Extras Ch 9: Valentina - A Poisonous Love
That night, Valentina couldn’t sleep.
She lay in silk sheets and stared at the ceiling, replaying the moment during dinner when Dante had sent her away with the girl. At the time, it had seemed unremarkable. And since she wanted to see firsthand how the cellar had changed the girl, Valentina had gone without a second thought.
But now, in the quiet of her room, she turned the moment over and found points that didn’t fit. Dante had soldiers standing outside the dining room door. Any one of them could have escorted the girl to the gallery. Sending Valentina—his sharpest piece, the one who knew his methods and his mind—was a waste of resources. And Dante never wasted resources.
So perhaps there was something he didn’t want her to hear.
But Valentina didn't plan to stay awake mulling over a suspicion. She would ask him straight, the way she always had. Dante would tell her the truth—that was the deal. She threw off the covers and went to find him.
When Valentina arrived outside Dante’s bedroom, she tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside, the bed untouched, the lamps unlit. He had not retired for the night.
Valentina tried his study instead. As expected, Dante was inside. The corridor outside the study was dark, but a sliver of lamplight bled through the half-open door. She was a few paces away when she heard the low murmurs.
“The boy has grown too confident.” Dante said calmly. “The girl gave him something to fight for.”
“What do you want done?” A second man. She recognized the cadence as one of Dante’s long-time supporters.
“His next trip to the coast. I want it clean.”
The words were simple, but the meaning was clear. He wanted Kazimir dead.
Dante was going back on their deal.
Valentina's fingers curled into fists at her sides. But she didn’t burst through the door. She turned back into the darkness as fury rose in her chest.
Twenty-two years of loyalty, of shaping herself into his sharpest tool, and he had repaid her with a lie—the one thing she had told him, from the beginning, that she would not tolerate.
Dante had just made her his enemy.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Her twenty-sixth birthday fell on a cold, clear night in late February, about two months later.
The ballroom had been transformed into a world of burgundy velvet and white roses. Candles flickered on every surface, their light catching the rubies at Valentina’s throat. A string quartet played something soft and unobtrusive. The room was packed with Volkov associates, business partners, and the senior lieutenants who had served the family for decades.
Dante had outdone himself. But then, he always did.
Valentina spent the first hour greeting guests, shaking hands, accepting flattery with practiced grace. Her champagne glass was never empty. Her smile never slipped. She played her role with the skill of someone who had been performing for twenty-two years.
Then Dante climbed the dais, and the room fell silent.
“Twenty-two years ago,” he began, “I found a little girl on the streets. The moment I saw the fire in her eyes, I knew she belonged with me.”
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd. Valentina’s lips curved into a perfect, practiced smile. And when he finished his speech, Valentina accepted his toast and raised her glass to her lips.
The hallucination hit her between one breath and the next.
The ballroom dissolved. The burgundy velvet and white roses bled into grey—the grey of Milan’s cobblestones, wet with rain and filth. The scent of champagne became the smell of stale bread, the stench of unwashed bodies, and the particular sourness of cardboard soaked through. She was three years old again, barefoot and shivering, standing over a shape on the ground.
It was her mother’s body. Thin and waxy, her breathing shallow for days before it stopped entirely. The woman’s eyes were half-open, staring at nothing. Valentina shook her shoulder, called her—Mamma, Mamma—but no sound came out. The corpse was cold. The street was cold. Everything was cold.
Then the faces. The ballroom guests became shopkeepers and passersby, their eyes sliding over her. Someone kicked the body with his foot. Someone else laughed. No one looked at the small girl standing beside the corpse. No one asked who she belonged to.
Her chest seized. She couldn’t breathe. The champagne glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the marble floor. The sound was like a gunshot, momentarily breaking through her hallucinations.
This is not memory. This is poison.
The realization cut through the fog. She had seen these symptoms before. She had watched Nadia Volkov die of them—the paranoia, the terror, the vivid hallucinations that blurred the line between past and present. Someone had poisoned her with the same poison that had killed Nadia.
