Chapter 23: Can't Reach Me Now
The brownstone was warm.
That was the first thing Val noticed every morning now. Not the creak of old pipes or the groan of radiators fighting a losing battle against January. Just warmth. Consistent. Reliable. The kind of luxury she'd stopped taking for granted sometime around her twenty-eighth birthday, when she'd spent three weeks sleeping in her office because the heating in her old apartment had died and she'd been too stubborn to call anyone.
She padded barefoot across the bedroom floor, the wide-plank oak cool against her soles despite the heat. The room was still mostly empty. A bed. Two nightstands. A dresser that Dante had picked up from some antique shop in Hudson because he'd insisted it had "character." She'd told him it had termites. He'd bought it anyway.
Now it sat against the wall, holding her folded sweaters and his collection of watches, and she had to admit it didn't look terrible.
The windows were original. Leaded glass. Warped just enough that the world outside looked slightly off-kilter. Snow had fallen overnight, dusting the fire escapes and the bare branches of the courtyard trees in white. The sky was grey. The kind of grey that promised more snow before noon.
Val wrapped her robe tighter and made her way downstairs.
The kitchen was the only room that felt finished. Dante had made sure of that. New appliances. Marble countertops. A farmhouse sink deep enough to bathe a small dog. He'd installed a coffee maker that cost more than most people's rent and then spent an entire weekend learning how to use it properly.
She found him there now. Shirtless. Barefoot. Hair still mussed from sleep. He was standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan that smelled like butter and garlic and something else she couldn't identify.
"You're cooking."
"I'm trying."
She leaned against the doorframe. Watched him.
He was a large man. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The tattoos on his back and chest caught the morning light, black ink against dark olive skin. A panther on his left shoulder. A rose on his right forearm. His mother's name across his ribs in elegant script.
"You're staring."
"You're worth staring at."
He glanced over his shoulder. Grinned.
"Flattery won't get you out of doing dishes."
"I wasn't trying to get out of anything."
"Liar."
She pushed off the doorframe. Crossed to him. Pressed her body against his back. Wrapped her arms around his waist.
"I'm cold."
"It's seventy-two degrees in here."
"I'm cold anyway."
He set down the spatula. Turned off the burner. Turned in her arms.
"You're not cold."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you?"
She looked up at him. At those green eyes. At the scar above his left eyebrow from a fight he'd never told her about. At the stubble on his jaw. At the mouth that had said terrible things and wonderful things and everything in between.
"Happy," she said.
The word felt strange in her mouth. Foreign. Like a language she'd learned but never quite mastered.
Dante's expression softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed her. Slow. Gentle. The kind of kiss that didn't lead anywhere. The kind that just was.
"I made eggs," he said against her lips.
"I can see that."
"With cheese. And onions."
"You're a regular Julia Child."
"Who the fuck is Julia Child?"
She laughed. Pulled back. Swatted his chest.
"I'll explain over breakfast."
---
They ate at the small table by the window. The one Dante had found at a flea market in Brooklyn. It wobbled. One of the legs was shorter than the others. But it fit the space perfectly, tucked into the corner where the morning light hit just right.
Val had coffee. Dante had orange juice. The eggs were surprisingly good.
The newspaper sat between them. The Post. The headline screamed: "MAFIA PRINCESS BAGS THE BUTCHER."
Val had already read it.
"So," Dante said, mouth full of eggs. "The rumors."
"What about them?"
"You're not bothered?"
She sipped her coffee.
"Should I be?"
He shrugged.
"Some of them are creative. I'll give them that."
Val set down her mug. Picked up the paper. Read aloud.
"Sources close to the Falcone family claim that Sterling seduced the young don in a desperate bid for power. According to one insider, she's been sleeping with him for years, hoping he'd eventually propose. When he didn't, she took matters into her own hands."
She flipped to page six.
