Chapter 18: Show of Good Faith
The cold snap had teeth.
It came in through the windows, through the walls, through the bones of the building like something alive and hungry. The penthouse had been designed by an architect who clearly believed aesthetics trumped insulation—all that black marble and obsidian glass looked stunning in photographs, but in December, it turned the place into a mausoleum.
Val had been wearing the same cashmere wrap for three days straight. She'd stopped washing her hair because the water took forever to heat up, and when it did, the steam just fogged up the bathroom and made everything damp and worse. She'd taken to sleeping in Dante's old sweatshirts, the ones from his college days that still smelled faintly of him beneath the dust and age, and she'd stopped apologizing for stealing them.
He didn't complain. He just pulled her closer at night, let her press her ice-cold feet against his calves, let her burrow into his side like she was trying to crawl inside his skin.
"You know," she said, not looking up from her laptop, "I have two mansions. Both of them have working heat."
Dante was in the kitchen, doing something that involved a lot of clanking and cursing. "Both of those mansions are in the middle of nowhere. You'd be bored in a week."
"I'd be warm."
"You'd be lonely."
"I have staff."
"You have staff who are terrified of you." He appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of something that steamed. "They'd bring you soup and then hide in the basement until you left."
Val lifted her gaze from the screen. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a tiny space heater, her laptop balanced on her knees, her cigarette burning in the ashtray beside her. She'd barely moved in hours. The heater was doing its best, but it was fighting a losing battle against the draft that seeped through the windows like a slow, deliberate betrayal.
"The staff at the Sterling estate don't have a basement," she said.
"Then they'd hide in the attic."
"The attic is full of my uncle's old files."
"Then they'd hide in the garden."
"It's winter. They'd freeze."
"See?" Dante crossed the room, handed her a mug. "You'd be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. Better to stay here and suffer with me."
Val took the mug. Hot chocolate, she realized. With those tiny little marshmallows she pretended to hate but actually loved.
"You're trying to bribe me."
"Is it working?"
She took a sip. The warmth spread through her chest, her stomach, her fingers. She hated that it worked.
"No," she said.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. You're just—"
"Charming?"
"Persistent."
Dante sat down behind her, his back against the couch, his legs bracketing hers. He pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her, rested his chin on the top of her head. His body heat was almost offensive, the way it radiated through his shirt, through her sweater, through all the layers she'd piled on in a desperate attempt to stay warm.
"I called the HVAC company again," he said.
"How many times is that now?"
"Twenty-two."
"And?"
"And they said they're doing their best." His voice was tight. "I told them their best wasn't good enough, and if they didn't get someone out here by tomorrow, I was going to come down there and show them what a real emergency looked like."
Val smiled despite herself.
"Did you threaten to break their kneecaps?"
"I threatened to break their everything."
"That's my boy."
Dante snorted. Pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Let his lips linger there, warm and soft, before he pulled back.
"You know," he said, "my father's estate has working heat. And staff who are terrified of him instead of you. It's the best of both worlds."
Val tensed.
Just slightly. Just enough that he felt it.
"I'm not going to stay at your father's house," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not—"
"Val." He tightened his arms around her. "I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying the option exists. In case you change your mind."
She didn't respond. Just took another sip of her hot chocolate, let the sweetness coat her tongue, and stared at the cursor blinking on her laptop screen.
It had been a week since the dinner.
A week since she'd sat in Elena's chair and listened to Vincent Falcone talk about his dead wife. A week since she'd watched him laugh, really laugh, at something she'd said. A week since she'd told him she didn't trust him but was willing to try.
She'd meant it. Every word.
But trying didn't mean she had to like him. Trying didn't mean she had to forgive him for the way he'd treated Dante—for the coldness, the distance, the years of emotional neglect that had shaped her boyfriend into a man who didn't know how to ask for love, only how to demand it.
She was doing this for Dante. Not for Vincent.
That was what she told herself, anyway.
"He sent me a text this morning," Dante said.
Val's fingers stilled on the keyboard.
"Who?"
"My father."
"What did it say?"
"Just—" Dante paused. "He asked how you were doing. If you were settling in okay. If there was anything you needed."
Val's jaw tightened.
"He's checking up on me."
"He's checking in on you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Dante sighed.
"I know you don't trust him. I know you're still—"
"Waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Yeah." His voice was soft. "That."
