Salsicca

CVS, December 2026

The automatic doors hiss open, and Valentino Rodrigo Ferrari walks in like he owns the fuckin' place.

Shirt wide open, chest bare to the world--in the middle of goddamn December. The cold hasn't touched him. His skin looks like gold-washed sin, smooth like he's never known dry air or cheap soap. He doesn't wear expensive Italian cologne--he just smells like it. Like his body chemistry is an alchemical instrument, distilling pheromones in real time.

Carina Marie Delvecchio, who has seen some shit in this CVS, leans on the counter and stares.

"Ferrari." She lets it drag out, full of lazy judgment. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Valiant doesn't even glance at her. He strolls down the aisle, fingers trailing along the shelves like he's choosing fine wine instead of, presumably, a pack of gum and some Advil.

"Existing," he replies, casual as a cat in the sun.

Carrie snorts. "With your tits out? In December?" She shakes her head. "Jesus fuck, Ferrari, you tryna seduce the greeting cards?"

"If they appreciate a man with taste."

Valeria Guadalupe Esmerelda Morales, sitting behind the counter, finally looks up from her phone.

Carrie narrows her eyes. She knows this game--flirt, tease, knock 'em off their pedestal. Works on everyone. But Valiant? He's unshakable.

She shifts, stepping around the counter, getting closer. "You smell like a goddamn oil baron," she accuses, nose scrunching. "Where the fuck did you come from, a yacht? A Renaissance painting?"

Valiant turns his head just enough to glance at her. His brown eyes are half-lidded, unreadable. "My apartment."

Carrie scoffs. "Bullshit. Nobody smells like that in their own home."

Valeria leans in a little.

Valiant finally stops in front of the cold medicine, inspecting the boxes like they hold the secrets of the universe.

Carrie folds her arms. "You're telling me you just...wake up smelling like Bergamot and old money? That's your story?"

Valiant, still entirely unbothered: "That's my reality."

Valeria blinks. "...What body wash do you use?"

Carrie whips around. "Val, no. Do not encourage this."

Valeria shrugs. "I'm just saying."

Carrie huffs, turning back to Valiant. "You know how many people I've broken in this CVS?" She leans in, voice lowering. "You're standing in a temple to my bullshit, Ferrari. I have shattered stronger men."

Valiant doesn't blink. "And yet," he murmurs, "here I stand."

And that's the moment Carrie realizes--he's not just ignoring her. He's immune.

She squints. "What the fuck are you?"

Valeria leans even closer. "I kinda wanna know too."

Carrie isn't done. Can't be done. She's gone too deep now.

She folds her arms, eyes dragging down the length of Valiant like she's inspecting him. And really? She is.

"Alright, fine," she drawls, "let's talk about these fuckin' shoes."

Valiant, still browsing the cold medicine, doesn't react.

"What are those, huh? Some kind of bespoke, custom Italian leather bullshit?" Carrie tilts her head, mock thoughtful. "Or did you get 'em off the clearance rack at the Cherry Hill Mall and pray no one would notice?"

Valeria leans on the counter, eyes flicking down. She's noticing.

Carrie sees it, doubles down. "Swear to God, Ferrari, you are one pair of pointy loafers away from being a fucking cartoon."

Still, no reaction.

So she goes lower. Tries to make fun of what cannot be ridiculed.

Carrie's gaze slides north, brow lifting, smirk creeping up. She gestures at the undeniable bulge in his stupidly tailored pants.

"And that--" she waves a hand. "What's this? You smuggle that outta the Acme on 5th?"

Silence.

Valiant finally, finally turns, slow and deliberate, and meets her gaze head-on.

"What do you think?"

Valeria makes a tiny, intrigued sound.

Carrie squints. "I think you're a fuckin' problem, Ferrari."

"That makes two of us."

Valeria: "...Okay, but really, what body wash do you use?"

Carrie isn't done yet. Can't be. Valiant's still standing there unfazed, not even a twitch. And that? Unacceptable.

So she goes for the hair.

She squints at it, tilts her head. "Alright, one more thing, because I gotta fucking know."

Valiant barely reacts. He just waits. Like a fucking statue of arrogance.

Carrie steps in close, eyes locked on that slicked-back, perfectly arranged masterpiece of a hairstyle. Not a single hair out of place. Too intentional. Too styled.

"What the fuck is this?" She gestures broadly at his head. "You got, what--three pounds of product in there? Four? How long that take you in the morning, huh? Do you time it? Stopwatch next to the sink?"

Valiant exhales, slow. "I don't rush."

Carrie snorts. "Of course you don't. You probably whisper affirmations to it while you style it. 'You are strong. You are sleek. You are the living embodiment of Italian excellence.'"