Valentina’s knees buckled. She caught the edge of the table, sending a cascade of glasses to the floor. Faces swam toward her—concerned, startled, hungry for gossip. And there, pushing through the crowd with an expression of perfect, fatherly alarm, was Dante.
Then the darkness swallowed her.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When she woke, her mouth tasted of copper and ash. Her body was heavy, her limbs sluggish as if she’d been dragged through deep water. The ceiling above her was her own.
She was alive.
Leo sat in a chair by the window, a report in his lap. He looked up when she stirred, his emotionless eyes meeting hers.
“You’re awake,” he said.
Valentina pushed herself upright. The movement sent a spike of pain through her skull, but she ignored it. “What happened?”
Leo set the document aside. His voice was clinical, detached. “Dante fed you a vial of something—an antidote, presumably—after you collapsed. Then he disappeared. Around the same time, the ballroom blacked out. Elena was taken. Arlo has also gone missing.”
“Arlo is the insider,” Valentina concluded, her voice hoarse but steady. “The one Dante planted by Kazimir’s side. Nikolai is too loyal to suspect his own men.” She almost laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “He used me as a decoy.”
Leo inclined his head. “That would be consistent with the timeline.”
Valentina stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. The betrayal was so thorough, so elegantly cruel, that she felt an almost reluctant respect. Dante had played her perfectly. He had known she was working against him, and instead of confronting her directly, he had used her birthday—her celebration, her moment in the spotlight—to stage a distraction that would let him strike at Kazimir's greatest vulnerability.
“Where are they now?” she asked, glancing toward the report on the table.
“Kazimir and Nikolai found her at an abandoned dock several miles north. Kazimir was hurt, but the injury isn’t life-threatening.”
Valentina swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body was still weak, her head pounding with the remnants of the poison, but the inconvenience did nothing to stop her.
“Let’s go,” she told Leo.
He studied her for a moment. “This is a showdown between Kazimir and Dante. Do you really want to be in the middle of it?”
Valentina laughed, sharp and humorless. “Dante broke the deal. He tried to have Kazimir killed. He poisoned me. The middle is exactly where I want to be.”
She did not mention the antidote. If Dante had a cure ready, it meant he had planned the poisoning from the start. The intent was there. The fact that he had changed his mind at the last moment meant nothing—or so she told herself.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
With the information Valentina provided, they soon captured Dante and brought him back to the Volkov mansion for trial.
Dante was bound to a chair in the center of the room. He looked terrible—his silver hair disheveled, his dark suit rumpled and stained with blood—but his dark eyes were still sharp and calculating. Even in chains, he looked like a man who believed he could win.
Valentina didn’t look at him. If she did, she would cross the room and feed him whatever poison he had given her. But that would end his life too easily. He needed to be tried for his crimes first. So when she took her seat, she fixed her gaze on Leo’s documents and kept it there.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Leo presented the evidence with his usual cold precision. The offshore accounts. The shell companies. The money Dante had siphoned from the family's legitimate businesses into his private holdings. Then Leo turned to the topic of Nadia and Viktor Volkov’s deaths.
“The evidence is circumstantial,” Leo admitted, his voice flat. “We have no direct proof that Dante administered poison or tampered with Viktor’s medication. But the pattern is clear. Every person who stood between Dante and what he wanted died under suspicious circumstances. And in every case, Dante was the one who gained.”
Valentina did not wait for Leo to finish speaking before she rose.
“I’ve known Dante for twenty-two years, and he is the most likely culprit for the late Don and his wife’s death,” she said. “Just a little over two months ago, I overheard him ordering a hit on Kazimir. And during Kazimir’s recent overseas trip, there was an assassination attempt. That is not a coincidence."
A murmur ran through the room. The lieutenants exchanged glances. This was information they had not heard before.
She pressed on, her voice rising. “And when he found out I was working against him, he poisoned me in the ballroom. I had the same symptoms Nadia Volkov displayed before her death. Hallucinations. Terror. The feeling of being trapped in your worst memories.” She smiled wryly. “The only difference is that mine was a larger, lethal dose.”
