Fell for My Stepson After Killing His Father

Valentina's POV

The black veil hid the smug smile curling at the corners of my mouth.

In St. Mark's Cathedral, the organ droned a heavy dirge. I stood before the coffin, delicately dabbing at the tears in my eyes, playing the part of the perfect grieving widow.

Don Salvatore Rossi lay inside, serene, like a kindly old man. Who'd have thought the boss who'd ruled Philadelphia's underworld for thirty years would die in his new wife's bed? More precisely, in a glass of cyanide I'd mixed myself.

OLD BASTARD, FINALLY DEAD.

Three days ago, as I slipped the poison into his drink, my father's dying words echoed in my mind: "Valentina, never trust the Rossis." Too bad he'd said it too late—Don Salvatore had already blown his brains out with a single shot.

"My condolences, Mrs. Valentina. Salvatore was a great boss."

Family members approached one by one, offering hollow sympathies. I responded to each with teary eyes, but inside, I was THRILLED. These idiots would never suspect their beloved boss died at the hands of the woman he trusted most.

"Thank you. Salvatore would've wanted the family to stay united."

As I basked in the sweet rush of revenge—

BANG!

The church doors slammed open. Everyone, including me, whipped around.

My heart skipped a beat.

A tall man stood silhouetted against the light, flanked by a group of black-suited bodyguards.

He strode forward, each step echoing heavily on the stone floor. As he drew closer, I saw his face—sharp jawline, high nose, lips pressed tight. And those cold, piercing eyes, locked on me without a shred of restraint.

Matteo Rossi. Don Salvatore's only son, the true heir, just back from Sicily.

SHIT.

Whispers rippled through the crowd: "Young Master Matteo's back…" "Why's he only showing up now?"

He walked straight toward me, stopping less than a yard away, towering over me with an icy stare.

"So…" His voice was low, magnetic. "You're the woman who had my old man wrapped around her finger?"

I took a deep breath, slowly lifted my veil, and met his gaze. "I'm Valentina Rossi, your stepmother. I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances."

"Stepmother?" He sized me up, a mocking smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, real sorry. Especially for a young woman widowed after barely a month of marriage."

What's this kid implying?

"Death doesn't pick its timing, Matteo. I'm hurting as much as you are."

He let out a cold laugh, about to speak—

"Valentina, you holding up okay?" Franco Rossi appeared, cutting through the tension.

Don Salvatore's younger brother, the family's second-in-command. Early thirties, black hair slicked back perfectly, his tailored gray suit doing little to hide his muscular frame.

"Uncle Franco," Matteo greeted flatly.

"Matteo, my condolences." Franco patted his nephew's shoulder. "Your stepmother's had a long day. Let her rest. We need to talk family business, just you and me."

Matteo's gaze flicked between us before he nodded.

I watched them head toward a corner of the church, a cold smirk forming in my mind.

After the funeral, I returned to the estate and slipped into my room.

The moment I pushed open the door—

A strong hand shot out from the darkness, slamming me against the door. Hot, urgent lips crashed onto mine.

I struggled for a second before recognizing the familiar scent.

"Franco…" I gasped against his mouth.

"Time to celebrate, my vengeful goddess." His whisper grazed my ear, his heated breath sending shivers through me. "Feel the rush of victory yet?"

"Franco, it's too risky here…" I pushed against his solid chest, but my body was already burning, craving his touch.

"Risk makes it HOT, doesn't it?" He tore open the buttons of my mourning dress. "Besides, you're free now, baby. All MINE."

Franco hoisted me up, tossed me onto the bed, and pinned me down, his hands roaming. One gripped my breast, kneading hard, his thumb circling my nipple until it ached.

I arched into him, moans spilling from my lips as his erection teased my wet entrance.

"Feel it?" He bit my lower lip, voice rough. "This is what VICTORY tastes like. The thrill of revenge."

His hands clamped onto my hips, fingers digging into my skin. His thrusts were relentless, each one sending tremors through me as my nails raked down his back, urging him closer.

"FUCK!" His thick cock slammed into me, filling me completely.

"OH, GOD!" I cried out, my walls clenching around him, every brutal thrust pushing me closer to the edge as desire consumed everything.

As we lost ourselves in the heat, a memory surged up—

A year ago, on that rainy night, Franco found me drowning in despair.

"Want the truth about how your father died?"

"Car accident… just a crash…" I choked out, repeating the police's story. My father was just an accountant, killed when his car veered off a cliff on a stormy night. They said it was a slippery road, no body recovered, only the mangled wreckage of his car.

"BULLSHIT!" Franco slapped a bloody photo onto the table. "My brother shot him in the head! Your dad was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, stumbling onto his arms deal."

The photo showed my father in a pool of blood, eyes wide, a gaping bullet hole in his forehead.

"I'll make them PAY!" I gritted my teeth, fists trembling.

"Then marry him," Franco said, gripping my hand. "Become his wife. And when he trusts you most, KILL the bastard."

"A year of waiting, of playing the part—it's finally over," I panted in Franco's ear.

"This is just the beginning, baby." His thrusts grew fiercer.

We tangled wildly on the bed, celebrating our bloody triumph. Sweat-soaked, breaths mingling. On my late husband's bed, Franco's possession sent a thrill like nothing else.

After the climax, we clung to each other, his rough hand stroking my damp hair.

"Nice work, baby. Now it's time to deal with his son."