Chapter 127 Ashes, bagels and a man named Bexley
Matteo
The sun hadn’t fully risen, but I was already slipping out of bed, careful not to wake her. Valentina lay tangled in the sheets, hair spread across my pillow, mouth parted slightly like she was still whispering my name in her sleep.
I leaned down and brushed a kiss to her temple—soft, slow, deliberate.
Then I turned and left before I could change my mind and crawl back in.
Some things needed to be done before the world had a chance to fuck with them.
My steps were quiet in the hall. I poured myself a shot of espresso from the pot already waiting in the kitchen—Carrol was a goddamn treasure—and headed straight to my office. I didn’t even sit down before dialing.
Tony answered on the second ring.
“Boss.”
“How’s the transition going?” I asked, already opening my desk drawer and pulling out the folded promissory note.
Tony’s voice came smooth and steady through the line. “Couldn’t be better. Big John’s people are falling in line. I’ve got one runner I don’t trust yet, but I’ll deal with him today. No hiccups.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Good. Keep your foot on their necks. Anyone gets nostalgic for John’s way of doing things, remind them that nostalgia doesn’t stop bullets.”
Tony chuckled. “Copy that. We’re golden.”
We hung up.
I unfolded the note.
The paper had yellowed around the edges. The ink had bled just slightly from years of handling, like it couldn’t wait to rot from the inside out. But the signature was still clear.
Stefano Maranzano.
The bastard had tried to sell his own daughter like she was inventory. Labeled her with a fake name, detailed the age, the price, the expected delivery. It made me sick every time I looked at it. I needed to remember. Not just what he’d done. But what I’d saved her from.
I was still staring at it when the office door opened.
“Morning,” Rosco said around a mouthful of bagel, the smell of bacon, egg, and cheddar hitting before he even crossed the threshold. He dropped a second wrapped sandwich on my desk like it was tribute. “Brought you one. Figured you hadn’t eaten.”
I gave a nod of thanks but didn’t look away from the paper.
Rosco took another bite and plopped into the armchair across from me. “Maranzano’s taken care of,” he said casually, like we were discussing the weather. “Slipped the mortician a fat stack. They left the back door cracked while they were on break.”
He took a bite of his sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed.
“I walked in, unzipped the bag open, and shoved old Stefano straight into the cremation furnace. Turned it on full blast. Locked the hatch, too—just in case he decided to resurrect himself like a cockroach.”
I set the note down slowly.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose.
Good.
No more shadows lurking over our heads.
No more ghosts waiting to crawl back out of the ground.
Just ash.
Rosco reached for a napkin, wiping his hands. “What do you want done with the box?”
“The deposit box?”
“Yeah.”
“Leave it for now. Let her decide.”
His brows lifted, but he didn’t question it.
That was the thing with Rosco—he knew when to run his mouth and when to shut the fuck up, mostly.
I picked up the bagel sandwich and took a bite. It was hot. Greasy. Fucking perfect.
“Anything else?” I asked around the second mouthful.
Rosco grinned. “Not unless you want to talk about the raging hard-on I woke up with this morning after dreaming of your wife in leather.”
I glared at him.
He just laughed. “Kidding, boss. Christ, don’t get your panties in a twist.”
I tossed a balled-up napkin at his face, and he caught it mid-air with two fingers.
Then he stood.
“I’ll be at the warehouse,” he said. “We’ve got a few shipments I want to check myself. Let me know if you need anything else burned.”
I nodded once, and he left the office, whistling.
I leaned back in my chair again and stared at the ashes of a name that would never haunt us again.
I pulled out the second promissory note—the one we found in the casket. Liana’s casket. The one we had no idea we would come across.
Liana’s name was at the top.
Age: 14.
Buyer: Marian Bexley.
My pulse ticked like a bomb. The same buyer on Valentina’s note. The same signature.
It wasn’t just the same signature. It was the same format. The same fucking ink. Probably signed in the same room.
If I hadn’t killed her father when I did, she would’ve disappeared just like Liana.
But she wouldn’t have been just another name filed under “missing.” Another girl no one would’ve looked for. Because to the living world she died when she was born.
Another fucking ghost.
The drawer creaked as I shoved it closed.
Liana would be thirty-one now. If she was still alive. For Valentina’s sake I pray she is.
And Valentina…
I glanced at the calendar on my phone.
Shit.
Her birthday was next week.
Twenty-six.
Five years younger than her sister.
I leaned back in my chair, jaw tight, already calculating the next move.
Valentina wanted to find her sister.
And I was going to make damn sure we did.
Because if Marian Bexley was still breathing?
That motherfucker just became my problem.
The door to my office creaked softly.
I looked up from the file in my hands—and every thought in my head stopped.
Valentina stood there barefoot, wrapped in oversized gray sweats and one of my black T‑shirts. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot that was threatening to fall apart, loose strands curling around her face. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, soft in a way the world almost never got to see.
She looked… real.
Not the queen. Not the killer. Not the wife who could burn empires down.
Just her.
“Jesus,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
She blinked. “What?”
“You have any idea what you look like right now?”
She glanced down at herself. “Like I lost a fight with my pillow?”
I stood slowly, my gaze never leaving her. “You look gorgeous.”
She snorted. “I’m in sweats. My hair’s a disaster. And I haven’t had coffee yet. Give me an hour and I’ll be gorgeous.”
I stepped closer.
“No,” I said quietly. “This is gorgeous.”
She tilted her head, confused.
“This,” I repeated, gesturing to her bare feet, her sleepy eyes, the way she was still half‑wrapped in last night. “This is the you the outside world doesn’t get. The one that doesn’t wear armor.”
Her breath caught just a little.
“And that,” I said, voice low, “is mine.”
“And this,” I said as I grabbed her hand and placed it on the crotch of my pants, my cock hard as rock under the zipper, “is what you do to me.”