Chapter 9: *****

"I don't want you to kiss me," I whispered, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound strong. I tried to pull my wrists from his grip, but his fingers remained locked like iron bands. "I want you to get away from me."

Damiano didn't let go. His black eyes stayed completely fixed on my mouth, his own breathing heavy and hot against my skin. "Your lips say one thing, Valentina, but your pulse is telling me something completely different."

"My pulse is racing because you're a criminal who just dragged me into a concrete hole while people shot at us!" I snapped, leaning back as far as his grip would allow. "Let go of my hands. Now."

For a second, I thought he was going to ignore me. The physical heat between us in the small bunker felt thick enough to choke on. But then, a sharp, static buzz cut through the silence.

The intercom on the concrete wall beeped loudly. Viktor's voice came barking through the small speaker.

"Boss? Can you hear me? The perimeter is clear. The shooters cleared out in two dark SUVs heading north. We're sweeping the grounds now."

Damiano's jaw clenched. Slowly, he released my wrists, stepping back off the leather cot. The sudden absence of his body weight made the cold air of the bunker hit me all at once.

"I hear you, Viktor," Damiano said, walking over to the wall monitor and pressing a button. "Bring the security team to the main entrance. I'm coming up."

"Understood, boss," Viktor replied before the line went dead.

Damiano turned around to face me, pulling a clean black shirt from the metal cabinet and sliding it carefully over his injured shoulder. He didn't even wince at the movement, though I knew the stitches I just put in had to be pulling against his flesh.

"We're moving upstairs," Damiano ordered, gesturing toward the heavy steel door. "My bedroom is a wreck, so you're staying in the private study tonight."

"Tonight?" I asked, pushing myself up from the cot, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. "You mean right now? You're going out there after them?"

"Someone just fired fifty rounds into my home, Valentina," Damiano said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat register that made my skin prickle. "I don't wait until morning to handle my enemies. Move."

I didn't argue. I followed him up the steep concrete stairs, out through the hidden closet door, and down the long hallway. The house was dead quiet now, but the smell of gunpowder and shattered glass still hung heavy in the air. He led me straight into his massive private study, pushing the heavy oak doors open.

Matteo was already standing inside, his face like stone, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"Keep your eyes on her, Matteo," Damiano baritone-cut through the room. He walked over to a rack near the door and pulled on a heavy black wool coat, completely covering the shirt and the injury beneath. "If she steps one foot out of this room, call me immediately."

"Understood, boss," Matteo replied, not shifting his gaze.

Damiano turned his dark, hollow eyes back to me. I stepped over to the edge of the large leather sofa, pulling the thin, backless silk dress tightly around myself.

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, Valentina," Damiano said, stepping closer until he loomed directly over me. "We still have a wedding to attend in the morning."

"I hope whoever shot at you has better aim next time," I hissed, glaring up at him.

A faint, dangerous smirk touched his lips. "You'd be lonely without me. Stay put."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind him.

The silence in the study became absolute. I stared at the floor, my mind spinning at a million miles an hour. The shooters had delayed things, but it also gave me a desperate, immediate window of time. Damiano was out of the house. I needed a weapon, leverage, or any piece of information that could help me break that blood-stained contract.

I glanced over at the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. Sitting right in the middle of the polished wood was Damiano's personal laptop.

The screen was glowing. It was wide open, completely unlocked, a sleek silver machine sitting right there in the dim light.

My heart gave a violent, painful thud against my ribs.

"Hey," I said, shifting on the couch and looking over at Matteo. He didn't blink. He just stared straight ahead at the opposite wall. "Matteo, right? I'm freezing. Can you get me a blanket or something? The back of this dress is completely open."

"The thermostat is set to seventy-two degrees, Ms. Rossi," Matteo said, his voice entirely flat. "You are fine."

"I am wearing a strip of silk, you idiot," I snapped, leaning forward, injecting as much attitude into my voice as possible. "I'm shivering. Go down the hall and get a jacket from the hall closet. Damiano told you to keep me in the room, not to make me get sick before the wedding."

Matteo shifted his weight, his eyes darting to me, then to the closed door, and finally to the desk. From where he stood by the entrance, he couldn't see the laptop screen. He let out a short, annoyed breath, clearly wanting to avoid a scene.

"Thirty seconds," Matteo growled, stepping toward the handle. "Do not move from that couch."

"Where would I go? The windows are solid wood and brick on this side," I said, rolling my eyes.

The moment his heavy boots clicked out of the room and the door shut, my entire demeanor changed. I lunged off the couch, my bare feet making absolutely no sound as I sprinted across the Persian rug.

My hands hit the cool, polished wood of the desk. My fingers were shaking so violently I almost knocked over a heavy gold pen holder. I grabbed the mouse, waking the screen completely.

"Come on, come on, give me something," I whispered, my eyes scanning the desktop interface.

I expected to see financial spreadsheets, offshore bank account numbers, or maybe some communication about my dad's four-million-dollar casino debt. Anything I could copy, print, or use to ruin him. If I could find proof of his illegal operations, I could give it to Bianca or the authorities and break his hold over my family.

Instead, the screen was parked on a secure, encrypted local database folder. There were dozens of files labeled with strange alpha-numeric codes, but right at the bottom, a single folder stood out from the rest. It didn't have a code.

It was labeled in clear, dark letters: VALENTINA.

My breath caught in my throat, freezing the air in my lungs. "What is this?"

I clicked the trackpad twice, my heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my chest. My ears strained against the quiet room, listening for the sound of Matteo's heavy footsteps returning down the hallway.

The folder popped open, revealing a massive list of digital documents and high-resolution image scans, all organized neatly by date.

I clicked the very first file at the top of the list, dating back four years.

The screen flashed, loading a scanned image. I squinted, my brain completely stalling out as I tried to process what I was looking at. It wasn't a financial document. It wasn't a picture of my dad or his gambling markers.

It was a digital copy of my freshman university course schedule from state college.

Right next to the printed class names—Introduction to Comparative Literature, Room 302—were handwritten notes typed out in neat, precise bullet points.

 Takes the 8:15 AM campus bus daily.

 Buys a black coffee from the corner cart before her first lecture.

 Sits in the back row near the window. Avoids group discussions.

"No," I whispered, a cold wave of pure, unadulterated horror washing over my skin, making every single hair on my arms stand up.

I scrolled down violently, my fingers slamming against the trackpad as my breathing turned shallow.

The next file was from my sophomore year. It contained a scanned copy of my official university transcript, my midterm grades, and even a detailed log of the specific books I had checked out from the campus library. The folder had been updated weekly, tracking my entire existence for the last four years with terrifying, obsessive precision.

Damiano hadn't just found my dad at his casino last night. He hadn't just stumbled into my life because of a sudden four-million-dollar gambling debt.

He had been watching me since the exact day I stepped onto that college campus.

Behind me, the sharp click of the heavy oak doors echoed through the silent study.