Chapter 120 Chapter 120 – Beneath the Skin
Matteo
I should hate her.
God knows I want to.
She lied to me. Deceived me. Came into my world like a lamb and turned out to be the wolf, teeth bared and eyes full of fire, planning to slit my throat the first chance she got.
She married me with a motive.
Fucked me with one, too.
Every kiss, every gasp, every goddamn look—part of the plan.
And still.
Still.
I can’t stop loving her.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles pale, eyes locked on the road ahead while she sits beside me. Silent. Distant. But not cold. No—she’s never been cold, not even when she’s pretending.
That’s the worst part. She still feels real.
Because maybe she is.
And maybe that’s the part I can’t forgive her for—making me believe it. Not just that she wanted me. But that I could be wanted at all.
From the moment she walked into that poker room, dripping sin and sugar in equal measure, I knew she wasn’t ordinary. I told her the terms—marriage. An heir. A public union, a private war.
And she didn’t flinch.
She matched me beat for beat, her bluff damn near perfect.
But I was honest. That’s what gets me. I never pretended I didn’t need her for my own ends. I told her straight: marry me, carry my child, and maybe you’ll survive the game. No lies. No illusions.
And then I did what I never fucking do—I let her in.
I brought her to Estella and Sheryl’s.
I let her sit in on meetings, shadow my business moves, ask questions no one else dared ask.
I watched her walk through the fire of my world like she’d been born in the blaze.
And I fell. Hard.
Too hard.
That should’ve been my first red flag.
But now she knows.
Now she discovered what her father planned for her. How he forged her birth certificate like a goddamn product tag. How he was ready to sell her like all the others. How her mother knew and didn’t stop him.
And as if that wasn’t enough, now she knows about the sister. The one she never met. The one born and buried the same day, just like her. The one who wasn’t saved.
And Valentina? She just stood there staring at that second casket like it cracked something deep inside her.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream.
She decided.
I don’t think she even realizes how much power she carries in her silence. How when she speaks, the world leans in to listen.
So when she turned to me with that fire in her veins and told me to take her to him—to Stefano—I should’ve said no. Should’ve locked her in the car, driven her straight back to the city, poured her a drink and kept her safe from the truth.
But I didn’t.
Because as twisted as it sounds, she earned the truth.
And God, the way she demanded it? The way she stepped into my space and threw my own dominance back at me like a challenge?
Fuck.
It took every shred of discipline I had not to bend her over the hood of that car and take her right there in the middle of the cemetery.
In front of the open grave.
In front of the fucking dead.
But she’s not a whore.
She’s my wife.
And until we’re behind locked doors, I’ll treat her like the queen she is—even if she is a queen with a dagger aimed at my heart.
Still, I’ve never respected her more than I did in that moment.
And now we’re here.
The gates creak open as Rosco types in the code, and the estate looms ahead like a fortress. Valentina sits tense beside me, her voice low and sharp.
“I thought you were taking me to see Stefano.”
“I am,” I tell her.
She turns toward me, suspicion crawling across her features. “Then why the fuck are we at your mansion?”
I don’t answer right away. Let her sit in it. Let the realization creep in on its own.
Rosco pulls through.
And I say it.
“Because that’s where he is.”
Her head whips toward me.
“What?”
“In the basement.”
I hear the breath catch in her throat.
“You’ve been keeping him?” she whispers. “Here?”
“Not in the house,” I say. “Under it. He hasn’t seen daylight in years. Hasn’t touched fresh air. I’ve kept him breathing just enough to suffer. Fed him just enough to feel hunger. Let Rosco work him over when his mouth got brave. Let him hear life above while he rots in the dark below.”
She’s staring at me like I’ve grown horns.
And maybe I have.
But she doesn’t look away.
And that’s how I know she’s ready.
“Alessio doesn’t know,” I say, voice low. “No one does. Not even the guards. Just me, Rosco, and Carrol.”
“Carrol?” she echoes.
“She handles the food,” I mutter. “No one suspects the cook.”
“You still want to see him?”
Her jaw tightens. That stubborn chin lifts.
“Yes.”
We step out of the car, gravel crunching underfoot, the estate rising up before us like it’s been holding its breath for this moment.
Rosco gives me a nod and disappears around the side of the mansion—he knows better than to linger when emotions are this close to breaking skin.
Valentina stands still for a second. I watch the way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’s trying to decide whether to reach for a weapon or her own throat.
She doesn’t look afraid. She looks haunted.
I reach for her hand. She hesitates. Just a second. But then she takes it. And when she grips it—fuck, she grips it tight.
It’s the first crack in her armor all day.
Her fingers curl around mine like she’s drowning, and I squeeze back, slow and steady. Not demanding. Just there. A silent I’ve got you pulsing through my touch.
She looks up.
Those eyes—goddamn fire and frost wrapped in velvet.
I tilt my head, meet her gaze with one of my own. No words.
Just you’re not alone in this.
She swallows hard and nods once.
We walk up the steps together, hand in hand like we’ve done a hundred times before.
But it’s not the same.
Not now.
This time, she knows what’s beneath the skin of this place.
We step into the foyer—marble and shadow and the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser Carrol insists on keeping by the entry table.
Valentina’s heels click against the floor like war drums. She moves beside me, tall and poised, but that grip hasn’t loosened.
We pass the grand staircase, and I stop her just short of it.
She turns to me, brows furrowed.
I study her face—how the light catches on the edge of her cheekbone, the pulse flickering just beneath the skin of her neck.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” I ask, voice low.
She closes her eyes and draws in a breath. Long. Deep. Like she’s pulling oxygen from somewhere beyond this moment.
When her lashes lift again, her eyes don’t waver.
“Yes.”