Valentín Moretti

Valentín Moretti had always believed his mouth would either get him laid or get him killed. At that moment, tied to a chair with three handguns twitching toward him, he wasn’t sure which side of the prophecy was winning.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” one of the men muttered, pressing cold steel against Valentín’s jaw.

Valentín tried to smirk, but it came out like a grimace. “Yeah, I do have terrible timing. You should see me with women—”

Click. The gun tilted up to his temple.

He froze. His throat bobbed. “Okay. Not the time for jokes. Got it.”

Another man leaned close, poking the barrel at him like it was a compass. “Look there.”

Valentín blinked at the far wall. “At the peeling paint? Beautiful choice of interior design. Very rustic.”

“Shut up. Just look.”

“I am looking. Best wall I’ve ever seen. Ten out of ten, would stare again—”

The gun nudged his chin sideways. “Now look there.”

Valentín’s eyes flicked nervously to the ceiling corner. “Oh yeah, great corner. Definitely less intimidating than this one. Are we rating corners now? Because I give this one—”

The man jabbed the gun harder, irritation sparking. “Don’t move.”

Valentín’s voice cracked. “Not moving. Statue. Look at me—David, but Italian and scared.”

The guard beside him groaned. “God, he doesn’t stop.”

“I do! I can stop!” Valentín insisted, hands tugging uselessly against the rope. “See? I’m already shutting—”

The first man snapped. “Shut. Up.” His voice cut like a whip.

Valentín’s mouth clamped closed so fast his teeth clicked. The silence was almost comical after all the rambling. His eyes widened, lashes fluttering like a kid caught in trouble, and he gave a quick nod. Obedient. Mute.

For three long beats, the men stared at him, half expecting another smart remark. When none came, one muttered under his breath, “Finally.”

Valentín sat very still, lips sealed, but in his head he was screaming at himself: Congratulations, genius. You’ve officially annoyed men with guns. Maybe next time juggle knives while you’re at it.

He didn’t dare look straight away, but the shift in the room told him everything. Boots slowed. Air changed. The men stiffened like schoolboys standing straighter in class. Only one person could do that to them.

Her.

Valentín’s eyes lifted, just enough to catch a glimpse. Sharp edges, shadow-cut posture, presence that made the entire room shrink. His throat went dry. She didn’t need to speak; she didn’t need to do anything. All she had to do was exist, and Valentín was ruined.

One glance from her, and the ropes were cut. The guards shoved him forward like trash kicked to the curb. Valentín stumbled out, cheek stinging, wrists raw, dignity in tatters. He told himself he’d forget. He told himself he’d never think of her again.

He lied.

---

Three nights later, Valentín proved how terrible he was at keeping promises.

He’d tried drowning her memory in cheap drinks, tried burying it under jokes with friends, but nothing worked. Her face carved itself behind his eyelids, her silence louder than anyone else’s voice. He hated it. He needed to see her again. Needed to remind himself she was just flesh and blood, not some impossible thing.

So he broke into her world. Or, at least, he tried.

It didn’t take five minutes before he was face-down in gravel, a knee in his back, and another set of ropes digging into his wrists.

“Persistent little bastard,” one of the guards muttered as they dragged him inside.

Valentín didn’t fight. He couldn’t. The second he was thrown back into that same chair, déjà vu hit him like a punch. He winced at the memory of last time—the gun, the command, the humiliating silence.

The door opened again. She entered.

Valentín’s heart jumped into his throat. His brain screamed, shut up, shut up, shut up, but his mouth had other plans.

“Fancy seeing me here again,” he blurted, trying for suave and landing somewhere between desperate and delirious.

Nobody laughed.

He cleared his throat, leaned back as far as the ropes would allow, and forced a crooked grin. “What can I say? I missed you. Thought I’d… swing by. Through a window. Like a gentleman.”

The guards exchanged looks like they were debating whether to hit him now or later.

Valentín pressed on, because apparently fear only fueled his stupidity. “You know, at this point, you should just give me a membership card. ‘Frequent flyer’ discount for kidnappings.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

He let out a nervous chuckle, shoulders twitching under the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. His mouth was dry, his pulse erratic, but he leaned forward as if ropes and bullets weren’t pinning him.

And then—God help him—he winked.

“Admit it,” he murmured, voice shaky but shameless, “you were hoping I’d come back.”

The men groaned in disbelief. Valentín sat there, wrists bound, cheeks flushed, absolutely terrified—and still somehow flirting with the woman who could destroy him.