Val set down her mug. Turned around in his arms so she was facing him, her knees pressing into his thighs, her face inches from his.
"I watched my uncle die," she said. "Slowly. Over months. He had cancer, but he refused treatment because he didn't trust the doctors. Thought they were trying to poison him. Thought everyone was trying to poison him, toward the end."
Dante said nothing.
"He was paranoid. Delusional. And he died in pain, alone, because he couldn't let anyone in." Val's voice was steady. Flat. "And in those last few months, he tried to—he tried to marry me off. To solidify alliances. To protect the territory. He thought he was doing the right thing, but he was just—he was just trying to control the last thing he could, because he felt everything else slipping away."
"Val—"
"I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me." She cut him off. "I'm telling you this so you understand why I am the way I am. Why I don't trust easily. Why I don't let people in."
Dante's hands found her hips. Held on.
"I know why you are the way you are."
"Do you?"
"Better than anyone." He met her eyes. "You think I don't know what it's like? To grow up with a parent who's more interested in power than in you? To spend your whole life proving yourself, over and over, to someone who'll never be satisfied?"
Val's chest ached.
"I know," she said.
"I know you know." He pulled her closer. "That's why we're here. That's why we're doing this. Not just for us, but for—for them. For the people we're going to become. The family we're going to have. We're going to do it differently."
"How?"
"I don't know yet." He pressed his forehead against hers. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
Together.
She hated that word. She'd spent her whole life proving she didn't need anyone, didn't need anything, could stand on her own two feet and build an empire from nothing. And here he was, this man, this beautiful, infuriating man, making her believe that word meant something.
The buzzer rang.
Val startled. Dante's hands tightened on her hips.
"Expecting someone?" he asked.
"No." She frowned. "Callie's in Milan. Marcus is in Chicago. And your security team doesn't buzz."
"I'll check."
He rose, crossed to the intercom panel by the door. Pressed the button.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Falcone." The doorman's voice crackled through the speaker. "There's a delivery for Ms. Sterling. From a courier. Says he needs a signature."
Dante glanced at Val.
She shrugged.
"I didn't order anything," she said.
"Who's it from?" Dante asked.
"Doesn't say. Just says it's for Ms. Sterling. Priority delivery."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Send him up."
He released the button. Turned back to Val, his expression unreadable.
"You good?"
"I'm fine." She stood, stretched, felt her joints pop. "It's probably nothing. Maybe someone's trying to bribe me. It's been a while since a rival clan sent me a fruit basket."
Dante didn't smile.
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
The elevator chimed. Footsteps in the hallway. A knock at the door.
Dante opened it.
The courier was young—early twenties, maybe, wearing a uniform that looked like it belonged to a high-end delivery service. He was holding a large, flat box, the kind that held expensive things.
"Valentine Sterling?" he asked.
"That's me." Val stepped forward.
"Signature here."
She signed. He handed her the box. She tipped him—a fifty, because she wasn't a monster—and he left.
She carried the box to the coffee table. Set it down. Looked at it.
Dante appeared at her side.
"You're going to open it?"
"It could be a bomb."
"Val."
"I'm joking." She wasn't, entirely. "Mostly."
She pulled the ribbon. Opened the lid.
And stopped.
The coat was mink.
Dark, rich brown, the kind of color that caught the light and held it, soft as fur against her fingers when she touched it. It was long—floor-length, probably—with a hood and deep pockets and buttons that looked like they were made of actual gold.
There was a note.
Handwritten. On cream-colored stationery, monogrammed with the Falcone crest.
Valentine—
I noticed you mentioned the cold. Consider this a housewarming gift. The penthouse may warm up eventually, but until then.
-V.F.
She stared at the note.
Stared at the coat.
Stared at the implication—that he'd been watching, listening, paying attention—that he'd heard her complain about the heat, that he'd remembered, that he'd taken the time to—
"Val."
Dante's voice was careful. Measured.
She looked at him.
"What?"
"Say something."
"I don't know what to say."
She touched the coat again. The fur was impossibly soft. She could already imagine wearing it, wrapping it around herself, feeling warm for the first time in days. It probably cost more than most people's rent. More than most people's yearly salary.
It was exactly the kind of gift Vincent Falcone would give. Extravagant. Impractical. A gesture that couldn't be ignored.
He was telling her something.
She just wasn't sure what.
"It's a mink coat," Dante said. Stating the obvious.
