Chapter 62 Confession in Silk
Valentina
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, the room felt too quiet.
My body was still humming—sore in all the best ways, my legs tangled in sheets that still smelled like him. My headache was gone. My pride? Well, that was up for debate.
I stared at the ceiling, processing. He’d stayed with me. He brought me in from outside and put me in bed then crawled in next to me. In my bed. And not to make a point. Not to play a role.
He held me like I was something he didn’t want to lose.
I hated that I liked it. But unfortunately that was going to be short lived. A few weird flutters in my stomach is not going to stop me from achieving what I came here to do.
With a sigh, I rolled to the edge of the bed, stretching slowly, deliberately. Every muscle pulled in protest. My thighs ached. My core pulsed. A raw, carnal satisfaction bloomed in my belly.
I stood and padded toward the ensuite, brushing my fingers over the silk of the sleep shirt I was still wearing. The same one he and Carol had changed me into. I hadn’t remembered that part—but I trusted Carol enough to know it wasn’t anything worse than awkward. Still, the whole situation felt oddly intimate.
After a long, indulgent shower, I towel-dried my hair and stepped into a robe. My eyes flicked to the nightstand—no phone.
Right. Still on my desk. Still dead. I plugged it in, then opened the drawer where I’d hidden my backup flash drive and a slim folder of notes. Plan A had been to sneak into his room today and grab more files—but with him holed up in his office, that wasn’t going to happen.
He told me when he left out of here that he would be in his office all day if I needed him. Fine. Plan B it was.
I pulled out my laptop, tucked myself into the reading nook beneath the bay window, and opened the files I’d already collected.
Strip club. Laundromats. Car washes. A restaurant with three employees on payroll who didn’t actually exist. And a cigar lounge that just so happened to get the same weekly delivery schedule as a certain cargo ship full of premium Colombian powder.
Bold to receive both the powder and cigars in the same shipment. That would be a huge loss if anything were to pop off.
Maybe that’s one thing I’d change after he’s gone. Be a bit more discreet about things.
I continued to scroll through the photos, categorizing, organizing, building the web in my mind.
Imports and exports—but it wasn’t just drugs. I was talking rare liquor, vintage watches, luxury cars with falsified VINs. Hell, even some endangered animal products. Who the hell still smuggled ivory? Matteo Genovese, apparently.
Some women would’ve been horrified. Appalled. Maybe even afraid.
Me? I felt right at home.
Mafia families were criminal. That was the whole point. My family had been no different. This wasn’t betrayal. This was blood. And when I took it all, I needed to know exactly how to keep it running.
This was the blueprint.
My fingers paused over one photo—a ledger marked “C.R.” in matte black ink. There were no names. Just codes, weights, dates, payouts. But I recognized the pattern. Cross-reference that with shipping records and I could probably trace every kilo, every payout, every politician bought and sold.
This was it. The empire behind the empire. And now I had a copy of it all.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I was made for this,” I whispered.
And I was. Every polished smile. Every weaponized kiss. Every lie I let him believe. I wasn’t his wife. I was his widow-in-training.
My stomach growled—loudly.
I blinked at the screen, glanced at the clock on the wall, and groaned.
11:43 a.m.
No wonder I felt like I was about to faint. I hadn’t eaten a single bite since yesterday’s lunch. That bottle of wine had hit harder than I thought, and now I was running on nothing but secrets and spite.
I closed the laptop, tucked everything neatly back into its hiding spot, and headed for the closet.
Soft denim. A pale blue sweater. Matte gold hoops and a pair of cream slides. Minimal makeup—just enough to look pretty without trying. I tugged a brush through my hair, fixed it into a loose braid, and grabbed my phone from the charger on my way out the door.
Matteo had said he’d be in his office most of the day. Maybe now was a good time to remind him he had a wife. And maybe get a meal out of it. A working lunch, I’d call it—one where I kept a close eye on his expression and tested how easy it was to lie to him face to face.
My footsteps were quiet on the polished marble as I made my way down the hall.
His office was just ahead, the heavy door cracked open an inch. I slowed my steps, intending to knock—until I caught movement inside.
Someone was already in there. I stepped closer, just enough to get a view through the gap.
It was Maria. The flight attendant from the jet.
She stood just in front of Matteo’s desk, arms crossed, her dark ponytail swinging as she shook her head. He held out an envelope to her—money, I assumed—but she didn’t take it. I couldn’t hear her words from where I stood, but whatever she said made Matteo clench his jaw.
She tossed the envelope back at him, hard enough that it hit his chest before falling to the desk.
And then she stormed out—heels clacking, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy like she was holding back tears.
I ducked out of sight behind a column just before she stepped into the hall. She passed by without noticing me, muttering under her breath in rapid Spanish. Her perfume lingered behind her—sweet, too sweet. Like candy and desperation.
My fingers curled into a fist at my side. What the hell was that? I waited three slow beats. Then five.
Then I stepped forward and gently pushed open the door to Matteo’s office.
He was still standing behind the desk, staring down at the envelope in silence.
I eased the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside.
“Everything okay?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “I just saw Maria storm out of here like she was ready to set something on fire.”
Matteo’s eyes lifted to mine. Cold. Flat. Calculating.
He slid the envelope back into the drawer with a quiet snick and said, “She might be a problem I’m going to have to take care of.”
The way he said it… calm, even, almost bored—but there was an edge beneath the words, something sharp enough to bleed.
I stepped closer, watching him carefully. “What kind of problem?”
He leaned back in his chair, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate precision. “I was letting her go. Giving her a generous severance package, actually. Enough to disappear quietly and not cause trouble.”
“And?”
His jaw ticked. “She didn’t take it well.”