Chapter 13: Perspective Choices
The night air bit at Val's skin as they stepped out of Il Palazzo's gold-leafed doors, the winter chill cutting through the warm haze of wine and candlelight that had wrapped around them for the past three hours.
Her heels clicked against the wet cobblestones. The city had that particular gleam it only got after rain—everything slick and reflective, the streetlights bleeding into puddles like watercolor.
Dante's hand found the small of her back. A steady pressure. A claim.
"Three hours," he murmured, his breath ghosting against her ear. "That's probably a record for us not trying to kill each other in public."
Val snorted.
"Give it time. The night's still young."
The dinner had gone well. Better than well. They'd been seen—photographed, even, by the paparazzi who haunted Il Palazzo's red velvet entrance like starving dogs. Val had worn red, as instructed, a wine-dark suit with a plunging blazer that left little to the imagination and everything to the rumor mill. Dante had worn black. His usual. The contrast had been intentional, a visual statement, and the cameras had eaten it up.
By morning, every major family would know. Dante Falcone and Valentine Sterling. Together. Public. Unapologetic.
The message was clear.
"We should do this more often," Dante said, his thumb tracing idle circles on her lower back. "The food was excellent."
"The company was better."
"Careful, Sterling. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Don't let it go to your head."
The limo was parked two blocks down—a deliberate choice, giving them time to walk, to be seen, to let the city breathe in their presence. The alley they turned down was a shortcut, a narrow slice of shadow between two buildings that Val had memorized months ago. The driver was waiting at the other end. Thirty seconds. Maybe less.
They made it ten.
The first man came from the left—a blur of movement, a flash of metal. Dante's body reacted before his brain caught up. He shoved Val behind him, his shoulder taking the brunt of the attack, and the knife that had been aimed at his ribs carved a line of fire across his forearm instead.
Dante didn't flinch.
Didn't make a sound.
His fist connected with the man's throat in a single, brutal motion. The cartilage crunched like stepping on frozen leaves. The attacker—mid-twenties, cheap suit, cheaper cologne—staggered back, gasping, and Dante followed.
He caught the man by the collar and slammed him into the brick wall. Once. Twice. The sound was wet. Final.
The second man had a gun.
Val saw it first—the glint of moonlight on steel, the tremor of a hand that had never killed before. She moved on instinct, her body sliding out of Dante's shadow and into the open.
"Hey."
The word was calm. Bored. Her amber eyes caught the light, bright and uninterested.
The gunman swung toward her. Wide-eyed. Breathing hard.
Val stepped into his space—faster than he could track—and her palm struck his wrist at the precise angle Theo had taught her when she was twelve. The gun clattered to the ground. She caught it before it hit the cobblestones.
By the time the man registered what had happened, he was staring down the barrel of his own weapon.
"Please," he whispered.
Val tilted her head.
"Please what? Please don't shoot? Please spare your worthless life?" She clicked the safety off with her thumb—a sound that echoed in the narrow alley like a death knell. "You came here to kill me. You don't get to beg."
The man's face twisted. Fear gave way to something uglier.
"You're just a woman," he spat. "Playing in a man's world. Bianchi said—"
"Bianchi said what?"
"That you're weak. That you're nothing without a man at your back."
Val's expression didn't change. But something behind her eyes shifted. Went cold. Distant.
"Did he now."
She shot him in the knee.
The crack of the gun was deafening. The man screamed—a high, animal sound that bounced off the walls and faded into the night. He collapsed, clutching his leg, blood seeping between his fingers and pooling on the wet stone.
Val crouched beside him. Her voice was soft. Almost gentle.
"Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once." She pressed the barrel of the gun to his thigh, just above the wound. "You're going to crawl back to Bianchi. You're going to tell him that Valentine Sterling sends her regards. And you're going to tell him that I'm done playing nice."
The man whimpered.
"Do you understand?"
He nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face.
"Good."
She stood. Tossed the gun into the shadows. Turned to Dante.