Valeria coughs--she's hiding a laugh.

Carrie turns sharply. "Val. Do not enable this man."

Valeria, deadpan: "I'm just saying, it's holding up in the rain."

Carrie jerks back around. "Fuck--" she hadn't even noticed.

It's been pouring outside, but Valiant's hair? Still perfect.

"What in the actual fuck," Carrie mutters, circling him now. "What did you sell your soul for? Hold on--" she sniffs theatrically near his head. "Oh my God. Oh my God. What is that? Is that pomade? Did you step out of the fuckin' 1950s? Nonna Carina would be in stitches."

Valiant doesn't blink. "A gentleman respects tradition."

Carrie points aggressively at him. "A gentleman needs to get the fuck outta my store before I charge him a pretentious tax."

Valeria, biting her lip: "Or before I ask more questions about the body wash."

Valiant finally--finally--turns his full attention to Valeria.

He shifts, slow and deliberate, his brown eyes settling on her like he's just now deciding she's worth looking at. The weight of it is something different from how he's treated Carrie--less dismissive, more... curious.

"We have the same name, you and I," he says, smooth as ever.

Carrie immediately interjects, without missing a beat--"Dumbass?"

Valeria actually laughs this time, and it's real. Quick, bright, something Carrie doesn't hear often enough.

Valiant, unshaken, just smirks. "Valeria. Valentino. Both mean strength. Power."

Valeria quirks a brow. "And yet, only one of us is working the register at a CVS."

Carrie slaps the counter. "Oh my God. Val, he's working you! That's not a compliment, it's a sales pitch."

But Valeria is still looking at him. Considering.

"Huh," she says, thoughtful.

Carrie's stomach drops. "Oh, you gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

Valiant keeps going. Smooth, unhurried, like he's got all the time in the world to crack open whatever's underneath Valeria's usual deadpan.

"Valeria Morales," he muses, rolling her name like it's something worth savoring. "Strong name. Sounds like it belongs to a queen."

Carrie throws her hands up. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Val, it's just a name! You think he doesn't practice this shit in the mirror?! You think you're the first girl to get the royalty treatment?"

But Valeria... doesn't roll her eyes. Doesn't snort.

She's heard it all before. Dudes leaning over the counter, trying too hard, fumbling their way through cheap lines. She's worked in bars, handled drunks, ignored whistles. She's immune to bullshit.

But this guy? Somehow, it sounds okay coming from him.

She tilts her head, watching him. "Yeah? And what do you know about queens, Ferrari?"

Valiant smiles slow, all confidence and ease. "Enough to recognize one when I see her."

Carrie smacks the counter again. "That's it, I'm calling corporate. This is a hostile work environment."

Valiant leans in just a little, just enough to make it count, his voice still low, easy, like he's already won.

"What time do you get off?"

Before Valeria can even think about answering, Carrie slaps a hand on her arm.

"Nope--" she cuts in, fast, sharp. "I used that line in the story about Squirrel."

Three. Fucking. Syllables.

"Squi-ruh-rel."

Valeria blinks. "The fuck does that have to do with anything?"

Carrie jabs a finger at Valiant. "He's recycling! Can't be out here runnin' game with secondhand material."

Valiant, unbothered as ever, just shrugs. "A good line deserves a second life."

Valeria watches him for a beat. Considers. And then--

"I get off at ten."

Carrie throws her arms in the air. "Oh my God. Val, you had one job. Just once, one fucking time, I wanted to see one of these guys crash and burn in real time--"

Valeria smirks, grabbing a receipt and a pen. Starts writing.

Carrie groans. "And you're giving him your number--I hate it here. I'm gonna step in front of a SEPTA bus."

Valeria doesn't even blink as she finishes writing her number on the receipt. Steady hand. No hesitation.

And that's when Valiant--smug motherfucker that he is--leans in just a little more, just enough to let his voice drop into something lower, richer.

"And again at 11:28."

Carrie's eyes go wide.

"Jesus Christ."

Valeria actually bites her lip.

Carrie loses her goddamn mind. "VAL. YOU ARE FALLING FOR IT IN REAL TIME. THIS IS A DOCUMENTED LOSS. THIS IS A CVS-SANCTIONED TRAGEDY."

Valeria tears off the receipt, folds it, and tucks it into Valiant's hand. She holds his hand there just a second too long.

Carrie, horrified, watches this shit happen. "Oh, my God."

Valiant meets Carrie's gaze over Valeria's head, smirking.

"Told you a long time ago, Delvecchio," he says, sliding the receipt into his pocket, without breaking eye contact.