"Another insider claims Sterling is pregnant. That the quick engagement is a cover for an unexpected bundle of joy. The source would not confirm the father's identity, but did note that Sterling has been seen with several high-ranking members of the criminal underworld in recent months."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"That's bullshit."
"It's the Post. What did you expect?"
"I expected them to at least get your name right." He reached across the table. Took her hand. "You're not upset."
"I've been called worse."
"By who?"
"Everyone."
He squeezed her fingers.
"You know none of it's true."
"I know."
"The baby thing especially."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"We've been careful."
"Have we?"
He paused. Looked at her.
"Val."
"What?"
"Are you—"
"No."
"Because if you were—"
"I'm not."
"Because I would be—"
"Dante."
"I'm just saying."
She pulled her hand back. Picked up her fork.
"I'm not pregnant. I'm not using you for power. I'm not a whore. And I'm not lucky." She stabbed a piece of egg. "I'm just better than everyone else. That's the part they always forget."
Dante laughed.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"The woman I'm marrying."
She smiled despite herself.
"Eat your eggs."
---
The brownstone was a work in progress.
The first floor was mostly done. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. The library was still being built. Val had insisted on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dante had installed a fireplace that didn't work yet. They were waiting on a mason.
The second floor was bedrooms. Theirs. Two guests rooms that were still empty. An office that Val had claimed for herself before Dante could even look at it.
The third floor had been empty for weeks. Until yesterday.
Val climbed the stairs now, coffee in hand, the sound of construction echoing from above. Men's voices. The screech of tools. The thud of equipment being moved.
She reached the landing.
The hallway stretched in front of her. Four doors. Two on each side. Fresh paint. New carpet. The smell of sawdust and something else. Something that smelled like home.
Two of the doors were open.
Inside, men in dark uniforms were setting up monitors. Installing cameras. Running cables. The kind of surveillance equipment that could track a mouse through a maze.
Val leaned against the doorframe.
"Looks like overkill."
A man turned. Tall. Broad. Salt-and-pepper hair. Eyes like grey stones.
"Mrs. Sterling."
"Not Mrs. Anything yet." Sterling." He inclined his head. "I'm Hendricks. Your father-in-law hired me."
"Future father-in-law."
"Same thing."
She sipped her coffee.
"You've been briefing my husband?"
"I've been briefing Mr. Falcone. Yes."
"And?"
He crossed to a desk. Picked up a tablet. Handed it to her.
"Security protocols. Perimeter coverage. Threat assessment." He gestured at the monitors. "This system is state of the art. Motion detection. Facial recognition. Audio backup. Every door, every window, every closet that connects to the outside."
Val swiped through the display. Impressed despite herself.
"Vincent paid for this?"
"He said he wanted his daughter-in-law safe."
"I'm not his daughter-in-law yet." Sterling, with respect—" Hendricks met her eyes. "You signed the paperwork this morning. You're as good as married in the eyes of the law."
She opened her mouth to argue.
Closed it.
He was right. She'd signed the marriage license application at eight a.m. Filed it online. Printed the confirmation. The wedding was scheduled for next month. But legally, they were already bound.
"Still."
"Yes?"
"A woman can never be too careful."
Hendricks smiled. Just barely.
"That's what your husband said."
---
Dante found her an hour later.
The security team had finished their work. The monitors were running. The cameras were live. Val had spent the time walking the perimeter. Checking every entry point. Testing every system.
"You're supposed to be resting."
She turned from the window in their bedroom. Looked at him.
"I don't rest."
He crossed the room. Pulled her into his arms.
"You should."
"I have things to do."
"Like what?"
"Like calling my aunt."
Dante pulled back. Looked at her.
"Aunt Meredith?"
"Who else?"
"Val, she hasn't spoken to you since the funeral."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because she's the only family I have left." Val's voice was steady. Calm. "And I need to tell her I'm getting married."
Dante studied her face.
"You need to tell her something else."
"What?"