He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Not shock. Not disapproval. Something softer than that. Warmer. Like he was seeing her for the first time and recognizing what he found.
"Nice shot," he said.
"I was aiming for the kneecap."
"You hit the kneecap."
"I know."
The first man was still groaning on the ground, clutching his throat. Dante walked over and nudged him with his boot.
"Tell Bianchi the same thing," he said. "Actually—" He crouched down, his voice dropping to something low and lethal. "Tell him that if he ever sends men after her again, I'll take his hands. Then his tongue. Then his eyes. In that order."
He straightened.
"Now get out of my sight."
The men scrambled—one limping, one wheezing—and disappeared into the darkness at the end of the alley.
Dante turned to Val.
His arm was bleeding. The cut wasn't deep, but it was long, staining his sleeve a dark, wet red. He didn't seem to notice.
"You okay?"
Val blinked.
"Am I okay? Dante, you're bleeding."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the point."
She crossed to him, her hands finding his arm, her fingers probing the wound with clinical precision. The bleeding was steady, but not arterial. He'd need stitches. Probably a tetanus shot. Definitely a better story than "I got sliced defending my girlfriend's honor."
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're an idiot."
"A charming idiot."
She looked up at him. Her heart was still hammering—adrenaline, or something else. Something older.
"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly. "The speech. The threats."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
Dante's green eyes held hers.
"Because you're mine," he said simply. "And I protect what's mine."
Val's throat tightened.
"I don't need protection."
"I know." He lifted his uninjured arm, cupped her face in his palm. "But you have it anyway."
She kissed him.
Hard. Fast. A collision of mouths and teeth and something that burned hotter than blood.
When they broke apart, both of them were breathing unevenly.
"We should get you cleaned up," she said.
"Probably."
"And you're going to need stitches."
"Definitely."
"And I'm going to have to explain to Marco why there's a body count tonight."
"No body count. Just a guy who'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life."
"Same thing."
Dante laughed. It was a wild, reckless sound, and it echoed through the alley like something alive.
"Let's go home," he said.
"Your place or mine?"
"Ours."
Val's heart stuttered.
Ours.
She didn't correct him.
---
The penthouse was quiet when they walked in.
Val stripped off her jacket and tossed it on the floor—a cardinal sin in Dante's meticulously organized world, but he didn't say a word. He just stood in the doorway, watching her, his injured arm hanging at his side.
"You're dripping on the marble," she said without turning around.
"I'll clean it up."
"You'll sit down and let me stitch you up."
"I can do it myself."
"You can barely reach the wound."
He opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Sat down on the edge of the couch—a sprawling, black leather thing that had cost more than most people's cars.
Val disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a first aid kit. She knelt in front of him, her fingers working the buttons of his shirt loose with practiced efficiency. The fabric was ruined—bloodstained and torn—but she didn't care. She peeled it off his shoulders and set it aside.
The cut on his forearm was ugly. Angry red, jagged at the edges, still weeping blood.
"This needs more than butterfly bandages."
"I know."
"Then why didn't we go to a hospital?"
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Hospitals ask questions. I don't like questions."
"Fair enough."
She cleaned the wound with antiseptic—he hissed through his teeth but didn't flinch—and began the slow, tedious work of stitching him back together. The needle glinted in the low light. Each pull of thread drew the skin tighter.
"You know how to do this too?" he asked.
"Theo taught me."
"Of course he did."
"He taught me a lot of things." Val's voice was steady, her hands steady, but something in her expression had shifted. Gone distant. "Things most kids don't learn until they're older. If ever."
Dante watched her.
"Like what?"
She was quiet for a long moment. The needle moved. The thread pulled.
"How to kill a man when you're ten years old."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Dante didn't move. Didn't speak. Just waited.
Val tied off the last stitch and sat back on her heels. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark. Somewhere cold.
