Time was running out for the girls—the little teenagers being auctioned off. Val pressed his fingers to his eyes. He’d probably made it ten times worse. Now Miceli really needed the money from a sale. He would probably accelerate the timetable, not postpone it as Valentino had hoped.
He stopped halfway across the large sitting room when he saw Emmanuelle sitting in one of the extremely comfortable chairs in front of the window. Her large blue eyes were dark with suspicion, and her expression told him she was closed off to all explanations. He was tired. So fucking tired. He let her open the conversation. The accusations. He’d heard them all before, and maybe she even had a right to them after the bullshit Marge had spewed, but he was just too tired to care.
He let his gaze travel over her, take her in, because he’d waited all damn day just to see her. Just to take her inside.
“It was impressive learning so much today in front of everyone, Valentino. Your reasons for wanting to be with me. They’re all good. They work. I know in mob families arranged marriages are common. You even said if we had a daughter that might happen.”
“Could happen with a son,” he bit out, trying not to clench his teeth. His head hurt. His chest did. Those wounds. Or maybe it was his fucking heart.
She narrowed her eyes. “You should have just told me why you really wanted to be with me instead of pretending you loved me, Val. I can respect marrying for allies.”
Valentino stared at Emmanuelle for a long time, his heart contracting. His gut twisting. His head pounded with the force of a fucking freight train. He let out his breath in a long, slow exhale to keep from swearing at her.
“Any other time, Princess, we’d have the same fucking conversation we have over and over to reassure you, but I’m too damn tired. If you prefer to believe your bitch of a mother and a woman who gladly sells other women and children to keep herself in luxury instead of your man, who is selling his fucking soul to the devil to get those women and children back and shut that shit down, well, you’re just going to have to do it tonight. I tell you I love you. I tell you you’re my heart and soul, and you still choose not to hear me. I can’t do a fucking thing about that tonight, baby. There’s not much left of me at the moment.”
He walked over to the bar, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on the back of a chair. Splashing whiskey into a glass, he tossed it back and then dragged the tie from his collar. He didn’t look at her again. He couldn’t. His head hurt almost as bad as his heart. Neither hurt as bad as his soul. He just had to lay it down for a while.
Unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, he started to pour himself more whiskey and then decided the hell with it and just tightened his grip around the neck of the bottle and lifted it to his mouth.
“Where is he?”
Val paused with the whiskey bottle halfway to his lips and turned. Emmanuelle stood a few feet from him. “Who?”
“Marco Messina. You want to know if he’s involved. I can find out where he is, but if you tell me, it will save time. I’ll get the information for you, not because I think you wanted me for that purpose but because we need to know.”
He turned away from her, carefully placing the whiskey bottle on the bar. “I don’t want you going anywhere near him.”
“He won’t see me, Val. That’s the point of being in the shadows. You’re never seen.”
He didn’t give a damn. He’d considered having her spy for him more than once over the last few years. He’d be a fool not to. In all that time, when he’d considered it, he’d been her backup. Dario had been right there. But now he realized he didn’t want to risk her.
“I don’t want to do this with you tonight, Emme.” He pressed his hand to his head and then looked down at his shoes. He always made it a point to keep his shoes immaculate while questioning a prisoner. There was a psychological advantage that occurred when he remained immaculate and the prisoner was reduced to blood and guts and shards of bone. He saw it happen time and time again.
He sank down into the comfort of the chair and bent to remove his shoes. Just tilting his head that angle made his head pound worse. Black spots danced behind his eyes, and a groan escaped. He righted his body, tipping his head back, grateful he hadn’t turned on lights.