“You’re a dangerous little thing, aren’t you, Stella Romano? To have me telling tales of the old world like this.” I grin faintly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve put a spell on me.”
“Are you calling me a witch, Kill?”
Kill. She called me Kill.
I smile at that. “I wouldn’t dream of calling you anything but beautiful.Moya prekrasnaya printsessa.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, Stella stiffens in my embrace. It’s the second time she’s gone cold whenever I’ve called herprintsessa, and that only piques my curiosity more.
“You don’t like that name, do you,milaya?Printsessa.”
“No, I do not,” she says firmly, pushing herself off my lap.
“Surprising, since you are an Outfit princess by birth. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, you are,” she snaps, slipping her jacket back on, clearly in a rush to leave.
“Leaving so soon?” I ask with a mocking tone, though I find no humor in watching her leave so visibly upset.
“I got what I came for.”
“Is that so?” She nods, her warmth replaced once again by that cool, sharp composure. “And what exactly do you think you achieved with this little visit? I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Kirill.” She zips up her jacket. “But I have to admit that this was… interesting.”
“Agreed,” I say, reclining against the leather cushion. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
“Don’t count on it.” She scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulders before walking out of the club with the same fiery grace she walked in.
Only when she reaches the door do I snap my fingers at Lev. “Follow her,” I order, my expression lethal. “I want to know where she goes and who she’s with at all times. Understood?”
“Yes, boss,” he says, signaling one of my soldiers to go with him.
Yes… Stella’s visit was more than just interesting. It was enlightening.
My friend.
Kira is her friend. Which means I’m this much closer to finding the missing piece of my family.
Soon, Kira. Soon, I’ll be bringing you home.
Chapter 4
Stella
“Damn it!” I shout as Dom flings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, sending me crashing to the floor mat of our home gym in the converted barn out back.
“Get up,” he grumbles when I take too long to dust myself off and get back on my feet.
“Alright, alright, I’m up,” I mumble, pissed for not seeing the move coming.
I drop back into position, ready for the next round, but my dad just crosses his arms over his chest, scowling at me instead of launching an attack.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong,” I reply, wiping the sweat off my brow with my sleeve.
“Bullshit.” His frown deepens. “Your head isn’t on practice today. So, I’ll ask again, what’s wrong?”
