Chapter 88 Like Hell I’m Weak
Valentina
God, I fucking love you.
The words hit like a bullet to the chest.
Not the kind that kills.
The kind that lingers.
Stays inside you. Festers. Bleeds.
He said it like it wasn’t a mistake. Like it wasn’t something he’d been choking on since the day I walked through his front gates. Like it didn’t change everything.
And maybe it didn’t.
Maybe I was the only one who felt the ground shift beneath my feet.
But I did.
I felt it.
In my pulse.
In my breath.
In the sharp sting of pain where Luca’s palm had connected with my face.
I stared at Matteo, heart thudding like I’d just run for miles.
He didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. His focus had already shifted back to Luca, gun pressed against the bastard’s skull like it was exactly where it belonged.
And yet all I could hear was that one, bladed sentence, still echoing inside me.
God, I fucking love you.
The man who murdered my family.
The man I came here to destroy.
The man who was supposed to fall for the performance—not believe it.
I clamped my hand tighter against my cheek, using the sting to drag myself back into the present.
Focus.
This wasn’t the time for confusion. Or soft hearts. Or trembling knees.
This was the time for resolve.
Because this was the last time that son of a bitch was going to catch me off guard.
No more flinching.
No more faltering.
He might think he’s winning, but he hasn’t even seen the sharpest edge of me yet.
He’s about to find out I’m far from the weak bitch he believes me to be.
I stayed quiet while Rosco dragged Luca toward the door, blood leaving a dotted trail behind them. Matteo didn’t look at me—his attention was locked on Rosco like he was counting every step.
“I’ll get him to the interrogation site,” Rosco said. “Secure and silent. We’ll wait for you there.”
“It’ll be a few minutes,” Matteo replied, voice rough. “I want a doctor to look at Valentina’s face. She needs an x-ray. If he fractured anything, or she needs stitches…”
My stomach clenched at the mention of it.
Not because I was afraid of the diagnosis.
Because I was still stuck on the fact that he cared.
Rosco nodded and yanked Luca’s collar hard enough to make him stumble.
Good.
Let the bastard limp into hell.
Just as they crossed the threshold, Alessio stormed into the room, cane in hand but moving like a man half his age.
His eyes hit my face first.
And everything in him changed.
“Princesa,” he said, voice gone tight. “Are you alright?”
I nodded once. “I’ll live.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur—explanations, accusations, more blood—and then Matteo’s hand found mine.
Warm. Steady. Unshakable.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you looked at.”
He led me down the hall like the building belonged to him, speaking to no one, but moving with the kind of purpose that made people get out of the way without asking questions.
The doctor was already waiting.
He was young. Not fresh, but not seasoned either. His coat was crisp and unwrinkled, his jaw tight with unease as he took one look at my face.
“I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said, already reaching for gloves. “We probably don’t need to bother with an x-ray. The swelling is localized—”
Matteo stepped forward like a storm had been released inside him.
“I don’t pay you to think,” he snapped. “I pay you to know. Get an x-ray. Hell, get a CT scan to be sure. And do it now.”
The doctor paled. “Y-Yes, of course. Right away.”
He disappeared like smoke.
Matteo didn’t look at me right away. He just stood there, jaw clenched, fists opening and closing like he was still trying to burn the rage out of his system.
A nurse appeared at the doorway not long after, clipboard in hand, voice practiced and polite.
“Mrs. Genovese? We’re ready for you now.”
Matteo’s eyes flicked to mine, but I was already pushing off the table, keeping my back straight despite the throb in my cheek.
The walk was quiet. Sterile. I hated everything about it—the fluorescent lights, the hum of machines, the way nurses smiled like they weren’t memorizing your wounds behind their eyes.
They led me into the scan room, had me lie back, fitted me with some uncomfortable stabilizer to keep my head still.
The scan was loud. Too loud.
Like it wanted to drown out the thoughts I couldn’t stop thinking.
God, I fucking love you.
I stared at the inside of the machine like it had answers. It didn’t.
When it was over, they led me to a small room just off the hallway, where a radiologist was already waiting.
“The CT shows no internal damage,” he said, peering at the screen like he didn’t quite believe it. “No orbital fracture. No cheekbone displacement. Just a soft tissue contusion and a minor split along the cheek.”
“I’ve had worse,” I said flatly.
He glanced at Matteo like he needed permission to laugh. Matteo didn’t move.
The doctor cleared his throat. “We’re going to seal the cut with liquid adhesive and reinforce it with butterfly strips. It should help minimize scarring, but…”
He hesitated, looking at me again.
“I’m not worried about a scar,” I said. “Let’s just get it done.”
He nodded and got to work—quick, practiced movements that stung but didn’t rattle me. Not after everything else tonight.
When it was over, Matteo handed me a compact mirror without a word.
The wound was clean, the edges sealed neatly, the strips pale against my skin.
I looked at it for three seconds, then snapped the mirror shut.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He nodded once, then jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”
We made it to the parking garage before he spoke again.
“Let’s grab a burger on the way to the site.”
I blinked at him. “Seriously?”
He glanced over as he unlocked the passenger door.
“I would ask how your ability to hold your stomach contents is, but I’ve already seen you in action with Maria. I have no doubt you’ll be fine.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, uninvited. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m practical,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I don’t want you passing out halfway through the show because you haven’t eaten. You don’t get to go soft on me now.”
“I’m not soft,” I muttered, buckling my seatbelt.
He smirked. “Good.”
We didn’t talk much on the drive. The fast food place was twenty-four hours and staffed by someone who looked like they’d seen way worse than a bruised woman and her unnervingly calm husband.
I got a double cheeseburger. Matteo ordered the same, added fries, and handed me a bottle of water without comment.
We ate in silence, parked in the shadows, headlights off.
And then we pulled back onto the road—one destination in mind.
The site.
Where Luca was waiting.