Extras Ch 10: Valentina - A Fever Dream
The man across the table made three mistakes.
The first was assuming Valentina was someone’s assistant. The second was presenting her with a report that undervalued her own company by twelve percent—an insult she might have forgiven if he hadn’t then mansplained her own quarterly earnings to her. The third mistake was the one she had been waiting for all morning.
“You’ll find, Signora Moretti, that our offer is more than generous given the current market volatility.” He steepled his fingers. “I’d strongly advise you to accept before conditions shift.”
Valentina smiled, savoring the moment. Someone was about to bleed.
“Volatile, indeed. But conditions,” she said, sliding a leather folder across the polished desk, “have already shifted. Your company’s majority shareholder filed for Chapter 11 this morning. The news broke twelve minutes ago.” She leaned back in her chair. “Your stock is currently in freefall, and by close of business today, your board will be desperate for a white knight.”
The man’s face went grey. His lawyers flipped frantically through their phones.
“Now,” Valentina said, “we’ll revisit the valuation. And this time, we do it on my terms.”
Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the Porta Nuova tower with a signed term sheet and a controlling interest in a logistics company. Her heels clicked against the marble. The spring wind whipped through her hair. Behind her, a boardroom of old money was still trying to figure out how they’d been gutted.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her broker: Milan Properties confirmed. Closing Thursday.
For months, Valentina had been eyeing a converted textile factory in Isola, waiting for the right moment to strike. The moment had arrived; she just bought the entire building.
She slid into the back of her waiting car and let herself feel it.
A year ago, she arrived in Milan with nothing but a bag, a bank account, and a name she had built herself. Today, she had a growing portfolio, a reputation that made grown men nervous, and a condo she had just bought with money no one else could claim.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The condo occupied the entire top floor. Valentina had designed every detail herself—dark oak floors, wide floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed natural light. The furniture was minimalist and expensive. Her kitchen was a masterpiece of Italian design: matte black cabinetry, a six-burner gas range, a wine fridge stocked with Barolo she had personally selected.
It all looked impeccable—until one opened the refrigerator. Inside, it contained a half-empty bottle of sparkling water, a container of marinated olives, and a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano she had bought three weeks ago and never opened.
Valentina couldn’t cook.
Couldn’t, wouldn’t—the distinction didn’t matter. Growing up as a starving orphan taught her how to survive, not sauté, and the Volkov mansion had been run by servants who never let her near a stove.
Fortunately, Milan had no shortage of restaurants willing to deliver to a woman who tipped in triple digits. Valentina found it much more convenient to order in. Why bother learning to cook when the city fed her on command?
This morning, however, her building manager brought up the food himself. And he brought bad news with it.
“Signora Moretti, there’s a pressure issue in the water line. It might be affecting the upper floors. I’d like to send someone up to check your unit.”
“Fine. This afternoon.”
“He’s available now. Best to catch these things early.”
Valentina checked her watch. She had a conference call in twenty minutes and didn’t have time to supervise a plumber. But a leak in a building she owned was a liability she couldn’t ignore.
“If he looks skilled, send him up. Tell him to be quiet and fast.”
Twelve minutes later, the doorbell rang. The man on her threshold was not what she expected. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with calloused hands and dark hair that curled slightly at his collar. There was a streak of something—plaster dust, maybe—across his left cheekbone. His eyes were the color of aged whiskey.
He looked at her. She held his gaze just long enough to decide she didn’t like him.
"You're Signora Moretti?" He didn't bother hiding his surprise.
Valentina didn’t answer him. She stepped aside and gestured with her chin. "The kitchen is through there. The main bathroom is down the hall. Find your leak, fix it, and get out."
His mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "Charming."
"I don't pay building maintenance fees to be charming."
"You don't pay me at all," he replied, already walking toward the kitchen. His boots left faint dust prints on her dark floors. "I'm the contractor for the commercial renovation downstairs. Your building manager called me because his guy couldn't figure out the problem."
Valentina followed him, annoyed at both the intrusion and the dust. If this man doesn’t fix the leak, she’ll peel his skin.
The man was already in the kitchen by the time she caught up. He was scanning the space.
“Beautiful building. They did a decent job with the conversion, but whoever handled the plumbing retrofit cut corners on the upper-floor junctions.” He crouched beside the kitchen island, running his palm flat against the hardwood. “I can tell you exactly where the original water lines run. I’ve mapped half the buildings in this neighborhood.”
Valentina crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Good. Then you can fix it and leave.”
He glanced up at her and smiled in amusement. “You’re not big on small talk, are you?”
“I’m big on results.”
“Noted.” He opened his toolbox. “Give me twenty minutes.”
She left him to it and retreated to the living room for her call. Through the open door, she could hear him working—muttering to himself, the clank of tools, the sound of water running. About half an hour later, he appeared in the living room doorway just as Valentina ended her call.
