Chapter 117 What Else He Buried
Valentina
“Well, my father’s dead,” I said coldly, staring at the grain in the wooden table. “So I can’t exactly ask him.”
Silence stretched until the old clock on the wall ticked twice.
Miko reached across the table, placing a warm hand on mine. “We know this is painful.”
Painful. That word didn’t even come close.
What was the word for grieving someone twice?
What was the word for realizing the people who made you… never really knew you?
I looked away and let my thoughts drift to a memory that had stayed hidden until now.
My thirteenth birthday. The scent of rain and straw, the electric thrill of surprise.
I remembered running outside in my socks, slipping slightly on the wet stones, and seeing him there—my father—standing next to a sleek black mare with a white blaze down her nose.
“She’s yours,” he’d said, handing me the reins with a proud smile. “She’ll teach you trust. Discipline.”
I had cried. Hugged him so hard he grunted. He’d laughed and ruffled my hair. My mother watched from the porch, eyes shining with what I’d believed was pride.
But now…
Now I was realizing that never—not once—had they asked me about my training. About the bruises on my arms or the exhaustion in my bones. About the languages I was learning, the guns I was cleaning, the blood I had to scrub from my knuckles after sparring.
Because that part of me hadn’t mattered to them.
I was a project… not a daughter.
“I used to think they didn’t ask because they trusted you,” I murmured, glancing at Masaki and Miko. “Trusted that you were preparing me for something… meaningful.”
“They did trust us,” Masaki said gently. “But not because they thought the training would save you.”
“Then why?”
“To keep you docile.” Miko’s voice cracked. “So when the time came, you’d go with them willingly. No fight. No panic. No raised suspicions. To any outsider, you’d just look like a happy daughter on a trip with her loving parents.”
I flinched.
“So the horse… the presents… the doting affection—that was all part of the setup?”
Miko’s silence answered for her.
It had never been about love. It was about obedience disguised as affection.
A sugar-coated leash.
Matteo’s hand brushed mine under the table. A single, fleeting touch that steadied me without demanding anything. It grounded me just long enough for Masaki to speak again.
“Your father had a habit of burying his secrets,” he said quietly.
I looked up, heart pounding.
“You are the prime example of that, Valentina. He erased your existence from every record, every network, every whisper. Birth certificate voided essentially with the follow up of a death certificate of the same date as birth. No legal ties. Not even your name left behind.”
I nodded slowly. “He planned to sell me before he ever buried me.”
Miko exhaled, her eyes glassy. “And if he buried you that deep, there’s no telling what else he buried.”
Masaki’s words lingered in the air like smoke.
There’s no telling what else he buried.
We didn’t speak after that. Not right away. Just slipped into our coats and stepped outside, letting the silence guide us across the stone path winding around the back of the property.
The air in Japan always smelled a little different—crisp, clean, a hint of cedar and snowfall. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until the chill hit my cheeks and made my breath visible.
Matteo stayed beside me, saying nothing, but I felt him watching. Reading every twitch of my jaw, every time I blinked too fast, every time I exhaled like it hurt.
We rounded a corner and came up to the old wooden stables. The paint had peeled. Ivy crept along the beams. But the fences were still sturdy. The paddocks still clean.
And there she was.
A tall, aging mare lifted her head and ambled toward the fence. Her coat was grayer around the muzzle now.
She whinnied softly and nudged my arm.
“Sixteen,” I murmured, stroking her velvet nose. “She’s sixteen now.”
“She was your gift?” Matteo asked quietly.
I nodded. “Her name’s Kitsu.”
He stayed back a step, letting me reconnect in peace.
“She was my thirteenth birthday gift,” I said after a minute. “I’d been asking for a horse for months. Practically begged for it. And then that morning… there she was. Tied to the fence with a ribbon in her mane.” I laughed softly, shaking my head. “I screamed so loud I scared her.”
I glanced over at Matteo. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable—but he was listening.
“My father walked me out here, handed me the reins and said, ‘Anything for my Lenti.’”
My voice cracked.
“He called me that when he was being sweet. Lenti. Said it made me sound soft, even though I was anything but.”
I pressed my forehead to Kitsu’s.
“I really believed he loved me.”
Neither of us said anything after that. What could he say? What could anyone say to that kind of heartbreak?
We went back inside sometime after the sun dipped behind the trees. Dinner was quiet. Masaki made tea. Miko folded blankets on the couch. Matteo kept a hand on the small of my back, never guiding, just… present.
When we finally made it to the guest room, I expected him to take the floor or storm off to another suite.
Instead, he peeled off his jacket and climbed into the bed.
I stared.
“You’re staying?”
“I’m not ready to sleep far from you,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. “Don’t read too much into it.”
I didn’t argue. I slipped under the covers and let the warmth between us blur the lines for a little while. He didn’t touch me at first. But when I inched closer, he didn’t stop me either.
My head settled against his shoulder. His arm slid around my waist like it was muscle memory.
And for one fragile moment, I let myself believe we were okay.
But just as sleep started to take me, the thought struck like a dagger. I sat up, heart pounding.
“I need to dig up my grave.”
Matteo’s eyes snapped open beside me.
And just like that, the peace shattered.