Ruslan, one of the senior lieutenants, leaned forward. "You're certain of this?"
"I watched Nadia die of the same thing when I was seven years old," she answered flatly.
The murmur grew louder.
“He should be killed for his crimes,” Valentina concluded. “Not imprisoned or exiled. If you let him go, he will find a way to take power. He always does.”
The council deliberated for hours. Valentina was pressed twice more, recounting the details of the poisoning, the symptoms, the timeline. She even called Anna, Nadia's old maid, to testify about Nadia's final months—the paranoia, the fear, the way her heart had simply given out. Anna's testimony was halting, her voice trembling, but it painted a clear picture: Nadia had been poisoned, and Dante had been the one who benefited.
But in the end, the council voted to wait. Three days to gather more evidence, to build an airtight case. An execution should appear as justice, Ruslan argued, not murder. The vote passed.
Valentina walked out of the hall without looking at anyone.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
That night, she went to confront Dante.
Valentina told herself she wanted answers. That she needed to look him in the eye and demand to know why he had broken their deal, why he had lied, why he had poisoned after all these years of calling her his daughter. But as she walked through the dark corridors toward his room, she realized she didn’t know what she really wanted.
She was several doors away when she saw the guard. He was slumped against the wall, his chin on his chest, unconscious. Someone had incapacitated him.
Her instincts flared. She pressed herself against the wall and crept forward, her footsteps silent on the marble. The door to the holding room was slightly ajar. Through the crack, she could hear a woman's voice. It was Anna.
“I loved you.” Anna's voice was hoarse with passion and pain. “I loved you. You can’t do this to me!”
Dante’s reply was calm. “We both know what you did.”
“But I killed them for you! Nadia. Viktor. I removed them. I gave you everything!”
Valentina’s hand pressed flat against the cold wall, trying to ground herself. For a long moment, she could not breathe. Anna had killed them. Not Dante. She had watched Dante for years, cataloging every lie and scheme, and she had missed the real killer entirely.
"Anna." Dante's voice was patient, almost gentle. "I didn't tell you to do it. You misread everything. I thought, after all these years, you'd have reflected."
“I loved you!”
“I know. But that changes nothing.”
Silence. Then the sound of a blade being drawn—the whisper of steel against a sheath.
“You’re going to kill me now?” Dante’s voice was still calm, but he sounded tired.
“You made me love you! You made me into this!”
“You know I didn’t. I can’t love anyone, Anna. It’s not in me.”
“No!” Anna’s voice turned cold. “Your daughter betrayed you. She worked against you. I thought if I removed her, the way I removed Nadia and Viktor, you would finally see me. But you saved her!” The words cracked. “You saved her! You love her!”
Dante did not hesitate. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you have a heart! You just didn’t want to give it to me!” Anna sobbed.
Then Valentina heard the blade strike—the wet sound of steel meeting flesh, the sharp intake of breath. A body hitting the floor.
She stood in the corridor and did not move. She could have opened the door and stopped it. But her feet were rooted to the stone, her body frozen in a way it had not been since she was three years old with her mother's body lying cold beside her.
Anna had killed Nadia. Anna had poisoned them all. She had been the shadow in the corners all along, and Valentina hadn’t seen it. Valentina thought she was clever and sharp-eyed, but the hidden player had fooled them all.
The sobbing in the room eventually stopped. Then, there was a second, softer sound—fabric rustling, a body being settled into bed.
Valentina turned and walked away. She did not raise the alarm or call for guards. Whatever had happened in that room, it was already over. Some debts had been settled by hands other than her own.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The roses were blooming with the first hints of spring—same colors Nadia had planted decades ago. Valentina knelt in the soil and dug a small hole beside the biggest rose bush. Then she placed Nadia's red dagger inside and covered it with earth.
I’m returning these to you, Nadia.
