Chapter 52 A Widow in Waiting
Valentina
The moment Matteo closed the door behind him, the room exhaled—and so did I.
Not because I felt safe.
I don’t think I’ve felt safe a single day since I crawled out of the rubble of my old life.
But because the mask could slip a fraction. Not off. Never off. Just… loosened enough to breathe.
I left Matteo’s suite and headed to my suite in another wing. My luggage had been taken to my suite upon our arrival.
I locked the door, turned the handle twice just to be sure, and let myself sink into the quiet.
Clothes shed. Jewelry dropped onto the counter. Hair pinned up on top of my head and my favorite plush robe pulled on while I put the kettle on for some tea.
I started the bath, letting the water rise hot enough to sting.
While the water was running I went into my closet and pulled out my old suitcase—the one I came to this mansion with three weeks ago.
In the false bottom was my secret phone. I pulled it out and quickly used it to contact my childhood guardian, my handler. The only lifeline that wasn’t monitored by Matteo’s empire.
I typed with quick fingers.
I made it through the wedding.
Phase one complete. Phase two underway.
A beat.
A bubble of steam.
A breath that wasn’t quite steady.
I’ll update soon.
He’s starting to trust me.
Another beat.
Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten what he did.
I hit send.
The phone vibrated once—confirmation—and I turned it off, burying it again in the false bottom of the suitcase and put it back in place.
That little device was worth more than diamonds.
More than the Genovese fortune I planned to steal.
It was the reminder that I wasn’t here because I’d been swept away by a powerful man.
I was here to gut him from the inside out.
Better than thinking.
Better than remembering the warmth of Matteo’s hands where they didn’t belong.
I went back to my kitchen and made my cup of tea and took it with me to the bathroom setting it on a stand next to the bath. Then I slipped into the tub and let the heat swallow me whole.
For a moment, I allowed myself to float. To feel. To process the week of smiling, moaning, whispering, teasing, touching—all the things I had done to sell the illusion that we were in love.
An illusion even I had started believing once or twice.
That’s the danger of masks.
Wear one long enough, it begins to contour to your skin.
But Matteo’s shadow still stretched over the graves of my family.
A week of performances didn’t erase that.
I soaked until the water cooled, then stepped out, wrapped myself in a robe, and stood in front of the mirror. My reflection looked the same as ever, but something was different.
Sharper.
Colder.
More certain.
The week on the island changed things.
Not my mission—never that.
But Matteo…
He was no longer a two‑dimensional enemy.
He was a breathing, dangerous, complicated problem.
And I solved complicated problems.
I brushed out my hair, slipped into soft lounge clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed to think.
Matteo thought the poker game made me his, and that this marriage solidified that.
Luca thought Matteo’s empire was his inheritance.
Arianna thought she was the future queen.
Alessio thought he held the throne behind the throne.
They were all wrong.
The empire is mine.
Every glimmering, blood‑soaked piece of it.
All I needed was patience.
And the perfect scapegoat.
Luca was a natural choice—arrogant, sloppy, volatile.
Arianna was even better—unhinged enough to snap, fragile enough to break.
But killing Matteo?
I wouldn’t make that mistake lightly.
He was too smart. Too careful. Too… him.
If I killed him directly, suspicion would consume me.
But if Luca killed Matteo?
Or if Arianna snapped under pressure?
Or if someone could… arrange such a thing?
I pulled my knees to my chest and let a slow smile curl across my lips.
Yes.
The plan was still perfect.
Still moving.
Still mine.
And Matteo?
He thought performing love with him for a week made me loyal.
He thought something between us had shifted.
He thought I was his.
I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.
If only he knew.
I wasn’t becoming his wife.
I was becoming a widow.
And I was going to inherit everything.
The next morning I was already half-dressed when the knock came.
Soft. Measured. Matteo’s rhythm.
I didn’t bother answering. Just opened the door, mid-sip from the coffee mug I’d scavenged from the kitchenette. He stepped into my suite and paused—taking me in like he hadn’t seen a thousand versions of me by now.
I wasn’t trying to impress.
That was the point.
Oversized hoodie. Gray sweatpants cuffed at the ankle. Hair twisted up with one of those giant clips that looked like I stole it from a teenage girl’s TikTok. No makeup. No lashes. Just me—bare-faced, caffeinated, and already moving.
“You’re up early,” he said, eyes still scanning.
“I’m always up early. Doesn’t mean I’m functional.”
That earned a faint smile, the kind he gave when he wasn’t sure if I was teasing him or testing him. Honestly, I wasn’t sure either.
He glanced past me toward the bed. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine.”
Lie.
I hadn’t really slept. I’d stared at the ceiling until my pulse stopped matching the drumbeat of my plans.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
I held up the mug. “Already started.”
“Real food,” he clarified.
I rolled my eyes but set the mug down. “Fine. But I’m not changing.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
He didn’t need to.
He liked me like this. Comfortable. Off-guard. Like I trusted him.
Smart men knew that trust was currency.
Dangerous men knew it was a weapon.
We walked together down the wide hall, silence growing between our steps. Not tense. Not strained. Just full of things unsaid.
We entered the dining room to find the usual suspects already assembled.
Alessio sat at the head of the table, looking obnoxiously pleased with himself.
Luca lounged like a man who’d gotten away with murder—again.
And Arianna was… glowing.
Well. Trying to.
She wore a lemon-yellow silk dress that hugged her eight-month bump so tightly I half-expected the fabric to snap under pressure. Her curls were set, her lipstick bold, her nails fresh. She looked like she’d walked off a maternity couture shoot at 8 a.m. on a Monday.
I slid into the seat Matteo pulled out for me.
“Ah,” Alessio said, raising his glass of green juice like it was champagne. “There’s my favorite morning slug.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “You look like you just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to pretend otherwise. It’s refreshing. Real.” He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “Not everyone needs to perform for breakfast.”
Arianna’s jaw tightened so subtly, I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching her for exactly that reason.
“I like to start my day feeling polished,” she said smoothly. “It helps me stay organized.”
“And you do look polished, my dear,” Alessio said, with that knife-edged cheer he wielded so well. “But there’s something to be said for a woman who doesn’t mind being seen as she really is. Isn’t there, Matteo?”
Matteo didn’t flinch.
He just laid a casual hand on my thigh beneath the table. “I think Valentina looks perfect every morning.”