I looked at those silver shoes — beautiful, ten-centimeter heels that had tormented her.
"I'll give you a massage when we get back," I said.
"Really?" She opened one eye.
"Of course." I added, "I'd prefer other things, but massage first."
She smiled and closed her eyes. "You've changed, Igor."
"How?"
"Before…" Her voice dropped. "You never did things like this. You were possession and control more than care."
My fingers tightened. She was right. Five years ago, I'd been proud, cold, selfish. I'd treated her like property — to own, to command. I hadn't learned to love her equally.
"Losing you taught me what matters." My voice roughened.
"Igor…" she began.
"I'm trying to be the man who can care for you, protect you, love you. I'm not perfect, but I'm trying."
Her eyes glistened. "You're doing well."
I kissed her — soft, sincere.
The car pulled up at our hotel. In the suite, Elena went straight to the sofa and kicked off those lethal heels, massaging her sore ankles. She sat there, wincing.
I knelt in front of her.
"Is this how you're going to massage me?" she asked, surprised.
"Relax. I've got this." I cradled her feet.
She watched quietly as my thumb pressed into the swollen spots, easing the pain without causing her to wince.
"Better?" I asked.
"Yeah." She sighed contentedly. "Where did you learn?"
"Online," I said. "There are tutorials."
She laughed. "You learn everything."
I worked from ankle to instep to heel. Her feet were small enough to fit in one hand. Just as warmth spread through her tired muscles my phone buzzed. I wanted to ignore it, but the ring kept going.
Elena nudged me. "Answer. It might be important."
Artyom's name lit the screen.
"What is it?" I answered sharply.
"Don, it's urgent." Artyom's voice was taut. "Natasha Ivanova has gone missing."
My body went rigid. "When?"
"Three hours ago," Artyom said. "Our Rome source saw her leave with a few bodyguards, then lost her. GPS cut out — it looks planned."
"Anything else?" I stood and walked to the window.