“Found it. Mineral buildup in the coupling joint between the old iron and the new copper. I’ve put in a temporary seal, but it’ll need a permanent fix. I’ll have to order a replacement part, which should be here in three days. I can come back then and finish the job.”
Valentina raised a brow. He was efficient. She’d give him that.
“Fine,” she said.
“You’ll need to shut off the water to the whole floor for about two hours while I replace it. I can schedule it for the afternoon.”
“Fine.”
He gave a toothy grin. “You know, most people ask follow-up questions.”
Valentina didn’t smile back. “You’ve done your job. I’ll see you in three days.”
He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and set it on her kitchen island. “Pyotr De Luca. In case you need anything before then. Or after.”
“I won’t.”
“I believe you.” He picked up his toolbox and headed for the door. “Try to have a good day, Signora Moretti.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Valentina stared at the business card for a long moment, then let her gaze drift to the trail of footprints the man left behind. Her scowl deepened. She shoved the card into the drawer where she kept takeout menus and promptly forgot about it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Three days later, Valentina woke and knew something was off. The first thing she registered was the pounding in her skull. Then the raw scrape in her throat. Then the heavy, dragging ache in her limbs. She tried to push herself upright, and the room pitched sharply to one side.
Flu, she thought grimly. I caught the flu.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand and nearly knocked over a glass of water. The screen read 9:47 AM. She had a meeting at eleven.
Then phone buzzed in her hand. A text from an unknown number: Pyotr De Luca. Here to fix the pipe. On my way up.
Valentina swore. She had completely forgotten about the contractor she had dismissed three days ago.
But fine. Since he was already here, she’ll just let him in and go back to bed. Who said she needed to be there to entertain him?
She swung her legs out of bed—and the world swam. She managed to steady herself and make it halfway across the living room before another wave of dizziness forced her to grip the back of the sofa. Her reflection in the dark TV screen was not reassuring—hair plastered to her forehead, skin pale, eyes glassy with fever.
Then the doorbell rang, drawing her attention. She shuffled to the door and pulled it open.
Pyotr De Luca stood in the hallway with a toolbox and a paper bag from a hardware store. He took one look at her and his expression shifted—that easy, half-amused look turning into concern.
“You look like hell.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that.” Her voice came out as a croak. “The kitchen is through there. The main bathroom is down the hall. Do your job and don’t bother me.”
Valentina turned and walked slowly back toward her bedroom. She made it three steps before her legs buckled.
Pyotr caught her before she hit the floor. His hands were steady, one on her elbow and one at her waist. He guided her to the sofa before she could protest.
“You have a fever,” he said, pressing his palm briefly to her forehead. “High one, too. How long have you been like this?”
She leveled a glacial look at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
He straightened up and looked around her apartment. The place wasn’t messy by normal standards, but for Valentina it was chaos—a takeout container on the coffee table, a discarded blazer over the armchair, a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen island.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t need a nurse.”
“Too bad. You’re getting one.” He set his toolbox down and shrugged off his jacket. “The pipe can wait. You can’t.”
“That’s not what I hired you for.”
“You hired me to fix things,” Pyotr replied, already walking toward her kitchen and rolling up his sleeves. “And I am fixing things. Right now, the thing that needs fixing is you. Lie down.”
Valentina gave him the glare that had made CEOs fold in under a minute. But Pyotr De Luca didn’t even blink. He opened her refrigerator, surveyed its contents, and even made a judgmental sound.
“Nice. Olives and cheese. You live like a university student.”
“I order in.”
“Not today, you don’t.” He pulled out his phone and typed something rapidly. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back."
She was too exhausted to argue. The moment the door shut behind him, Valentina let her eyes fall closed and drifted under.
Sometime later, Valentina woke to the smell of something rich. Her head still ached, but the bone-deep misery had eased. At least she could sit up without the room spinning.
The apartment was transformed: the takeout containers were gone, the mail was stacked neatly on the kitchen island, her blazer was hung on the rack in the corner of the living room. And Pyotr De Luca was standing at her stove, stirring something in a heavy pan, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.
“The pipe is fixed,” he said without turning around. “Water’s back on. And I stopped by the market. Judging by your fridge, you’d be the first casualty in an apocalypse. ”
“Are you cursing me?”
He glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “No, why would I? You’re charming.” Then he turned back to the pan. “Risotto alla Milanese. Saffron, bone marrow, Parmigiano. It’s almost ready. Can you make it to the table, or do I need to carry you?”
Valentina wasn’t about to be carried anywhere. She stood up carefully and made her way to the dining table.
Pyotr set a plate in front of her. The risotto was perfect—creamy and golden, each grain of rice distinct, the saffron staining everything a deep yellow. The smell made her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the fever.
But Valentina didn’t rush. She picked the fork up calmly and took a slow bite.
She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he. The silence stretched, warm and deliberate, as he watched her with that almost‑smile that felt more like a dare.
“This is excellent,” she said finally.
“I know.”
