Silence follows. The kind that roars in your ears.
Instant regret. Did I ruin this? Do mobsters even believe in love? Did I confess to something he can’t feel?
He looks at me, eyes searching mine for truth, or lies, or doubt.
"You're worth every fucking empire there is."
He kisses me hard.
"I love you," he says against my mouth. "I love you so fucking much it terrifies me. I've never loved anything. Never wanted to. But you?—"
He kisses me again. Deeper.
"You're everything."
The makeout is intense. I'm helpless, bound. He's doing all the work. Claiming me entirely. Hands everywhere. Mouth possessive. Still inside me, moving slowly now, making it last. Filling it with meaning.
I'm his. Completely. Irrevocably.
And I've never been happier.
Even though I should be terrified. Even though this is insane. Even though empires are crumbling, men are dying, and everything is falling apart.
I've never been happier.
23
IVAN
I wake up to sunlight.
Real sunlight, not the filtered pre-dawn gray I usually see.
My watch says 10 a.m.Ten in the fucking morning. When’s the last time I slept past six? When’s the last time I didn’t wake to seventeen missed calls and a crisis clawing at my door? My phone should be buzzing.
But it’s quiet. Too quiet.
I turn, half-expecting the reason for that rare peace to still be tangled in the sheets beside me. Instead, there’s an empty bed.
My hand shoots out, meeting cold silk where warm skin should be. The panic hits before logic does.
She left.
No. She wouldn't. Not after last night. She loves me.
I'm up and moving, my bare feet meeting cold marble. No clothes.
The penthouse is too quiet. No coffee smell. No shower running. No Lila, humming off-key the way she does when she thinks no one's listening.
The living room is empty. The kitchen untouched. My office door remains closed.
Circling back, I see it—light spilling from the walk-in closet. The one I never use because who gives a shit about clothes when you have people who worry about that for you.
I move toward it silently, even though my heart kicks hard in my chest.
She's inside, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a white towel. Her wet hair tumbles down her back, her skin still pink from the shower. She’s staring at the racks of clothes like they're a problem she can't solve.
The relief is physical. My knees go weak for a second before I can lock it down.