When she finished, she retrieved a pair of pruning shears from the corner of the garden and began to work methodically, removing the dead and diseased stems that had accumulated over the winter. As she did so, Valentina thought of all the promises she had made in this house: her vow to Viktor and Nadia, her deal with Dante, her commitment to protect Kazimir.
Now, Viktor and Nadia were avenged. Dante was dead. And Kazimir was safe. Valentina’s service to this house was complete.
She heard the girl’s footsteps but did not turn. She didn't feel like talking—not to Elena, not to anyone. She had spent the past two days alone with her thoughts.
But the stubborn girl didn't leave. She crouched down across from Valentina, her knees pressing into the soft soil. When Valentina finally looked up, the girl's eyes were red-rimmed but held a steadiness that hadn't been there before.
“Little bird,” Valentina said, setting down her shears. “If you have something to say, say it.”
The girl hesitated for a moment before mouthing the words: ‘Did you kill Dante?’
Valentina almost smiled at her directness, but she kept her voice neutral as she replied: “That’s not what you came to ask.”
The girl shook her head, confirming. ‘Do you know how Anna died?’
Valentina brushed the soil from her hands. For a long moment, she said nothing. She wasn’t mad that the girl suspected her. In fact, she liked that the girl seemed to be using her brain. So Valentina replied honestly.
“I don’t know anything about Anna. She barely interacted with anyone until you arrived.”
Elena waited.
“She likely took her own life.” Valentina looked toward the wall where the white roses grew. They reminded her of Nadia. “People like her… they eventually run out of reasons to stay.”
‘Why? She was fine just a few days ago.’
“Maybe she was tired. Maybe she thought it was time to let go. You never know what’s going on inside someone else’s head.”
The girl shook her head hard. ‘That’s not who she was.’
Valentina shrugged. The girl could believe what she wanted, but Valentina had seen the truth with her own eyes. Anna had been a ghost in this house for twelve years, invisible and ignored, carrying a love that had curdled into obsession.
"People change," Valentina said. "Or they hide. Sometimes both."
She rose to her feet, brushing soil from her knees. Then she took one long look around the garden. Out of obligation for the old woman, Valentina had tended this garden for years. But she was not Nadia. She never let herself be trapped by the ghosts of the past.
“The garden is yours now,” Valentina said decisively. “Take care of it.”
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
“I’m leaving. Away from here.”
‘Just like that?’
“Just like that.” Valentina met Elena's eyes and let her voice soften, just slightly. “Take care of him. He’s softer than he looks.”
Without waiting for a reply, Valentina left the garden.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Her room was exactly as she had left it that morning—the silk sheets, the closet full of dresses, the jewelry box Dante had kept filled with pearls and gems. Valentina glanced at them once and decided to leave them all behind.
Possessions were shackles. She had lived in the Volkov mansion for twenty-two years. It was time to let it go.
She went to the closet and found the plainest bag she could. Then she filled it with her passport, her birth certificate, and the files she needed to access her private bank account—a small fortune she had earned and invested by hand during her years working beside Dante.
She didn't say goodbye to Kazimir. He would be in his office, or with the girl, or somewhere in the maze of responsibilities that came with being the Don. He had Leo for strategy and Nikolai for loyalty. He had a wife who had learned to stand her ground. Whatever happened in the next few years, he would survive it.
Her stupid boy didn't need her anymore.
Valentina left alone.
The taxi was waiting at the bottom of the drive. It was a battered sedan with worn leather seats and a heater that rattled, and it smelled faintly of cigarettes. It was the most ordinary vehicle she had been in for years.
Valentina slid into the back seat and closed the door. The Volkov mansion loomed behind her, grey stone and dark windows, a fortress of secrets and ghosts. She did not look back.
"Where to, signora?" the driver asked.
"Milan."
The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. The coastal road wound along the cliffs, the sea churning grey and endless below. Valentina watched it through the window and felt something she had not felt in twenty-two years.
She was not a piece on anyone's board. Not Dante's. Not Kazimir's. Not the family's.
For the first time in her life, she was free. It was time to go back to where her story began.