"Just ask him to send you a text or message more often when he's out on business. That's one of the few things I demanded from Lorenzo. At least I know he's alive that way."
"Is that allowed?" I ask, only half-joking. "Creating expectations with men who kill people for a living?"
"Dating or not, little sis, you guys are together, and I doubt Anton will let go. These men, when they choose someone, it's for keeps. You need to set your boundaries and demands with him."
I check my phone one more time when there's a knock and the door opens. Lorenzo walks in, suit perfectly pressed, hair slicked back. No hint of blood, no smell of violence—clearly, he's been somewhere to clean up.
Moira visibly brightens, her whole body lighting up at the sight of him. Eden immediately stands from her perch on the bed, stepping back to give them space.
Lorenzo moves through the room, greeting each of us with a respectful nod before reaching Moira's side. He kisses her softly, then bends to press his lips against her rounded belly, whispering something tender in Italian to his unborn son.
The way he looks at her, like she's the center of his universe, unleashes thousands of butterflies, making my chest ache with hope.
"Look at you three, plotting together," Lorenzo says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Should I be concerned?"
Moira reaches for his hand. "Just girl talk."
Lorenzo takes Moira's hand and kisses it softly. A monster turned into the perfect gentleman. Just like my Anton.
"Did you take care of it?" Moira asks, her voice dropping to that quiet tone our families use when discussing business that shouldn't leave the room.
Lorenzo's face hardens for just an instant before he controls his expression. "Kirill and everyone connected to the Volgograd brotherhood are dead. Every single one." He straightens his already perfect cuffs. "Anton deployed his international teams to handle the ones abroad simultaneously. No loose ends, no survivors."
"It's over then," I say.
Lorenzo nods once, decisively. "It's done."
The finality in his voice makes something in me unclench. They can't hurt me anymore. Can't hurt Moira or the baby. Can't come for Anton.
Moira relaxes against her pillows, her hand protectively curved over her belly.
"Good to see you looking better, