Chapter 20: Overdue Respect
The mink was a problem.
Not because Val felt guilty about keeping it—she didn't. It was new, it was gorgeous, and it fit her like it had been tailored to her exact measurements. She'd worn it three times already, once to a meeting with the Polish contingent, once to dinner at a restaurant where the maître d' had practically genuflected, and once just to walk around the apartment because she could.
No, the mink was a problem because Dante kept looking at her in it like she was a meal he hadn't eaten yet.
"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her laptop.
"I'm admiring."
"You're drooling."
"Same thing."
She was curled up on the couch in his apartment — their apartment, technically, though she still hadn't moved all her things in. The mink was draped over the back of the couch, waiting. The brownstone was a week into renovations, and the sounds of construction still echoed in her head—hammers, drills, the occasional curse from a contractor who'd underestimated the age of the wiring.
Dante was in the kitchen, making coffee. Shirtless. Because he was always shirtless when he was home, like he was allergic to fabric. His tattoos shifted over his muscles as he moved, that serpent on his forearm coiling and uncoiling with every flex.
"You're staring," he said, without turning around.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
She snorted. Went back to her laptop. The screen was filled with spreadsheets—legitimate business, the kind that didn't require a body count. She'd been restructuring the Sterling portfolio, moving money out of the accounts that were too obviously mobbed up, into investments that would survive scrutiny. It was tedious work. Necessary work.
"You know what I realized?" Dante said, appearing beside the couch with two mugs. He handed her one.
"What?"
"I never asked where you wanted to live."
She looked up at him. His face was open. Curious. Not pushing, just asking.
"The brownstone," she said.
"The brownstone's a construction zone."
"For now."
"And my apartment's here."
"And your apartment's here."
He sat down beside her. Not too close, not too far. Just close enough to touch if either of them moved.
"So we live here," he said. "While the brownstone gets fixed."
"Seems logical."
"And then?"
She set her laptop aside. Took a sip of coffee. It was perfect—black, no sugar, just the way she liked it.
"And then we figure it out."
"That's vague."
"Vague is my brand."
He laughed. Leaned over. Kissed her shoulder, just where the sweater ended and her skin began.
"I like the brownstone," he said. "I like the idea of making it ours."
"Me too."
"But?"
She frowned.
"Why does there always have to be a but?"
"Because there's always a but with you."
She wanted to argue. Couldn't. He knew her too well.
"There's something I need to do," she said.
"What?"
She didn't answer. Just sat there, coffee in hand, staring at the wall.
---
The next morning, she found it.
She wasn't looking for it. She was looking for her watch, which she'd left on Dante's dresser the night before, and her hand had brushed against a small velvet box, and—
She knew what it was before she opened it.
She didn't open it.
Just held it. Felt the weight of it. Felt the years pressing into her palm.
Elena's ring.
The one Vincent had kept for fifteen years. The one he'd given to Dante to give to her. The one Dante had been carrying around like a secret he couldn't speak about.
She could feel it through the velvet. Something old. Something precious. Something that didn't belong to her.
She set it back down. Carefully. Like it might break.
Then she went to find Dante.
---
"when did you get it?"
They were in the living room. Dante was pulling on a shirt, getting ready for a meeting with his father. Val was still in her pajamas—silk shorts, a tank top, her hair loose around her shoulders.
"Get what?"
"The ring."
He froze. One arm in, one arm out. Staring at her.
"You found it."
"It was on your dresser."
She crossed her arms.
"Dante."
"It's my mom's. Her wedding ring" He pulled the shirt the rest of the way on. Ran a hand through his hair. "She wore it every day. Even when she was—especially when she was—"
He didn't finish. Didn't have to.
"I know what it is," Val said.
"You do?"
"Your father told me. About her. About the ring. About what it means."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"He shouldn't have—"
"He should have." She stepped closer. "He told me because he wants me to understand. Because he wants me to know what I'm walking into. What this family is."
"And do you?"
She reached up. Touched his face. Let her thumb trace the line of his jaw.
"I know enough."
He closed his eyes. Let out a breath.
"I was going to give it to you. Eventually. When the time was right."
"I know."
"But you don't want it."
It wasn't a question.
"I can't take it," she said. "It's not mine."
"Val—"
"Listen to me." She pressed her palm flat against his chest. Felt his heart beating beneath it. Fast. Nervous. "That ring belongs to your mother. To your father. To the memory of the woman they both loved. It's not a piece of jewelry. It's a ghost. And I'm not going to wear a ghost, Dante. I'm not going to overshadow her."
He stared at her.
"She's not a ghost."
"I know."
"She's—"
"Your everything." Val nodded. "Yours and your father's. And that's okay. That's good. But I can't be her replacement. I can't wear her ring like I'm stepping into her shoes. That's not who I am."
"Then what the fuck is this?" His voice cracked. "You're the one I want. You're the one I'm choosing. I don't care what my father thinks. I don't care about the politics. I want you."