“Modest, too.”
“Modesty’s for people who can’t back it up. But I can.” He nodded toward her plate. “And so can you, if you actually ate like a human being.”
“I eat for function.”
“I noticed. That’s tragic, don’t you think?” He propped his chin on his hand. “Is everything function with you, Val? Sleep? Work? Breathing?”
Valentina’s brows twitched. No one had called her that since her mother died; no one in the Volkov mansion would have dared. Yet this man said it as if he’d earned the right. The audacity.
“You’re very nosy for a man I’ve met twice.”
Pyotr's gaze was steady. “Three times, actually.”
Valentina set down her fork. “What do you want from me?”
“Right now? I want you to finish that risotto. You need the calories.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Pyotr was quiet for a moment—too quiet. Then he stood, walked to her kitchen, and returned with a glass of water he set beside her plate.
“I want to tell you something,” he said. “And I want you to listen without interrupting because I have a feeling you’re very good at interrupting.”
She lifted a hand, granting him permission with a flick of her fingers.
“I grew up on these streets,” he began. “Not in a nice apartment like this. I was maybe four years old when the nuns found me. Before that, I slept in doorways. I stole food. I fought other kids for scraps.”
“There was a girl,” he continued. “Older than me. Dark hair, dark eyes—like you. She used to share whatever she stole with the younger kids.”
Valentina’s hand stilled on her fork.
“One day, some older boys wanted the money we’d taken. She just told me to run and threw herself at them like a wildcat.” He drew in a slow breath. “The next day, a well‑dressed man took her away.”
Pyotr lifted his head and looked her in the eyes.
“From that moment, I realized we lived in different worlds. She was gone—just like that. I thought I’d never see her again.”
A muscle in Valentina’s jaw ticked. “Why are you telling me this?”
Pyotr leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Because I found her.”
A beat—not silence, but something tightening in the air.
“The first time I walked into this apartment and saw your face, I knew. The same eyes. The same way of looking at people—like you’re measuring them. The same fierceness that I’ve never seen in anyone else.”
His voice softened. “You don’t remember me. I know you don’t. You fed a dozen kids. We were all just mouths to you.”
Valentina’s mind went white, a rush of static drowning out the room. She remembered the doorway. The alley behind the bakery. But the other children? Their faces blurred together. She had shared her takings because it was practical: hungry children drew attention, and attention was dangerous. She hadn’t been kind. She had been strategic.
Hadn’t she?
“I did live in Milan before,” she said, rising from the table with more force than necessary. “But I don’t remember you.”
Pyotr didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“I wasn’t being kind. I was surviving. I didn’t care about any of you.”
“Maybe.”
“Then why are you still here?”
She stared at him. He stared back—and flashed that ugly, toothy grin that made her want to throw something.
Valentina’s brows twitched. “You’re so annoying.”
His mouth curved. “I’ve been told that.”
“You cook in my kitchen without asking. You cleaned my apartment like I’m incapable of doing it myself.”
“You are incapable. You live on arrogance.”
Her fists curled on the table, nails biting into her palms. No one talked to her like that. No one dared. Heat rose in her chest—fever, fury, something else she refused to name.
She very much wished she owned a mop. She wanted to thrash this thick‑skinned creature with it.
“Get out,” she snapped.
“Sure,” Pyotr said easily. “When you’re not running a fever that could kill a horse.”
He stood, collected her empty plate, and didn’t even look winded by her rage.
“Go back to bed. I’m going to finish the sealant job in your bathroom before I leave. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come back and make you breakfast. A real breakfast.”
Valentina watched him move around her kitchen—competent, unhurried, utterly at home. He wasn’t flustered, wasn’t avoiding her, wasn’t even pretending not to look at her. Men like him—competent men, men with pride and options—didn’t linger after being yelled at. They stepped back, drew lines, and protected their egos.
But he stayed. Why?
Her finger tapped against the table, sharp and restless, replaying their earlier exchange. The tapping slowed. Then stopped.
There was only one explanation: He was interested.
The realization irritated Valentina more than the fever.
“I don’t do relationships,” she heard herself say.
Pyotr didn’t pause. “Good. Neither do I.”
“I’m difficult.”
“I noticed. But you’re worth it.”
The compliment slid under her guard before she could stop it, settling exactly where it shouldn’t—like a hand smoothing down her ego. Valentina's chin lifted a fraction, pleased despite herself.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, wiping his hands and reaching for his jacket. “Eight o’clock. I’ll bring more groceries.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You didn’t say no.” He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “You’re not alone anymore, Val. Whether you like it or not.”
The door clicked shut.
Valentina sat in the quiet apartment—clean, warm, her stomach full of the best risotto she had ever eaten—and tried to summon the irritation she knew she should feel. The violation of her space. The presumption. The sheer, insufferable confidence of the man.
Nothing come.
She closed her eyes.
Fine. If he wants to come back, then let him. Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. Let him come.