[Valentina’s POV]
Planning our elaborate fake deaths starts at dawn in Dante's study, curtains drawn, speaking in hushed tones even though the room is swept daily. Marco spreads surveillance photos across the desk.
"Lorenzo's moving fast. Two weeks. Warehouse meeting on the east docks. He's calling it territory negotiation, but the ambush is obvious."
Dante's fingers drum against the armrest. "And you're certain?"
"Three separate sources confirm it. He's positioning weapons, recruiting soldiers. This is happening."
"We walk into it," Dante says coldly. "Let him think he's won. Then turn the warehouse into a crematorium."
I try not to think too hard about logistics. "So we just blow everyone up? Including ourselves? I'm detecting flaws in the 'staying alive' department."
"Explosives rigged in advance. Bodies from morgues with matching builds. Coroner on payroll swaps dental records." Dante explains it like discussing dinner reservations instead of mass murder. "When it goes up, Lorenzo dies in his coup. We die too, officially."
Marco nods. "I'll clear the back passage. Thirty seconds, maybe less."
"Someone's unclaimed dead," I say quietly. "People who died alone, becoming our stand-ins."
Dante's hand finds mine. "They were already dead, bella. We're not creating victims."
"That's a very creative spin on grave robbing."
"Posthumous identity donation. Very charitable."
Marco clears his throat. "Two weeks. Act normal until the meeting."
"Business as usual," I repeat. "Perfectly normal Tuesday activity."
They continue mapping details—timing, explosives, exit routes. I listen and ignore the weight in my chest that feels suspiciously like reality catching up.
* * *
That night, I stare at the burner phone, memorizing numbers I never want to forget. One last call from this life before everything changes.
Rosa answers on the second ring. "Valentina! I was just thinking about you. Mrs. Walker brought the most ridiculous gossip—"
"Tell me everything." I need normal, need to memorize the exact rhythm of her voice.
She launches into neighborhood drama involving someone's cat and garden gnomes. It's petty and wonderful and I drink in every word.
"And my garden! The tomatoes are coming back, tesoro. Real ones." Her excitement is palpable. "Mrs. Walker says she'll help rebuild the bed properly this time."
"That's amazing, Mama." My throat tightens.
"I'm planning where to plant basil, which corner gets sun. Mr. Chen offered his pepper seeds—the good ones, not those sad grocery store varieties."
I close my eyes, memorizing this. The way she emphasizes good like it's moral. The little sigh before changing subjects.
"You sound tired, tesoro." Maternal radar never fails. "Are you taking care of yourself?"
"Yeah, Mama. I'm okay." The lie tastes corrosive. "Just busy."
"You work too hard. But I'm proud of you. You saved my life, and now I get to plant tomatoes and complain about Mrs. Walker's cat. That's everything."
Tears come before I can stop them. "I love you, Mama."
"I love you too, figlia mia. Always."
We talk another twenty minutes—safe things, garden plans. When we say goodbye, I sit holding the phone after the line goes dead, trying to memorize her last words.
Then I find Dante.
He's in bed reading—probably business or corpse procurement. I don't ask. Just climb onto his lap, straddling him while his hands find my hips.
"Valentina—"
I kiss him before he can finish. Deep, desperate, trying to anchor myself when everything feels like it's dissolving. His response is immediate—one hand sliding up my spine, the other tightening on my hip as he kisses me back.
"I need you," I breathe against his mouth. "Right now. No talking."
He flips us in one smooth motion, settling between my thighs while his mouth moves to my neck. His teeth scrape my pulse point and I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair.
His hands work my clothes off—shirt gone, pants hitting the floor. When I'm naked beneath him, he pulls back to look at me, dark eyes tracking every curve.
"Bellissima," he murmurs, then lowers his head to my breast.
His mouth closes around my nipple and I gasp, sensation shooting straight through my core. He works the sensitive peak with his tongue—circling, sucking, grazing with teeth until I'm writhing. His hand finds my other breast, thumb brushing the nipple in maddening circles.
"Dante—" His name comes out broken.
He trails kisses down my stomach, hands spreading my thighs as he settles between them. The first touch of his tongue makes my back arch. He's methodical, deliberate, learning exactly what makes me shake.
His tongue flattens against me, licking a long stripe that blurs my vision. Then he circles my clit with just enough pressure to make me see stars. I'm getting wetter with each pass of his mouth.
"Please—" I'm already begging.
He slides two fingers inside while his mouth continues working. The stretch is perfect, necessary. He curls them, finding that spot that makes electricity shoot up my spine, and I cry out.
The pressure builds quickly. My inner walls flutter around his fingers, muscles tensing. He adjusts his rhythm to bring me right to the edge.
"Come for me, bella," he says, then sucks my clit hard.
I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my body going rigid before dissolving into trembling pleasure. He works me through it until I'm gasping and oversensitive.
Before I recover, he's stripped and positioned at my entrance. I'm still pulsing, still sensitive, and when he pushes inside the stretch is almost too much.
"Cristo," he groans against my forehead. "You feel perfect."
He fills me completely, thick and hard and exactly what I need. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He starts moving—slow, deep thrusts that make me feel every inch. His hand slides under my knee, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot with every stroke.
"Harder," I gasp. "Stop holding back."
His control snaps. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise, setting a punishing rhythm that has the bed frame hitting the wall. Each thrust drives deeper, harder.
Another orgasm builds, different from the first—deeper, more intense. My inner walls clench around him.
"That's it," he growls. "Take it. Take all of me."
His hand slides between us, finding my clit and circling with the same rhythm he's fucking me.
"I'm close—"
"Then come." He thrusts harder. "Let me feel it."
The second orgasm hits like a freight train. My entire body locks up, inner walls clamping down so hard he groans. I feel every pulse, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
He follows me over, burying himself deep with a sound that's half curse, half prayer. I feel him come inside me, heat flooding as he empties himself.
We collapse together, breathing hard. He stays inside me, weight pressing me into expensive sheets.
"What happens to Mama if something goes wrong?" The question slips out.
He tenses. "Marco will ensure she's taken care of. Money, protection, whatever she needs."
"That's not what I asked." I turn to look at him. "I asked what happens to her."
His jaw tightens. He understands—what happens when Mama thinks I'm dead? When she mourns a daughter who's actually alive?
He pulls me closer instead of answering, arms tightening like he can protect me from consequences already in motion.
The silence says everything he can't.
I close my eyes and try not to think about my mother visiting an empty grave.
Tomorrow we finalize the plan. Two weeks from now, we die.
Tonight, I just hold onto Dante and pretend we have forever.