"I know."
"Then—"
"I want you too." She stepped even closer. Pressed her body against his. Felt him exhale, relief flooding through him. "But not like this. Not with her ring on my finger. I want my own. Something that means us. Not them."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"You're right," he said.
"I know."
"I hate that you're right."
"Get used to it."
He laughed. Wrapped his arms around her. Held her against his chest.
"So what do we do with it?"
"I'm going to give it back."
"To my father?"
"Yes."
"He won't take it."
"He will."
"Val—"
"Trust me."
He pulled back. Looked at her. Those green eyes, searching.
"You're going to see him alone."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because this isn't about you." She touched his face again. "This is between me and him. He gave me that ring because he thought it would mean something. And it does. Just not what he thought."
Dante studied her. Then nodded.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed her forehead. "But if he gives you any shit—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
She smiled.
"I know more than you think."
---
Vincent's study was exactly what she expected.
Dark. Wood-paneled. Heavy drapes blocking the morning light. A desk the size of a car, covered in papers and ledgers and half-empty cups of cold coffee. The whole place smelled like cigar smoke and ambition.
Vincent himself was standing at the window. Looking out at the bay. His shoulders were broad, gone a little soft with age, but still imposing. Still dangerous.
He didn't turn when she knocked.
"Valentine."
"Vincent."
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I brought something back."
That made him turn.
She closed the door behind her. Walked across the room. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor. Steady. Confident. She was wearing a suit today—deep burgundy, her signature red, tailored to perfection. Her glasses were on. Her hair was up.
She looked like a goddamn queen.
Vincent's eyes flicked to her hand. To the small velvet box she was carrying.
He went very still.
"Where did you get that?"
"Dante's dresser."
"Did he—"
"He was going to give it to me. I found it first."
Vincent's expression was unreadable. But his hands clenched at his sides.
"I told him to wait."
"I know."
"He wasn't supposed to—"
"I know." She stopped in front of his desk. Set the box down. "But that doesn't change what it is."
Vincent stared at the box. At the ring hidden inside. She saw something flicker in his eyes—grief, hunger, memory. Fifteen years of missing someone.
He didn't touch it.
"Why are you giving it back?"
"Because it's not mine."
"It was meant to be."
"Meant by who?" She tilted her head. "You? Or Elena?"
He flinched. Just a little. Just enough.
"She would have wanted—"
"With all due respect, Vincent, you don't know what she would have wanted. She never got to tell you." Val's voice was soft. Not cruel. Just honest. "She never got to see the brownstone. She never got to do all of the things you planned for her. So you can't sit here and tell me what she would want. You can only tell me what you want."
He was quiet.
"That ring belongs to her," Val continued. "Not to me. Not to some idea of what I'm supposed to be. It's hers. And you've been holding onto it for fifteen years like a debt you can't pay."
"I loved her."
"I know."
"I still love her."
"I know that too." Val reached into her bag. Pulled out a small box. Black. Simple. "Which is why I brought you something else."
She set it on the desk. Next to the velvet box.
Vincent stared at it.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
He did.
Inside was a chain. Platinum. Delicate but strong. And hanging from it, a charm—a small ring keeper, designed to hold a single band. Simple. Elegant. Made for a woman who never got to wear the ring on her finger.
Vincent's hands trembled.
"What—"
"It's a ring keeper." Val kept her voice steady. "So you don't have to keep her in a box. So you don't have to hide her away. You can wear her. Every day. Close to your heart."
She paused.
"Or around your neck. I didn't know your preference."
Vincent looked up at her. His eyes were wet.
"Why?"
"Because she was yours. And you were hers. And no one—not me, not Dante, not anyone—has the right to take that from you."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"Valentine—"
"I'm not trying to replace her." She took a step back. Gave him space. "I'm not trying to erase her. I'm not trying to pretend she didn't exist. She's part of this family. She's part of Dante. She's part of you. And I respect that. I respect her."
Vincent exhaled. Slowly. Shakily.
"You love him."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Really love him."
"Yes."
"Then why—"
"Because love isn't about taking. It's about giving." She gestured at the box. At the chain. At the ring that still sat untouched. "I'm giving you back your wife. And I'm giving her to you in a way that doesn't hurt. That doesn't hide. That doesn't pretend."
Vincent looked down at the chain. At the ring keeper. At the small, perfect thing that would let him hold onto Elena without holding on too tight.
He picked it up.
Strung the ring onto the chain.
Clasped it around his neck.
The ring rested against his chest. Right over his heart.
He looked up at Val. His eyes were still wet, but his voice was steady.
"You're good for him."
"I know."
He laughed. Just a little. Just enough.
"My son is a lucky man."
"Don't tell him that. It'll go to his head."
Vincent smiled. It was a strange expression on his face—like he'd forgotten how to do it. Like it hurt.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome."
