Page 172 of Valentino

"We are."

"I wish..." She stops herself, shaking her head. "I'm glad you're happy. That's what matters."

The front door opens, and Dad's voice booms through the house. "Sorry I'm late! Traffic from O'Hare was murder."

Dad appears in the doorway, still pulling off his coat. He's grayer than I remember, softer around the middle. When he sees Valentino, his expression shifts to that hearty businessman persona he uses for client meetings.

"You must be the husband!" He strides over with his hand extended. "Richard White. Good to finally meet you."

Valentino stands, and I'm reminded again how he towers over most men. How his handshake probably communicates more than words ever could. Dad's smile falters slightly as they shake hands.

"Valentino Conti."

"Italian, right? Great country. Love the wine, the food. Been to Rome a few times for conferences."

I watch Valentino's face remain perfectly neutral as Dad launches into a story about his business trips.

"Dad," I interrupt gently. "Valentino and I actually live in Rome. Part-time, anyway."

"Really? What line of work are you in?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke. I hold my breath, wondering how Valentino will handle this. We've practiced variations of this conversation, but actually sitting here, watching my father wait for an answer, feels different.

"Security consulting," Valentino says smoothly. "International clients."

It's not a lie, exactly. Just a very selective interpretation of the truth.

Dad nods approvingly. "Good field. Growing market with all the instability overseas."

And just like that, we're safe. Dad doesn't ask follow-up questions because he doesn't really want to know the answers. He wants to file Valentino under "acceptable son-in-law" and move on to topics he's comfortable with.

But as we settle in for drinks before dinner, something shifts in the room. Mom asks Valentino about Sicily, and he tells her about his mother's olive grove with genuine warmth. Dad mentions a case he worked on involving Italian imports, and Valentino listens without the polite blankness he usually wears around others.

They're trying. All of us are trying.

It's not forgiveness. Not yet, maybe not ever completely. But it's something. A beginning that I thought I'd given up on years ago.

When Valentino's hand finds mine again, his thumb traces across my wedding ring. A silent reminder that whatever happens in this house, we leave together.

And for the first time in my life, that feels like enough.

Luca Sartori hasn't felt anything in six years.

Then a stolen car, a scared woman, and a silent little girl walk into his life — and the most frozen man in the family finally has something to lose.

His story is live now. Click Here or scan the QR code to start reading.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Unknown - Secret POV

Iwatch the feed scroll on my tablet. Italian press first — they're faster, sloppier, all heat and no architecture. Basile raid. Federal operation. Arrests. Then the American outlets pick it up, already spinning it into something digestible. International trafficking ring dismantled. A photograph of the estate from the air, shot from a helicopter somebody paid for, the stone walls looking quaint and harmless in the morning light.

Nobody photographs the rooms underneath.

I set the tablet down and lift my coffee.

The Basile operation was elegant in its ugliness — that's what most people missed. Aldo was a fool, obviously. The kind of second-generation heir who mistakes access for intelligence and cruelty for power. His father knew better, but fathers have blind spots shaped exactly like their sons.