The Moretti penthouse sat high above Manhattan like a fortress made of glass, steel, and carefully hidden secrets.

At night, the city lights reflected endlessly across the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the entire apartment into a maze of gold and shadow. Snow continued falling outside, softening the skyline until New York looked almost peaceful from seventy floors above the streets.

Valentina knew better.

Nothing about her world was peaceful.

The private elevator doors slid open behind her as she stepped into the penthouse, exhaustion settling heavily into her bones. The attack earlier still lingered beneath her skin like cold electricity. Even now, she could still hear the crack of gunfire echoing through the SUV and feel Adrian’s arm locking protectively around her as the convoy sped through Manhattan traffic.

She slipped off her heels near the entrance and walked barefoot across the marble floor toward the kitchen bar.

Behind her, Adrian entered silently.

He moved through the penthouse the same way he moved through every space she had seen him enter so far—carefully, methodically, eyes constantly scanning. He checked the dark windows first, then the balcony doors, then the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. His attention never rested fully in one place for long.

Most people would have found it paranoid.

Valentina found it familiar.

Men raised around violence never truly relaxed.

“You can stop inspecting the apartment,” she said while pouring herself a glass of water. “If someone wanted me dead tonight, they already missed their chance.”

Adrian remained near the living room windows for another moment before finally answering. “People usually try more than once.”

The calmness in his tone made the statement feel uncomfortably realistic.

Valentina took a slow sip of water and studied his reflection in the glass. Without the crowded ballroom around him, Adrian looked even more severe now. His dark coat hung open slightly, revealing the shoulder holster beneath it. Snow still melted slowly in his hair from outside.

There was something deeply unsettling about a man who looked more comfortable after gunfire than at a charity gala.

“Does Luca know who attacked the convoy?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“But you already have theories.”

Adrian glanced toward her reflection. “Yes.”

“You’re not going to share them?”

“Not tonight.”

Valentina gave a faint, humorless smile. “You’re very committed to being mysterious.”

“I’m committed to staying alive.”

That answer sounded honest enough to end the conversation.

For a few quiet moments, the only sound in the penthouse came from the storm outside and the distant hum of Manhattan traffic below.

Valentina finally set her glass down and reached behind her back for the zipper of her dress. The black silk loosened slowly around her shoulders as tension eased from her spine.

She was halfway to the bedroom hallway before she noticed Adrian looking away.

Not staring.

Not pretending not to stare.

Actually giving her privacy.

The realization caught her unexpectedly off guard.

Most men in Luca’s world looked at women like they were already entitled to them. Adrian’s restraint felt strangely unfamiliar inside a life built around control and possession.

Valentina slipped the dress lower from one shoulder as she walked, exposing the bruises hidden beneath the fabric.

Dark fingerprints stained pale skin along her ribs and shoulder blade, partially faded but still unmistakable beneath the warm apartment lighting.

She heard Adrian move behind her.

Not closer.

Just enough to stop.

The silence changed.

Valentina turned slightly and found his eyes fixed on the bruising.

His expression remained controlled, but something colder settled beneath it now. The temperature in the room seemed to shift around him without warning.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Valentina was used to reactions.

Pity.

Discomfort.

Awkward avoidance.

People liked pretending mafia wives lived glamorous lives until they saw evidence of what powerful men did behind closed doors.

Adrian did not look uncomfortable.

He looked angry.

Not explosive anger.

Worse.

The quiet kind that sat perfectly still.

“He has bad nights sometimes,” Valentina said lightly, breaking the silence before it became too heavy.

The lie sounded thin even to her own ears.

Adrian’s gaze lifted slowly from the bruises to her face. “Does he?”

Something about the way he asked made the room feel smaller.

Valentina leaned one shoulder against the hallway wall and crossed her arms loosely over herself. “You work for criminals, Adrian. Surely domestic violence isn’t shocking to you.”

“No,” he said evenly. “It isn’t.”

His eyes drifted briefly back toward the bruising along her ribs.

“But that doesn’t make it normal.”

The answer unsettled her more than she expected.

People in her world rarely separated violence into categories. Pain was simply treated as collateral damage for power, loyalty, money, or fear. Women learned quickly which subjects stayed unspoken.

Adrian did not seem interested in pretending.

Valentina looked away first.

“That sounds dangerously close to morality,” she said quietly.

A faint shadow crossed his expression. “I never said I was a good person.”

“No,” she admitted softly. “I don’t think you are.”

Oddly enough, the honesty between them felt easier than politeness.

Adrian removed his coat slowly and placed it over the back of a chair near the kitchen. Without it, the scars along his forearms became more visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his black shirt. Some were thin and pale with age. Others looked rougher. More recent.

Valentina noticed all of them.

He noticed her noticing.

Again, neither commented on it.

“You should disinfect those bruises,” Adrian said after a moment.

Valentina almost smiled. “That may be the least romantic sentence anyone has ever said to me.”

A quieter man might have ignored the comment.

Adrian surprised her by answering.

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

The response came so dry and matter-of-fact that she actually laughed once beneath her breath.

The sound seemed to catch him slightly off guard.

Interesting.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she replied.

Adrian walked toward the kitchen counter and opened a drawer with the confidence of someone who had already memorized the apartment layout after one visit. A small medical kit sat beneath the sink. He retrieved it without asking permission.

“You always carry around emergency supplies?” Valentina asked.

“I carry around worse things.”

Again, the answer should not have been amusing.

And yet.

He opened the kit carefully before wetting gauze with antiseptic. When he stepped closer this time, Valentina noticed the exhaustion hidden beneath his controlled expression. Not physical exhaustion exactly. Something deeper. Older.

The kind men carried home from wars they never fully escaped.

“You’ve done this before,” she said quietly as he cleaned a cut near her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“With injured women?”

“With injured people.”

Fair enough.

His hands were steady despite their size, moving carefully across bruised skin with surprising precision. The antiseptic burned sharply against one of the cuts near her ribs, and Valentina inhaled through her teeth before she could stop herself.

Adrian’s hand paused immediately.

“Sorry.”

This time the apology sounded instinctive.

Not forced.

Not performative.

Valentina studied him carefully while he worked. Most dangerous men enjoyed reminding others how dangerous they were. Adrian seemed to treat violence like a necessary language he happened to speak fluently.

That distinction mattered more than she wanted it to.

Outside the windows, snow continued drifting over Manhattan while silence settled softly through the penthouse around them.

Then Adrian’s gaze lowered toward the darker bruising along her side, and something in his expression hardened again.

When he finally spoke, his voice became very quiet.

“If Luca ever puts his hands on you again,” he said slowly, “tell me before I find out another way.”

Valentina felt a strange chill move through her chest.

Not because the words sounded threatening.

Because they sounded sincere.