"You didn't have to do this."
"I know."
"You could have kept the ring. Could have worn it. Could have taken her place."
"I could have." Val shrugged. "But I'm not her. And I never will be. I'm Valentine Sterling. And I'm going to marry your son. If he asks."
"You think he won't?"
"I think he's terrified."
Vincent laughed again. "He is."
"Good." She smiled. "So am I."
They stood there for a moment. Two people. One old, one young. Both carrying the weight of a legacy. Both trying to figure out how to do the impossible.
Then Vincent did something that surprised her.
He walked around the desk.
Pulled her into a hug.
Val froze. She wasn't used to this. Wasn't used to people touching her without permission. Wasn't used to warmth.
But she didn't pull away.
"I never had a daughter," Vincent said. His voice was rough. Quiet. Just for her. "Always wanted one. But I never—"
He stopped.
"I know," she said.
"Maybe—" He pulled back. Looked at her. "Maybe one day."
Val didn't answer. Didn't know how.
But she nodded.
Just a little.
Just enough.
---
She walked out of the study with her head high.
Dante was waiting in the hall. Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Trying to look casual.
Failing.
"How'd it go?"
"He took it."
"The ring?"
"No. The other thing." She stopped in front of him. Pulled the collar of his shirt straight. "He's wearing it. Right now."
Dante's face went through about six expressions in three seconds.
"He's wearing—"
"Her ring. On a chain. Like I told you."
"You didn't tell me—"
"I'm telling you now."
He grabbed her. Pulled her against him. Held her so tight she couldn't breathe.
"Thank you," he said. Into her hair. Against her neck.
"For what?"
"For understanding."
She closed her eyes. Let herself melt into him. Just a little. Just for a second.
"I'm trying," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not good at this."
"You're better than you think."
She pulled back. Looked at him. His eyes were bright. Happy. Like she'd given him something he didn't know he needed.
"Let's go home," she said.
"To the apartment?"
"No." She smiled. "To the brownstone."
"It's a construction zone."
"Then we'll make a mess."
He laughed. Grabbed her hand. Pulled her toward the doors.
"God, I love you."
"I know."
"Say it back."
"Make me."
He stopped. Turned. Caught her mouth in a kiss that was anything but gentle.
"Say it," he mumbled against her lips.
"Make me."
He did.
Later.
But she said it.
She always said it.
---
The brownstone was chaos.
Sawdust everywhere. Half the walls torn down. Contractors shouting at each other in three different languages. The chandelier had been taken apart, each crystal wrapped in newspaper and packed in boxes. The garden was a jungle of weeds and dead roses.
Val walked through it. The mink on her shoulders. Her boots sinking into sawdust.
She didn't care.
The house was alive. It was breathing. It was becoming theirs.
Dante caught up to her. Took her hand. Led her to the kitchen.
The teapot was still there. Still waiting.
But now there were sheets of paper everywhere. Plans. Sketches. Colors and fabrics and samples.
Val picked one up.
"What's this?"
"The wallpaper." Dante stepped behind her. Rested his chin on her shoulder. "For the bedroom. I want to redo the whole thing."
"You hated the wallpaper."
"I hated the fact that it was hers."
She turned. Looked at him.
"And now?"
"And now it's ours." He kissed her temple. "So pick a wallpaper. Any wallpaper. And I'll hang it myself if I have to."
Val smiled.
She picked one.
Deep red. The color of wine. The color of blood. The color of everything she was and everything she wanted to be.
Dante looked at it.
"This is very you."
"I know."
"You're going to match the house."
"Good."
He laughed. Took the paper. Tacked it to the wall.
The contractors would have to work around it.
But that was fine.
It was theirs.
---
That night, they sat on the floor of the master bedroom.
No bed. No furniture. Just a blanket, a bottle of wine, and the mink coat spread beneath them.
Val leaned against Dante's chest. Looked up at the ceiling.
The chandelier was gone. But there was a skylight. And through it, she could see stars.
"I'm going to marry you," she said.
Dante went still.
"What?"
"I said—"
"I heard what you said." He turned her. Made her look at him. "You're—"
"Proposing." She raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"
"I—" He blinked. "You said you didn't want to get married until we figured out the hierarchy."
"We figured it out."
"When?"
"Tonight." She touched his face. "You're my equal. You've always been my equal. And I'm done pretending that I need a piece of paper to prove anything. But I want one anyway. I want the whole thing. The rings. The vows. The dancing. All of it."
Dante stared at her.
"Val—"
"Is that a yes?"
He kissed her. Hard. Fast. Desperate.
"Yes," he said. Against her mouth. Against her neck. Against her skin. "Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes."
She laughed. Wrapped her arms around him. Pulled him down.
The blanket was rough. The floor was hard. The house creaked and groaned around them.
She didn't care.
She was home.
She was loved.
She was permanent.
And she was never, ever letting go.