"There was a man," she said. "One of Theo's rivals. His name was Salvatore. He didn't like the idea of a little girl inheriting anything. Didn't like that Theo was grooming me. Thought it was unnatural." She laughed—a hollow, brittle sound. "He came to the house one night. I was in the study, reading. Theo was out. And Salvatore decided he was going to do the world a favor."
Dante's hands curled into fists.
"He had a knife," Val continued. "I remember the way it caught the light. Like water. He told me not to be afraid. That it would be quick. That I should be grateful he was letting me go to God clean."
"What happened?"
"I don't remember all of it. It's... blurry. Like a dream you're not sure you actually had." She looked down at her hands. "But I remember the way it felt. The weight of the letter opener. The way it slid between his ribs. The way he looked at me when he fell—like he couldn't believe what I'd done."
"He underestimated you."
"Everyone does." Val's voice was soft. "That's the point."
She stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the city. The neon glow painted her face in shades of amber and gold. Beautiful. Terrible. Alone.
"I walked to Theo in shock," she said. "Covered in blood. Shaking. I couldn't speak. I just stood there, and he looked at me, and I could see it in his eyes—the moment he realized what I was."
"What were you?"
Val turned. Met his gaze.
"A killer."
Dante rose. Crossed to her. His injured arm ached, but he ignored it.
"And what did Theo say?"
"He washed the blood off my hands. Told me I'd done well. Then he said something I've never forgotten."
"What?"
"'Little girls don't belong in the business.'" She laughed again, but this time it was sharper. Bitter. "That's what Salvatore said. And Theo told me: 'The business belongs to whoever's willing to take it.'"
Dante reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold.
"You were ten."
"I know."
"You shouldn't have had to do that."
"No." Val's voice cracked—just a little, just enough. "But I did. And the worst part isn't the killing. It's that it felt... natural. Like I'd been waiting my whole life for that moment. Like my body already knew what to do."
Dante pulled her into his arms.
She went willingly—tucked her face into his chest, her hands fisting in the fabric of his undershirt. The cut on his arm burned, but he didn't care. He held her tighter.
"That wasn't the first time you've felt that," he said quietly.
"No."
"And it won't be the last."
"No."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I know the feeling."
Val tilted her face up. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"You do?"
"Yeah." His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "The first time I killed someone, I was seventeen. It was a guy who'd been skimming from my father. Nothing personal. Just business." He paused. "I felt nothing. Less than nothing. And that scared me more than the blood."
Val's breath caught.
"Theo told me something else that night," she said. "He said: 'The day you stop feeling anything is the day you're already dead. That's when you become a monster.'"
"What else did he say?"
"That monsters can still love. They just have to try harder."
Dante's gaze softened.
"Was he right?"
Val reached up. Touched his cheek.
"I don't know," she said. "But I'm starting to think so."
He kissed her.
Slow this time. Careful. Like she was something fragile that might shatter if he moved too fast.
She didn't shatter.
She melted.
When they broke apart, Val's face was wet. The tears had finally come—silent, steady, washing away years of dust and distance.
"I'm tired," she whispered. "Of pretending I don't need this. Don't need you."
"I know."
"I don't want to be alone anymore."
"You're not."
She looked up at him. Her amber eyes were red-rimmed and raw and brighter than he'd ever seen them.
"Tell me we're going to be okay."
Dante brushed a curl from her face.
"We're going to be better than okay."
"How do you know?"
He smiled—that crooked, crooked smile that made her heart stutter.
"Because I'm not letting go. Not this time. Not ever."
Val closed her eyes.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She believed him.
The city kept glowing beyond the windows, indifferent to their confessions and their blood and their love. But inside the penthouse—inside the walls of black marble and obsidian glass—something had shifted.
Something had healed.
And when Val finally drifted to sleep in his arms, she didn't dream of blood or knives or the sound of a body hitting the floor.
She dreamed of him.
Of morning light.
Of pancakes that weren't burned.
Of the life they were going to build together, one scar at a time.