Chapter 6 The Suite
Valentina
Carol is not what I expected.
She’s maybe forty-five, with soft blue eyes and blonde hair pulled into a neat bun—though white streaks frame her face like frost on glass. Slightly plump, dressed in tailored slacks and a cardigan, she looks more like someone’s favorite aunt than the personal steward of a mafia king’s newest acquisition.
But the moment she speaks, something inside me loosens.
“Let’s get you settled, dear.” Her voice is warm. Soft around the edges. A little breathless from the walk, but not in a weak way—in a real way. “I imagine it’s been a whirlwind.”
She opens the tall double doors, and I brace myself.
But what waits on the other side isn’t a cell.
It’s… stunning.
The entry opens into a small but elegant seating area—plush couches, a carved coffee table, and a fireplace built into the far wall. Tasteful. Soft lighting. A place that feels lived in, even though no one ever has.
I blink once. Then again.
“Come on through,” Carol says cheerfully, stepping inside like we’re touring a hotel suite. “This first little space is just for relaxing, reading, watching television—whatever you like. We can rearrange anything if you need.
She gestures to the right. “And over here, we have a small kitchenette.”
The countertops are black marble. The appliances gleam.
“It’s already stocked with the basics, but if you give me a list, I’ll make sure it has exactly what you want. That way if you get hungry in the middle of the night, you’re not trudging down to the main kitchen at one a.m.” She chuckles. “I know how it is. Some nights, all you want is a cup of tea and your own damn peanut butter.”
I arch a brow. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of place where people make their own snacks.”
Carol gives me a sly smile. “You’d be surprised.”
She leads me further in. “Through here is your office space. Just the basics for now—desk, comfortable chair, empty bookshelves. We’ll get you whatever you need. Supplies, equipment, décor. You can build this out however you’d like.”
Past the office, she opens a door on the right.
“This one’s a blank slate,” she says. “Mr. G thought you might want a space that’s all yours. Could be a gym. A studio. A library. Even a yoga room if you’re into that sort of thing.”
I peer inside. It’s completely empty. Hardwood floors. Clean walls. A mirror leaned against the corner, not yet hung.
“He said to let you design it from scratch.”
My throat tightens. Just a little.
Carol doesn’t linger. She gestures to the opposite side. “And over here—your bedroom.”
The room is massive.
The bed alone looks like it was made for royalty—four posts, velvet drapes, plush bedding in deep charcoal and ivory. Elegant furniture fills the space without crowding it: chaise lounge, mirrored vanity, nightstands with gold handles. It smells like lavender and something faintly citrus.
“Wow,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Carol beams. “And of course, the en suite.”
She opens the door with a little flourish.
It’s like stepping into a luxury spa. Deep soaking tub. Glass-walled shower with dual heads. A small sauna built into the far side. The floors are heated. The lighting is soft, golden. The vanity is marble and glass, with more counter space than I know what to do with.
And the closet?
A walk-in palace. Floor-to-ceiling shelving. Velvet-lined drawers. Built-in lighting. Empty.
For now.
I don’t know what to say.
Carol watches me carefully, but not with suspicion. With… affection.
And maybe something else.
“This isn’t a room,” I finally say. “It’s an apartment.”
She smiles like she’s been waiting for me to say that.
“Well,” she says, “Mr. G may have a certain reputation—ruthless, cold, all that—but I believe there’s more to him than most people ever get to see.”
I turn slowly toward her.
She doesn’t flinch.
She just pats my suitcase. “I’ll unpack this for you in just a bit, unless you’d rather do it yourself?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Of course.” She gestures back toward the office. “One last thing.”
She opens a set of French doors I hadn’t noticed before.
Sunlight spills in.
Outside is a private courtyard—small but meticulously kept. A few flower beds in bloom. A stone fountain trickling in the center. A shaded lounge chair tucked beneath a wisteria vine.
My breath catches for half a second. Not because it’s beautiful—though it is.
But because it feels intentional.
An illusion of freedom. A place to pace like a caged thing in gold trim.
“Some peace and quiet,” Carol says. “For when you need it.”
I step out onto the stone just far enough to feel the sun on my face.
He’s trying to lull me.
Trying to make this feel like comfort.
Like choice.
But I know better.
Still… I’m not immune to beauty. And this place is made of it.
I turn to Carol. “Is this how all the guests are treated?”
Carol laughs. “No, dear. This isn’t for a guest.”
She tilts her head, watching me carefully.
“This is for someone staying a while.”
We both turn just as we step back inside.
Matteo is standing in the office doorway, perfectly at ease—like he’s been there for longer than either of us realized. His suit is dark, crisp, collar unbuttoned just enough to remind you he doesn’t answer to anyone. Not even his own rules.
“Carol,” he says smoothly. “That will be all for now.”
Carol doesn’t flinch. “Of course, sir.” She turns to me, her expression returning to soft and maternal. “I’ll be back in a while to check on you, dear.”
Then she’s gone—quiet as snowfall.
And I’m alone.
With him.
Matteo steps further into the room, his eyes scanning the space. Not for flaws—just to see how I fit inside it.
“I hope this space will be accommodating,” he says. “If you need anything, tell Carol. She’ll arrange it.”
He glances at my suitcase still sitting near the bed. “That bag is all you brought?”
I lift a brow. “I was only going to be in New York for a week.”
“Mmm.” He hums like the idea amuses him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a new wardrobe this morning.”
He takes another step closer, and my pulse slows—not from fear. From calculation.
“You can use this afternoon to get settled in,” he continues. “Unpack. Take a bath. Explore your space. Utilize your time wisely.”
“Wisely?” I echo.
His gaze sharpens.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we begin the arrangements.”
I cross my arms. “Arrangements for what, exactly?”
There’s no dramatic pause. No smirk. No flourish.
Just two words. Delivered like a fact.
“Our wedding.”