Carrie scowls. "Told me what, exactly?"

Valiant just turns toward the door, walking out into the December cold--shirt still wide open, like he never had a single doubt in his mind.

Right before the doors close behind him, he throws a last look over his shoulder.

"That I don't miss."

9:58 PM.

The CVS is quiet--last-minute customers gone, shelves restocked, receipts still curling from the printer.

Valeria's zipping up her jacket, casual, no rush. Like she's not about to make a mistake.

Carrie is halfway out the door, standing in the cold, arms crossed over her chest, deeply unimpressed. She squints, eyes sharp, voice dry.

"You aren't actually gonna take that greaseball's call, are you?"

Valeria adjusts her collar, shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe."

Carrie throws her hands up. "Fucking maybe? You wrote your number down like a goddamn waitress in a romcom. That wasn't a maybe, that was a down payment on bad decisions."

Valeria grins. "You sound jealous."

Carrie barks out a laugh. "Oh, yeah, sure. I'm just devastated I didn't get wined and dined by the human embodiment of a luxury car commercial."

Valeria tugs on her gloves, looking entirely too pleased. "You're just mad because he didn't break."

Carrie narrows her eyes. "Oh, no, babe. I won't break. You, on the other hand? You're about to be demolished."

Valeria smirks. "Guess we'll find out at 11:28."

Carrie groans, shoving the door open. "I hate this for you. I hate this for me. This is my villain origin story."

Valeria laughs, stepping outside, phone in hand.

Carrie just shakes her head. "When he wrecks your life, I want a full report."

Valeria tilts her head. "What makes you think I won't be wrecking his?"

Carrie stops. Considers.

Then shakes her head again. "Nope. That man's built for the long game. He smells like strategy."

Valeria grins at her phone in anticipation.

"Good thing I like a challenge."

A quick hug, and they're off into the night.

11:27 PM.

The place is small but sharp. No clutter, no mess--just the essentials, clean lines, cool colors. She doesn't do soft lighting or cozy bullshit. It's sleek, organized, intentional.

She slides her insulin kit back into the bathroom cabinet, efficient, practiced. The routine is second nature by now--test, dose, move on. No hesitation.

And just as she closes the cabinet--the doorbell chimes.

She glances at the clock.

11:28.

Of course he's on time.

Valeria opens the door.

And there he is.

Real.

Not just some exaggerated figment of Carrie's bullshit, not some over-the-top playboy running on rehearsed lines and projected confidence. Valentino Rodrigo Ferrari isn't a performance.

He just is.

Smooth. Collected. No tells, no cracks, no flickers of insecurity. There's no underlying desperation to prove himself, no need to dominate the space. He just occupies it. Effortlessly.

And Valeria?

She's taken with him.

Not in some breathless, swept-off-her-feet way. It's more... fascination. A recognition of something rare.

She steps aside, lets him in.

The door clicks shut, locking them into something neither of them is rushing to define.

Valeria moves to the kitchen, leans against the counter, arms crossed. Valiant, unhurried, walks the space like he's absorbing it. No commentary, no questions--just quiet recognition.

Then, conversation. Steady, unforced. Like a shuffle of cards, one topic sliding over the next.

Carrie.

"She won't let this go," Valeria says, amused. "You've officially been upgraded from 'some asshole' to 'personal vendetta.'"

"I'd expect nothing less," Valiant replies, smooth as ever. "She fights hard for the things she loves. Even if the thing she loves is my public humiliation."

Valeria laughs. "And she didn't even get that. She's furious."

"A shame," Valiant says, completely unapologetic.

Zach.

"Is it weird?" Valeria asks, tilting her head. "That she's that obsessed with him?"

"Obsession isn't the word," Valiant muses, standing near her bookshelf, not touching, just observing. "She's loyal. Entirely, unquestionably. The world could burn, and she'd still be standing next to him, talking shit."

Valeria considers. Nods. "Yeah. That's... pretty fucking accurate."

The CVS Circus.

"You get used to it," Valeria says, flipping the cap off a water bottle.

"What, the chaos? The crime? The deeply questionable decisions?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating."

Carrie again.

"You ever think she's gonna grow up?"

"No," Valeria says immediately.

"No hesitation."

"None."

Time slips. The words keep coming.

They don't move too much. It's a conversation built in shifts of weight, changes in posture. Valeria against the counter, then moving to the couch. Valiant standing, then leaning, then finally taking the chair across from her like he's decided to stay a while.

The words are casual, but the rhythm? The rhythm is building.

Valeria, watching him now. Really watching.

She still doesn't know what to make of him.

But she wants to find out.

