Chapter 154 The Distance Between
Matteo
She didn’t ask.
She told me.
And I let her.
Because no matter how many times I said she was mine—no matter how deep I pushed that truth into her skin—I knew damn well Valentina was still her own force of nature. And if I tried to chain her down now, she’d find a way to burn the leash.
So I drove.
Through sun-bleached streets and narrow lanes, past pastel bungalows and palm-shaded cafés where tourists sipped rum at noon, clueless to the shadows curled beneath paradise.
Valentina sat beside me in silence, eyes locked on the rear window of the SUV ahead. Our man was two cars up, tailing Bexley like clockwork. The bastard and his mystery woman were on foot—meandering toward the open-air market near the west docks, unhurried, like they had nowhere in the world they needed to be.
Like they weren’t ghosts dragging the past behind them.
“She’s walking close to him,” Valentina said, her voice tight. “Holding his hand.”
I glanced sideways. Her knuckles were white around the binoculars, the strap wrapped twice around her wrist like a tether.
“You really think it’s her?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Just swallowed, hard.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But… the way she carries herself. The way she moves—it’s familiar.”
I didn’t tell her that familiarity could be a trick when you’ve never even met the person.
That hope had a cruel habit of dressing strangers in the faces we wanted to see most.
I didn’t say any of that.
Because if there was even a chance…
Hell, I’d tear the island apart with my bare hands to find out.
“She’s not looking around much,” Valentina murmured. “Like she’s… conditioned to keep her head down.”
Or like she knows she’s being watched.
I kept that part to myself.
We rolled through a stop sign. Rosco, behind the wheel, didn’t even glance up. His eyes were locked on the road, fingers steady on the wheel, but I could feel his mind working. Clocking exits. Side alleys. Cover options.
“Target just passed a vendor stall,” our tail crackled through the radio. “Still heading west. No deviation.”
I pressed the button. “Copy. Keep two lengths. We’re moving up.”
I turned left down a narrow lane, wrapping around the market edge to get a better vantage. Valentina twisted in her seat, peering through the buildings. I could feel the tension radiating off her like a second sun.
“You’re hoping too hard,” I said quietly.
She flinched. Just barely.
“That’s not a crime,” she snapped.
“No. It’s not.” I exhaled slowly. “But if it’s not her—”
“Then I keep watching.” Her voice was steel now. “And if it is—”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
If it was her sister, then the rules changed.
Again.
I hit the brakes near a small café with a clear line of sight through the fence. The tablecloths fluttered in the breeze, the smell of grilled conch and garlic wafting through the open windows. A few tourists lounged on the patio, but the path beyond them—
“There,” Valentina whispered. “That’s them.”
I followed her gaze.
Bexley. Smirking like he owned the damn country.
And the woman beside him—still wearing those sunglasses. Still silent. Still graceful.
Too graceful.
“Her posture’s too polished,” Valentina said. “That’s trained. Not casual.”
Like she’d been taught to walk like that.
Rosco adjusted the mirror. “You want me to swing around and cut ahead?”
I nodded. “Do it. We’ll wait at the next corner.”
Valentina shifted beside me, a storm brewing behind her silence. Her fingers twitched like she wanted a weapon. Not to use it. Just to feel the weight.
“They’re turning,” she said suddenly. “Northwest. Toward the old church ruins.”
Rosco cursed under his breath. “Tourist trap. Too many exits. Too many blind spots.”
I tapped the radio. “Team two, close in. He’s changing course.”
We were out of the car a moment later.
Valentina was already moving ahead, blending into the foot traffic like a second skin. I moved to flank her, keeping pace just behind. Not leading. Not pulling her back.
Just covering her six.
She wasn’t going to be stopped.
Not until she saw the woman’s face.
And maybe not even then.
Bexley and the woman slowed ahead of us.
She stopped him with a light tug to his wrist, pointing at something—a wooden carving display or maybe just the shade beneath the vendor’s canopy. Whatever it was, she was stalling. Or… negotiating.
I caught the shift in Valentina before she even stepped forward—shoulders tight, jaw clenched.
I caught her wrist and pulled her toward me.
“Play tourist,” I murmured in her ear. “Not recon mission.”
Her eyes flicked to mine—sharp, resistant—but then something clicked. She took a breath. Rolled her shoulders back. Let her face soften into a curious little smirk.
“Fine,” she whispered, already adapting. “But don’t expect me to flirt with a vendor.”
“No promises,” I said, watching the sway of her hips as she turned away, suddenly all ease and interest.
She drifted toward a table of ceramic bowls and started touching things—picking one up, rotating it thoughtfully, setting it back down. To anyone watching, she looked like just another rich girl on vacation. Browsing. Daydreaming.
But I saw the angle of her eyes behind the sunglasses.
Still watching them.
Always watching.
I turned my attention back to Bexley and the woman. They were speaking quietly now—her body language shifting fast. She angled toward a small café tucked beneath a bougainvillea-covered trellis, glancing longingly at the doorway.
He shook his head.
She crossed her arms.
Turned slightly away from him.
Oh.
Valentina appeared beside me again just in time to see it. We both watched the silent standoff unfold—her jaw set, his frustration mounting.
He said something.
She didn’t react.
He tried again, a hand on her arm now.
Still nothing.
Then—finally—he must’ve relented.
Because the shift in her demeanor was immediate. Her shoulders dropped, her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, and she practically glided toward the café entrance, slipping through the carved doors like she hadn’t just been on the verge of staging a silent protest.
Valentina let out a breath. “Did she just pout to get her way?”
I smirked. “She did.”
“She weaponized the silent treatment.”
“Textbook.”
Valentina’s head tilted slightly. “I don’t know whether I’m impressed or concerned.”
“Both,” I said. “But it tells us something.”
She glanced up. “That she has power?”
“That she’s allowed to use it.” I nodded toward the café. “Bexley didn’t just give in—he adjusted. That means she matters to him. Or to someone above him.”
“Let’s move,” I murmured.
Valentina didn’t hesitate. She fell in step beside me as we veered off the path, circling wide around the edge of the café terrace. We slipped through a back entrance where the host wasn’t watching, weaving past shelves of local wines and hand-painted pottery until we reached the dining area.