Valentina woke just after two in the morning to the sound of breaking glass.

Not loud.

Not violent.

Just enough to pull her instantly from shallow sleep.

Her hand moved automatically beneath the pillow toward the small pistol hidden there before her mind fully caught up. Years inside the Moretti world had rewired her body that way. Wake first. Panic later.

Silence followed.

Then footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Coming from the kitchen.

Valentina sat upright in bed, listening carefully while moonlight spilled faintly through the penthouse windows. The city beyond the glass glowed silver beneath rain-soaked streets and sleepless traffic.

Another quiet sound echoed through the apartment.

A cabinet door closing.

Not an intruder then.

At least probably not.

She slipped from bed carefully and grabbed the silk robe hanging nearby before stepping into the dark hallway barefoot. The marble floors felt cold beneath her feet as she moved silently through the penthouse.

The kitchen lights were on.

Soft amber lighting spilled across black countertops and expensive whiskey bottles near the bar.

Adrian stood alone beside the sink.

His back faced her at first, shoulders tense beneath a black shirt partially rolled to the elbows. One hand rested against the counter while the other held a whiskey glass loosely near his side.

Smoke drifted faintly from the cigarette between his fingers.

Valentina stopped near the hallway entrance and studied him quietly for a moment.

Something looked wrong.

Not physically.

Stillness.

Usually Adrian stood like a man prepared for violence at any second. Alert. Controlled. Watching everything.

Tonight he looked tired.

Actually tired.

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” she said softly.

Adrian turned immediately.

Instinctively.

Too quickly for someone relaxed.

His eyes found her in less than a second before the tension eased slightly from his shoulders.

The white bandage beneath his rolled sleeve had turned dark red near the edge.

So that explained it.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“You should answer questions honestly.”

Neither moved.

Rain tapped softly against the windows while cigarette smoke curled through the low kitchen lighting.

Finally Valentina walked farther into the room. “Gunshot?”

“Mostly.”

“That’s a concerning answer.”

“It wasn’t serious.”

Valentina leaned one hip against the marble island and folded her arms loosely over the robe. “People usually don’t bleed through their shirts over minor injuries.”

Adrian glanced down toward the bloodstain as though he’d forgotten it existed.

“I’ve had worse.”

That sounded believable.

Too believable.

Valentina noticed the half-empty whiskey bottle near him. Expensive bourbon. One of Luca’s favorites.

“You drink now?” she asked.

Adrian looked toward the glass in his hand for a second before answering.

“I used to.”

The wording caught her attention immediately.

Used to.

Past tense.

“Why’d you stop?”

A faint shadow crossed his expression.

“Because I was good at it.”

That answer carried far more weight than the words themselves.

Valentina understood addiction well enough to recognize the tone.

She walked toward the freezer and grabbed an ice pack without asking permission. Adrian watched her silently while she wrapped it inside a kitchen towel and crossed back toward him.

“Sit down,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Something almost resembling amusement flickered briefly through his eyes before he lowered himself onto one of the kitchen stools.

Valentina stepped closer carefully and peeled back part of the blood-soaked bandage near his shoulder.

The wound looked ugly.

Not life-threatening.

But ugly.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

“I avoid hospitals.”

“Why?”

“Questions.”

Fair answer.

Too fair.

Valentina cleaned the wound slowly while Adrian remained perfectly still beneath her hands. Up close, exhaustion looked sharper across his face tonight. Faint bruising beneath his eyes. Fresh cuts near his jawline. A shallow scrape disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Violence clung to him constantly now that she knew how to see it.

Not the performance of violence.

The aftermath.

“You disappeared after the docks,” she said quietly.

“I had something to handle.”

“You mean killing people?”

Adrian’s jaw tightened almost invisibly.

“Sometimes.”

The honesty no longer surprised her.

That was probably its own problem.

Valentina pressed fresh gauze gently against the wound. “Luca sent you?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

Adrian finally looked directly at her. “Why?”

“Because you don’t sound loyal enough to work for him willingly.”

Something dangerous moved briefly beneath his expression before disappearing again.

“You analyze people constantly, don’t you?”

“I survive people constantly. Different skill set.”

The kitchen fell quiet after that.

Rain continued streaking the windows while the city glowed beyond the glass in blurred gold and white lights. Somewhere downstairs, distant thunder rolled softly over Manhattan.

Valentina became aware of how close she stood to him now.

Too close.

Close enough to smell smoke and whiskey lingering against his skin.

Close enough to notice the tiny scar near the edge of his mouth she hadn’t seen before.

Adrian noticed too.

His gaze lowered briefly toward her hand still resting against his shoulder.

Not inappropriate.

Not lingering.

Just aware.

The atmosphere shifted slowly.

Dangerously.

Valentina stepped back first.

Smart decision.

Probably.

“You know,” she said while throwing away the bloody gauze, “most bodyguards don’t come home bleeding in the middle of the night smelling like cigarettes and bad decisions.”

“Most bodyguards aren’t very good.”

“That sounds arrogant.”

“It’s observational.”

She laughed softly before she could stop herself.

The sound seemed to surprise both of them slightly.

Adrian looked at her differently afterward.

Not softer exactly.

More careful.

Which somehow felt even more intimate.

Valentina leaned against the counter again. “Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do anyway.”

“True.” She studied him for a moment. “What scares you?”

The question lingered quietly between them.

Adrian didn’t answer immediately.

Most men would have laughed it off.

Changed the subject.

Pretended invincibility.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stared down into the whiskey glass still untouched in his hand.

Then finally spoke.

“People who still believe I’m worth saving.”

The kitchen suddenly felt very still.

Valentina’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

Not because the answer sounded dramatic.

Because it sounded honest.

Before she could respond, Adrian stood slowly from the stool and reached for his coat.

“You should go back to sleep,” he said quietly.

“And you?”

His eyes drifted briefly toward the untouched whiskey glass.

Then toward the rain outside.

“I’m trying very hard not to drink tonight.”

Something about the way he said it made her understand immediately.

This wasn’t about alcohol.

It was about control.

And for the first time since meeting Adrian Volkov—

Valentina realized control might be the only thing keeping him from becoming truly dangerous.