“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.
To his shock, Emmanuelle crouched down and took care of his shoes, sliding them from his feet and setting them aside. “When did your headaches start getting so bad, Val?”
“You know I get migraines.” He always saw them as a weakness. Giuseppi certainly did. He’d never allowed Val to stay in his room when he’d had them, nor was he to mention them to Greta. He wasn’t to flinch or act in any way as if he had a headache. Headaches were for women. Headaches were not something men ever got unless one was shot in the head and brains were leaking out.
“They seem worse.” There was worry in her voice.
He glanced down at her. She was looking up at him, a frown on her face, speculation in her blue eyes. “What is it, Emme?”
“I told you shadow riding can cause brain bleeds. I had a brain scan, and I’m perfectly fine, but …” She broke off, looking scared. “We’re just learning about the effects, Val. We don’t know anything at all about what happens between two people tied together the way we are. Suppose I’m not affected by being in the shadows but you are.” She sat back on her heels. “Maybe you should go in and have a brain scan just to be safe.”
He couldn’t help but smile, even if movement of any kind hurt like hell. “Woman, you know you’re getting a little paranoid, right? It’s a migraine.”
“Did you bring your meds?”
“No. We left the house on the run, remember? People were shooting at us.” He closed his eyes, feeling sick, wishing he could blame the nausea on the fact that he’d spent hours trying to extract information from two different men who really didn’t know shit about where Miceli was holding his victims. Val’s biggest fear was that Miceli might decide to kill them out of pure spite. It was something his uncle might do.
“Let’s get you in bed, Valentino. I’ll get your medicine and be right back.”
Just the sound of Emmanuelle’s voice was soothing. He allowed her to help him up. She stripped him of his trousers and, with one arm around his waist, got him to the master bathroom.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, babe.”
“Don’t go, Emme. Stay with me.”
He didn’t want her leaving, certainly not to go anywhere near his father’s home. Miceli would have eyes on it. He hadn’t destroyed it for a reason. His uncle easily could have had his men burn the estate to the ground, but he’d left it intact. He was sure Giuseppi would feel the need to show everyone he was strong enough to go back to his home and rule from there. Miceli would be certain to have his assassins ready to kill his brother.
“Do that thing you do.” There were some people who couldn’t stand to be touched when they had migraines. Valentino had always been one of those until Emmanuelle had worked her magic on him. She had a gift with massage. She had a way of knowing the exact amount of pressure to use on his neck and scalp. Even his face.
She didn’t argue with him. When he came out of the master bath and slipped into bed, she took off her shoes, climbed onto the bed, sliding easily behind him, adjusting the pillows there in the dark. He found it shocking how comfortable the Ferraro Hotel’s bed was. It wasn’t as if Giuseppi had shit beds. They had money and hadn’t spared any expense getting the best; Greta had insisted on it. She’d wanted to ensure Valentino and then Dario, both, had the best start with their growing spines and joints—whatever that meant to her.
He nearly groaned aloud when Emmanuelle’s fingers began to massage his scalp. Soft circular motions at first. He kept his eyes closed and let her scent envelop him. It carried him away from the scent of blood. She had a natural fragrance to her skin that even took the coppery flavor of blood from his mouth, where sometimes it seemed to soak into him.
Her fingers were strong and the pressure increased steadily on his scalp and then down his neck and into his shoulders. He held death there. Not just a clean death. This kind of death was ugly. Dark. A slow, torturous assault on the body that crept up in pain and true suffering until the excruciating agony was impossible to bear even by the strongest of men. Until that dark, ugly death was welcomed, even begged for.
Emmanuelle’s fingers were firm, fighting for him. Going to battle with the devil. His angel versus Satan. Only she dared to take hell on for him.
“I’m sorry I was ugly with you, Princess. I should have been more understanding.” It wasn’t her fault that Eloisa was such a fucking bitch or that he was too tired to take that bitch on.
“Don’t, Val. You were right, and we both know it.” Her voice was soft with love. Tender. “I’m a mess. I always have been. I try very hard to give everyone, including me, the impression of self-confidence, but it isn’t true. It wasn’t only Eloisa. Phillip, my father, wanted nothing to do with me, either. I tried so hard to be perfect for them. I don’t know why it was so important to me to get them to notice me when I was little, but it was.”