I drop my keys on the table. "Could've been worse. They didn't order your execution or mine, so I'd call it a win."
She rolls her eyes but smiles. "Your standards for success are concerning."
I cross to her, moving files aside to sit. "One of my many character flaws."
"I'm keeping a list," she says, but her hand finds mine, like we’ve been together forever. Like we’re going to stay together.
This is what normal people have. This quiet understanding. This simple touch that says more than words.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice soft.
"How much I’m enjoying this," I admit. "You. Here. Just like this."
Her eyes widen slightly. We've been careful not to talk about later.
About what happens when Blackwood is exposed, when she returns to the FBI and I return to La Corona.
When we go back to being natural enemies.
Instead of answering, she leans forward and kisses me. Gentle at first, then with a hunger that matches my own.
I pull her onto my lap, hands sliding under her shirt to feel the warmth of her skin.
"Like this?" she murmurs against my mouth.
I lift her, carrying her to the bedroom where we've spent countless hours learning each other's bodies the last few days.
But tonight feels different. Slower.
Each touch, each kiss a confession neither of us can voice aloud.
I trace every curve, searing the memory into my brain. The soft sigh she makes when I kiss her neck.
The way her back arches when I move inside her.
The flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
“Dom.”
I take her hands in mine, pushing them over her head as I move, slow, deep, again and again.
I fight the urge to pick up the pace as pleasure coils tight.
I want this to last as long as possible.
Not just this moment of physical connection, but us.
For these hours, I let myself believe in impossible things. That I could walk away from everything I've built. That she could love a man like me. That we could build something real.
That I'm falling for the one woman who could destroy us all.
OLIVIA
My stomach knots as I wait for Roman Ginetti to arrive. Even in FBI briefings, his name comes with warnings. Marco Calabresi's enforcer, the man who makes problems disappear. Permanently.
"You're fidgeting," Dom says, his hand settling over mine as we wait in the kitchen dining area where we’ve been doing our investigation.
I pull away, crossing my arms. "I'm not thrilled about meeting your friend who kills people for a living."
