, just some kid with rage in his veins and nowhere to aim it. How his father changed afterward. How Vincent became a monster and Brian became something colder.
He cried that night. Actually f*****g cried.
I almost felt bad.
Almost.
The safe swings open. Cash. Lots of it. A gun. Three passports, different names. And at the bottom, a file folder.
My heart’s hammering now. Breaking rhythm. I pull it out.
Inside: crime scene photos.
A girl’s body in a crashed car. Windshield spiderwebbed. Blood everywhere. Her face turned away, but I know. I know. That’s Sarah’s bracelet. The one I gave her for her twenty-first birthday. The one she never took off.
The room tilts.
He kept photos of my dead sister in his safe.
He’s known. This whole time. He’s known.
“Looking for something, baby?”
The voice comes from behind me and every muscle in my body locks.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I spin around. He’s leaning against the doorframe. Dark suit, no tie, top buttons undone. Hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it. Expression unreadable.
How long has he been standing there?
“Brian.” My voice comes out steady. Good. “You’re supposed to be in Atlantic City.”
“The meeting got canceled.” He pushes off the doorframe. Walks toward me. Slow. Predatory. “Imagine my surprise when my security system alerts me that someone’s broken into my apartment.”
“I can explain—”
“Can you?” He’s close now. Close enough I could smell his cologne. Close enough to see the dark amusement in his eyes. “Please. I’m fascinated to hear what explanation you’ve come up with.”
My mind races. “I wanted to surprise you—”
“By breaking into my safe?” He glances at the open safe. At the photos in my hand. His expression shifts. Darker. “Or were you looking for something specific?”
I should run. Scream. Something.
Instead, I stand there holding photos of my dead sister while the man who might have killed her stares me down.
“Who is she?” he asks quietly.
“You know who she is.” My voice is shaking now. Anger. Terror. Some f****d up combination. “You have crime scene photos in your safe. You don’t keep souvenirs unless you’re proud of your work.”
Something flashes across his face. “You think I killed her.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.” He steps closer. I step back. Hit the safe. Nowhere to go. “But I know who did.”
“Bullshit.”
“Her name was Sarah Santos.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “She was twenty-three. Nursing student. Found dead in her car on the FDR Drive two years ago. Police ruled it an accident.” He pauses. “Her little sister Maria—that’s you, by the way—enrolled at NYU pre-med the following fall. Full scholarship. Straight A’s. Model student.”
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
“Three months ago, ” he continues, voice soft and dangerous, “Maria Santos walked into my life. Said her name was Ria. Said she was a waitress. SaID she thought I was hot and wanted to fuck me.” He’s so close now I can feel his body heat. “I let her play her game. Want to know why?”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.
“Because I’ve been investigating Sarah’s death too.” He takes the photos from my hand. Gentle. Set them on the desk. “I knew you were lying since the moment we met, Maria. Every word out of that pretty mouth. Every moan. Every time you come on my c**k screaming my name—all of it, lies.”
“Then why—”
“Why did I f**k you anyway?” He laughs. Dark. Bitter. “Because you’re a good liar. Because the s*x is incredible. Because I wanted to see how far you’d go.”
His hand comes up. Cups my jaw. Thumb brushes my lower lip.
“And because I knew eventually, we’d end up here. You in my apartment. Me catching you. Both of us are finally being honest.”
“I’ll never help you.” The words come out strangled. “Whatever you want—”
“I want you to marry me.”
The world stops.
“What?”
“Marry me,” he says as he’s ordering coffee. Casual. Easy. “Sign a contract. One year. After that, you’re free.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m practical.” His hand slides into my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. A reminder of power. “You want revenge. I want my inheritance. My grandmother’s trust fund—fifteen million dollars—but I only get it if I’m married. And I need that money to expand.”
“Why would I ever agree to this?”
“Because I know who killed your sister. And if you marry me, I’ll help you destroy him.”
My pulse pounds against his palm. “Who?”
“My brother Vincent.” He leans in. Lips nearly touch mine. “And before you ask—yes, I have proof. Yes, I’ll give it to you. But only if you’re mine.”
“I’m not—”
“You already are.” His mouth crashes into mine.
And I hate it. Hate him. Hate that I kiss him back immediately, desperately, like I’m drowning and he’s air. Hate that my hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. Hate that when he lifts me onto the desk and yanks my jeans down, I help him.
“Tell me no,” he growls in my mouth. “Tell me to stop.”
I can’t. Won’t. Don’t want to.
“f**k you,” I whisper.
“That’s what I’m doing.”
He joins me hard. No warning. No gentleness. I’m already wet—have been since he walked into the room, since I realized I'd been caught, since this whole insane night tilted sideways into something darker.
I grabbed his shoulders. He grabs my hips. We f**k like it’s war.
Maybe it is.
His apartment. His desk. His terms. But I wrap my legs around him and take everything he gives, meeting him thrust for thrust, refusing to be passive, refusing to let him win.
“You like this,” he pants. “Being caught. Being cornered. Admit it.”
“f**k off.”
“Admit it.” He slams into me harder. Hitting that spot that makes my vision white-out. “You’ve been waiting for this. For me to find out. For the game to end.”
He’s not wrong. I have been waiting. Three months of lies. Of surveillance. Of pretending to like him while planning his destruction. Three months of phenomenal s*x that was supposed to be just another weapon.
I come first. Can’t help it. My body betrays me, clenching around him, electricity shooting through every nerve. I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming his name.
He follows seconds later. Grips my hips hard enough to bruise. Says my real name—Maria, not Ria—and that’s somehow worse than anything.
Silence. Heavy breathing. Reality crashing back.
He pulls out. Adjusts himself. I slide off the desk on shaky legs, pull my jeans up, try to find my dignity in the wreckage.
“Twenty-four hours,” he says. Calm. Collected. Like he didn’t just f**k me on his desk. “You have until midnight tomorrow to decide.”
“And if I say no?”
He hands me the file folder. The one with Sarah’s photos. “Then good luck proving Vincent killed her without my help. Because he’s careful. Thorough. And he owns half the NYPD.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“I’m offering you a choice.” He straightens his cuffs. “Marry me and get your revenge. Or walk away and let your sister’s killer go free.” He heads toward the door. Pauses. “Oh, and Maria? If you tell anyone about this conversation, I’ll make sure your mother learns exactly how many men you’ve fucked to get information on our family.”
He leaves me standing in his study. Violated. Furious. Terrified.
And considering his offer.
Because he’s right. I’ve been waiting for this. For the game to change. For something—anything—to break through the stalemate.
I grabbed the USB drive. It’s finished cloning his laptop. Small victory.
Then I look at the file folder in my hands. Open it again. Sarah’s broken body. Her blood-soaked bracelet.
I’m sorry, I think. I’m so fucking, sorry.
I pocket the USB drive. Leave the folder on his desk where he’ll find it. Evidence that I’ve seen it. Evidence that I know he knows.
And as I walk out of his penthouse at three AM, I’m already calculating odds. Running scenarios. Trying to figure out if marrying Brian Valente is the smartest move I’ll ever make.
Or the last.
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number:
Midnight tomorrow. Clock’s ticking. Choose wisely, Mrs. Valente.
I delete it. Keep walking. Don’t look back.
But I already know what my answer will be.
Because revenge is the only thing I have left.
And I’ll marry the devil himself if it means watching Vincent Valente burn.
- Writer