The conversation shifts. The air shifts.

Valeria, half-lounging on the couch now, watches him with something new in her eyes--not just amusement, not just intrigue.

Something closer than that.

He's still ridiculously composed. He hasn't flinched once, hasn't lost his rhythm, hasn't given her a single fucking tell.

She murmurs something under her breath, just low enough that it's mostly for herself.

"Mierda... este cabrón es algo más."

Valiant doesn't react immediately--just a small lift of an eyebrow.

Valeria, feeling bolder now, tilts her head, lets her eyes drag over him slowly before adding, a little louder--

"No, en serio... este hombre está cabrón."

That's when he does it.

No smirk, no dramatics. Just a measured pause, a slight shift of weight. Then, in perfectly accented, deeply smooth Spanish--

"Gracias por los cumplidos, Valeria."

Valeria stills.

For one brief moment, her brain short circuits, recalibrates, recalculates everything she thought she had figured out about this man.

Then--slow blink. Exhale. Lips curving up in something slower, something deeper.

"Claro que sí," she murmurs back, voice a little lower.

And now?

Now she's in trouble.

She wants him.

And not in some breathless, swept-up, oh no how did this happen kind of way. Not because he charmed her, or talked her into it, or played some long game of seduction.

No.

She just wants him.

And the most female thing she can do--the thing that makes it undeniably clear that she is choosing this, that she is choosing him--is to make it look effortless.

She stands, slowly.

Not hesitant, not testing the waters--just fluid, easy, like she was always going to.

Valiant doesn't move. Doesn't reach for her. Doesn't assume.

He just watches.

She steps closer. Deliberate. Measured.

Close enough to touch, but she doesn't. Not yet.

Her fingers find his collar, smoothing the fabric like she's fixing something that was never out of place. She doesn't look at what she's doing--she looks at him.

Valiant, unshaken. Unmoving.

Waiting.

So she takes his hand.

Lifts it, presses his palm to her waist.

Not forcefully. Not in some dramatic take-me-now gesture. Just placing him there--right where she wants him.

His fingers skim the fabric of her shirt. Warm. Solid. A touch that says nothing--yet.

And that's when she smiles.

Not shy. Not uncertain.

Knowing.

Like she planned this. Like it was always going to happen.

Like she decided it would.

She keeps watching him, seeing if he flinches, if he shifts, if he assumes. He doesn't.

Good.

She tilts her head, just slightly.

"Couch or bed?" she asks, voice low, smooth, like she's offering him a choice but already knows the answer.

Valiant's gaze doesn't waver.

"Bedroom."

She doesn't hesitate.

Just takes his hand and leads him there.

No rush. No second-guessing.

This was always going to happen. Because she decided it would.

She leads him there.

Not rushed, not hesitant--just a decision in motion.

The second the door clicks shut, she turns, her fingers already at his shirt, peeling it away from his shoulders, finally--finally-- taking in what was half-exposed all goddamn night.

She knew he'd be lean. Defined. Not bulky, not overbuilt. Just sculpted like he was designed for this exact moment.

And then--his hands on her, undoing, revealing.

Clothes slip away, layers discarded like they were never necessary to begin with.

And that's when he does it.

Speaks.

Softly. Low. Intimate.

In every goddamn romance language.

"Bella... Magnifique... Hermosa... Preciosa..."

The words fall from his lips like he was born knowing them. Like they belong to him.

Valeria pauses. Stares.

"Did you study languages?" she asks, breath still not quite steady.

Valiant just shakes his head, dragging his mouth along her throat, down her collarbone.

"Not a word."

And fuck.

That's hotter than it has any right to be.

His hands on her body. Firm. Sure. Not groping, not fumbling--just knowing.

Valeria's pulse quickens, each touch setting the rhythm, the pace of the action. She's in control, but he follows with perfect precision, like he's tuned in to something unspoken, something only she can dictate.

And then she leans back on the bed.

Not a dramatic fall--not thrown, not taken. She moves herself, deciding where she wants to be, how she wants this to go.

Valiant watches. Takes her in.

And then--he smiles.

Because he sees it.

The hair.

Not unruly, not neglected--just natural. Feminine. A quiet rebellion against expectations.

And he loves it.

Loves it like it's evidence of something raw and real, something untouched by anyone else's opinions.

"Hermosa..." he murmurs again, voice warm, reverent.

And then he kneels.

No hesitation. No need for permission.

Because this is worship.

Not just sex. Not just pleasure. Not just for her.

For him.

He kisses slow, deep, thorough. Hands sliding up her thighs, fingers digging in like he's claiming territory, like this is a once-in-a-lifetime event he refuses to waste.