Married To The Man I Swore To Kill

Caught In The Dark After a minute of desperate searching, I finally found a narrow cabinet hidden behind a heavy row of leather-bound books. My heart thundered against my ribs as I pulled a small electronic bypass device from my purse and attached it to the keypad. Seconds felt like hours. Then, with a quiet, satisfying click, the lock opened. Inside lay several thick folders, a black leather notebook, and a stack of financial papers bound by a silver clip. My hands grew ice-cold as I flipped through the dates until I found the folder I had spent three years searching for. Three years ago. Opening the file, the first page listed payments routed through multiple shell companies. Most of the account numbers meant nothing to me, but one matched the exact sequence documented in my father’s final private notes. My hands trembled slightly as I snapped a high-resolution photo of the page with my phone. At the bottom of the document, a handwritten note caught my eye: Move the remaining records before the meeting. No copies. There was no signature. I took another photograph, scanning the rest of the file. One transfer had been directly authorized by an account belonging to the Vitale family's private office. It wasn't definitive proof that Lorenzo Vitale had ordered my father’s murder, but it was the first concrete lead I had uncovered since the day he died. Heavy footsteps echoed down the marble corridor outside. Panic flared in my chest. I rushed to return the papers to their exact position, shut the cabinet, and slid the books back into place. But before I could step away, the heavy oak door swung open. A tall figure stepped into the room. I recognized him instantly. Lorenzo Vitale was even more imposing in person than in his photographs. Dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, his dark hair was perfectly styled, and his posture radiated effortless authority. He had striking features that demanded attention, but it was the cool, calculating expression in his eyes that sent a chill down my spine. He looked entirely at ease—even when encountering an intruder in his private sanctuary. His gaze swept lazily across the room before locking onto me. For several agonizing seconds, silence stretched between us. Then, he stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. "You’re in my office," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. I lifted my chin, forcing my trembling voice to remain steady. "I noticed." His dark eyes narrowed slightly, caught off guard by my lack of fear. "Most people have a better explanation when they are caught somewhere they shouldn’t be." "Most people probably have better security," I shot back. Lorenzo’s eyes drifted to the hidden cabinet behind me. My heart gave a hard, painful beat. I had made a mistake. A small one, but in front of a man like him, any mistake was dangerous. Walking slowly toward his desk, Lorenzo set his phone down beside a crystal whiskey bottle. "Your name?" "Valentina Rossi," I lied smoothly, giving him the false alias on my casino VIP pass. He was silent for a moment, studying me as if reading right through the disguise. "No." The single word cut through the air, making my fingers tighten around my clutch. "No?" I repeated. "Your name is Valentina De Luca." The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. I had prepared myself for angry questions, for threats of violence, or for security guards bursting through the door. I had not prepared for him to recognize me the instant he looked at me. "Then you already know who I am," I said quietly, abandoning the cover identity. "I know who your father was." "Don't talk about him," I snapped, my composure slipping. Something shifted in Lorenzo’s expression, though I couldn't tell whether it was amusement or suspicion. "Three years," he said, his tone deceptively soft. "And now you walk straight into my casino under a fake name." "I didn't come here to see you." "That much is obvious." I hated how calm he remained while my chest burned with three years of unexpressed grief and rage. I hated that he stood there looking at me as if this were a casual social gathering, while I had spent every waking hour trying to piece together the tragedy that ruined my life. "Did you kill him?" The words spilled out before I could stop them. Lorenzo didn't flinch. "No." I had expected a lie. I had expected him to threaten me for even making the accusation. What I hadn't expected was the unshakeable certainty in his tone. "Should I believe you?" I demanded. "No," he replied calmly. "Not until you have a reason to." For the first time that night, I had no response. He walked over to the bar, poured himself a splash of amber liquor, and set the glass back down without taking a sip. "What did you come looking for?" he asked, leaning against the desk. "Nothing that concerns you." "You’re in my private office, searching through my personal records. I think that makes it my concern." I cast a quick glance toward the exit. Lorenzo noticed immediately. "If you wanted to run, you would have tried already," he said smoothly. "You came here for something, Valentina. I would like to know what it is." "And if I refuse to tell you?" "Then we will both waste an evening pretending this conversation is going anywhere." I searched his face, searching for guilt or hesitation. But he didn't look like a guilty man caught in a web of lies. Still, guilt rarely looked obvious on powerful men; sometimes it wore an expensive suit and spoke with absolute authority. "I came for answers," I said, holding his gaze. "About your father’s death?" "Yes." Lorenzo’s eyes darkened. "Then you should understand that you may not like what you find." "I stopped caring about being safe a long time ago." He studied me in silence for several long seconds before reaching into his desk drawer. He pulled out a sleek blue file folder and laid it on the mahogany wood between us. "Perhaps we can help each other," he said. I almost laughed at the audacity. "You think I would ever work with you?" "I think you are intelligent enough to realize that breaking into my office won't get you what you want," he replied evenly. "And what are you offering?" Lorenzo crossed his arms, his intense dark eyes fixing onto mine. "Marry me for six months."