"I can see that."
"From my father."
"I can see that too."
"You're—you're not going to say anything else?"
Val picked up the note. Read it again. Let the words settle into her bones.
I noticed you mentioned the cold.
She hadn't mentioned it. Not directly. Not to him. But she'd mentioned it at dinner—a throwaway comment, something about how the penthouse was drafty, how winter was brutal in the city. She hadn't thought he was listening. Hadn't thought he cared.
Consider this a housewarming gift.
The penthouse.
He knew where she lived. Of course he knew—he was Vincent Falcone, he knew everything—but the fact that he'd acknowledged it, that he'd sent something here, to this space that was hers and Dante's, felt like a statement.
I see you.
I accept you.
I'm trying.
She set the note down.
"He's good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"Gestures." She touched the coat again. "Making people feel seen. Making them feel like he cares."
"Maybe he does care."
"Maybe." She looked at Dante. "But caring and trusting are two different things."
Dante stepped closer. Took her hands.
"I know."
"I'm not—I'm not saying I'm going to keep it."
"You should keep it."
"I didn't ask—"
"I know you didn't." He squeezed her fingers. "But you're cold. And it's beautiful. And if you send it back, you're just—you're making a statement that you don't need to make."
"What statement?"
"That you're still fighting. Still resisting." He met her eyes. "You told him you were willing to try. This—" He nodded at the coat. "This is him trying back."
Val was quiet for a long moment.
"I hate that you're right."
"I know."
"I hate that you're being reasonable."
"I know that too."
She sighed. Pulled her hands free. Picked up the coat.
It was heavier than she'd expected. Solid. Real. She held it up, let the fur cascade through her fingers, felt the weight of it settle into her chest.
"It's too much," she said.
"It's what he does."
"It's a bribe."
"Maybe." Dante shrugged. "Or maybe it's just him not knowing how to apologize like a normal person. Maybe it's him trying to say he's sorry with things because he doesn't know how to say it with words."
Val looked at him.
"you're defending him."
"I'm explaining him." Dante crossed his arms. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
He didn't answer.
She turned back to the coat. Lifted it. Slipped her arms into the sleeves, felt the silk lining slide over her skin. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. Vincent Falcone didn't do anything halfway.
She pulled it closed. Tucked her hands into the pockets. Looked down at herself.
The fur was warm. Impossibly warm. Like being wrapped in an embrace, like standing in sunlight, like—
She didn't want to like it.
She liked it anyway.
"It looks good," Dante said.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. It looks—"
"Shut up."
He laughed. Actually laughed, warm and low, and crossed the room to her. Pulled her against him. Pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"You're beautiful," he said. "Even when you're cold and grumpy and wearing a coat my father bought you."
"I'm not grumpy."
"You're a little grumpy."
"I'm cold."
"You're warm now."
She was. She hated that she was.
She let him hold her. Let the fur settle around her shoulders, let the weight of it anchor her to the floor, let the heat seep into her bones. She was warm for the first time in days. She was warm and she was wearing a coat that cost more than most people's cars and she was—
She was grateful.
That was the worst part.
"I'm going to send him a thank-you note," she said, into Dante's chest.
"You don't have to."
"I know." She pulled back. Looked up at him. "But I'm going to."
"Why?"
"Because he's trying." She touched the collar of the coat. "And because—because I told him I'd give him a chance. And this is him taking that chance seriously. And if I don't acknowledge it, then I'm just—I'm just being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn."
Dante studied her face.
"You're not stubborn for the sake of being stubborn."
"No?"
"No. You're careful." He tucked a curl behind her ear. "You're careful, and you're smart, and you don't trust people who haven't earned it. And that's—that's not a flaw. That's survival."
Val's throat tightened.
"But?"
"But sometimes—sometimes it's okay to let people in." His eyes were soft. "Even when it's scary. Even when you're not sure. Even when you think you might get hurt."
She didn't respond. Just pressed closer, let him wrap his arms around her, let the coat and the man and the moment cocoon her in something that felt dangerously like safety.
The buzzer rang again.
Dante tensed.
"Expecting someone?" Val asked.
"I was going to ask you the same thing."
He crossed to the intercom. Pressed the button.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Falcone." The doorman's voice was hesitant. "There's, uh—there's another delivery.
Dante's eyes met Val's.
"From who?"
"Doesn't say. Just says it's for Ms. Sterling. Priority."