"You need to tell her that I'm not taking anything from you. That this doesn't mean you're weak. That she can come to the wedding."
Val looked away.
"She won't come."
"Then that's her choice."
"She'll say something horrible. Something about how I'm betraying the Sterling name. How my uncle is rolling in his grave. How—"
"Val."
She stopped.
Dante's hand found her chin. Turned her face back to his.
"You don't need her."
"She's my blood."
"So is a leech."
Val laughed. Almost. A bitter thing. She didn't cry. She wouldn't. She had cried once at her uncle's funeral, and Meredith hadn't even looked at her.
"Call her," Dante said. "Or don't. But don't let her ruin this."
Val drew a long breath.
"I'll call her tonight."
"Good."
"Will you be here?"
"I'll be wherever you need me."
She kissed him. Quick. Hard.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
He pulled back. Reached into his pocket.
"One more thing."
"What?"
He held out a small box. Velvet. Black.
Val frowned. Took it.
"Dante."
"Open it."
She lifted the lid.
A key. Old. Brass. Around it, a silver ring, engraved with a small "V" on the inside.
"It's my grandmother's ring," Dante said. "And the key is to this house. Which is now half yours. Legally. Fully."
Val stared at the ring.
A wedding band, then. Or something like one. She already had the ring he'd given her when she proposed — the emerald and black stones that caught the light. This was different. This was history.
"Dante—"
"You said you wanted to be equal." He took the box from her hands. Slid the ring onto her finger. It was warm. Heavy. "This is me proving I meant it."
She flexed her hand. Watched the ring catch the light. It was simple, but it felt weighty. Permanent.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He pulled her close. "The real work starts now."
"What real work?"
"Building a marriage. Building an empire. Building a life." He kissed her forehead. "Together."
Val closed her eyes.
For the first time in years, she let herself believe it.
---
That night, they sat in the living room.
The fireplace was still broken. But Dante had lit candles. Dozens of them. They flickered on every surface, casting shadows that danced across the walls.
Val had called Meredith.
It had gone about as well as expected.
"She called me a traitor."
"I figured."
"She said Uncle Theodore would be ashamed."
"I'm sure she did."
"She said I was throwing away everything I'd worked for."
Dante handed her a glass of whiskey.
"Did you tell her you were the one who proposed?"
"I did."
"And?"
"She hung up."
He sat beside her on the couch. Pulled her feet into his lap.
"Do you feel better?"
"I feel... something."
"Specific."
"Like I finally stopped carrying something heavy."
Dante rubbed her feet. Slow. Gentle.
"Then it was worth it."
She looked at him.
"When did you get so smart?"
"Always been smart. You just didn't notice."
"Arrogant."
"Confident."
She laughed. Took a sip of whiskey.
They sat in silence for a while. The candles flickered. The wind howled outside. Somewhere in the city, someone was probably plotting their death.
But here, in this room, there was peace.
"I want to hire someone," Val said eventually.
"For what?"
"For the wedding. Planner. Coordinator. Whatever."
Dante raised an eyebrow.
"You? The woman who planned her own birthday party down to the last napkin?"
"This is different."
"How?"
"It's big." She gestured vaguely. "Invitations. Seating. Catering. Security. I can't do it all myself."
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"I just—"
"Val."
She stopped.
"You can hire whoever you want. I don't care. As long as you're happy."
She looked at him. At the man who had killed for her. Bled for her. Waited for her. Ten years. Ten years of pretending they were just friends. Just partners. Just two people who happened to share a bed and a life and a future.
"I'm happy," she said.
"You mean it?"
"I mean it."
He pulled her closer. Wrapped his arms around her.
"Good."
She rested her head against his chest. Listened to his heartbeat.
"We still need to pick a venue."
"I know."
"And a date."
"I know."
"And a guest list."
"Val."
"What?"
"Sleep."
She closed her eyes.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."
He kissed the top of her head.
They slept.
The candles burned down.