Val groaned.
"Another one?"
"I guess." Dante pressed the button again. "Send him up."
They waited. The elevator chimed. Footsteps in the hallway. A knock.
Dante opened the door.
This courier was older, more polished, carrying a smaller box. He handed it to Val without a word, collected his signature, and left.
Val opened it.
Inside was a key.
Old-fashioned. Brass. Attached to a leather tag with an address in the old part of the city—a neighborhood she vaguely recognized, full of brownstones and gas lamps and cobblestone streets.
There was a note. Same stationery. Same handwriting.
Valentine—
The brownstone on Mulberry Street. I bought it thirty years ago. I've never used it. It was supposed to be a surprise for Elena—a place to escape to when the city became too much. She never got to see it.
It has working heat. And a fireplace. And a library that might actually impress you.
It's yours. If you want it.
-V.F.
Val stared at the key.
Stared at the note.
Stared at the address.
"He bought you a house," Dante said.
He sounded as stunned as she felt.
"A brownstone," she corrected. "In the West Village."
"He bought you a house."
"I don't—" She looked up. "I don't understand."
"What's not to understand? He's trying to—"
"No." She shook her head. "I understand the gesture. I understand the intent. But this—" She held up the key. "This is different. This is Elena's. This is the thing he bought for her, the thing she never got to see, and he's just—he's just giving it to me?"
Dante took the note. Read it. Read it again.
"Wow," he said.
"Wow?"
"When I told him you were special—I didn't think he'd actually listen."
Val looked at the key. At the coat. At the man in front of her.
"What do I do?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"I can't accept this."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Because it's too much. Because it's overwhelming. Because it's the kind of gift that comes with strings, even if the giver doesn't realize it. "Because I don't know what it means."
"Maybe it doesn't mean anything."
"Everything means something."
Dante stepped closer. Took her hands. Held them.
"Then maybe it means you were wrong about him."
Val's chest ached.
"Maybe."
"Maybe you should go see it. The brownstone. See if you like it."
"And if I do?"
"Then you keep it." He shrugged. "Or you sell it. Or you burn it down. Whatever you want."
"I'm not going to burn down a brownstone."
"Then you keep it." He squeezed her fingers. "You keep it, and you use it, and you let him do something nice for you. You let him try."
She looked at the key.
At the coat.
At Dante.
"One week," she said.
"What?"
"I'll go see it. One week, I'll stay there, see if it's—see if it works. But I'm not—" She pulled back. "I'm not accepting it. Not yet. I'm just—inspecting."
Dante smiled.
"Okay."
"And you're coming with me."
"Obviously."
"And if it's terrible—"
"Then we leave."
"And if it's not terrible—"
"Then we stay."
She didn't have an answer for that.
She looked at the key again. Brass. Warm in her palm. Heavy with possibility.
"Tell me I'm not crazy," she said.
"You're not crazy."
"Tell me this isn't a mistake."
"This isn't a mistake."
"Tell me—"
"Val." He tilted her chin up. Met her eyes. "Whatever happens, I'm here. Whatever you decide, I'm with you. Okay?"
She nodded.
Okay.
She tucked the key into the pocket of the mink coat. It clinked against her phone. A small sound. A small weight. But it was there, and it was real, and it was something she was going to have to figure out.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she was warm for the first time in days. Tonight, she was standing in her apartment, wearing a coat that probably cost more than a small house, holding a key to a place that meant more than she could process. Tonight, she was—she was okay.
She reached for Dante's hand. Felt his fingers lace through hers.
"Come on," she said.
"Where?"
"Bed. I'm tired."
"What about the HVAC company?"
"They can wait."
"And my father?"
Val paused.
"He can wait too."
Dante followed her down the hallway. Let her pull him into the bedroom, let her shed the coat and drape it over the chair, let her crawl into bed without bothering to change into pajamas. He lay down beside her. Pulled the blankets up. Wrapped himself around her.
"I love you," he said.
Into her hair. Into the dark.
Into the space between them.
Val closed her eyes.
"I know," she said.
It wasn't the same thing as saying it back. They both knew that.
But some things didn't need to be said.
Sometime in the night, the heat came on.
Val woke to the sound of it—the rumble of the pipes, the gentle rush of warm air through the vents. The apartment would be warm tomorrow. The cold would be a memory.
But she kept the coat.
Just in case.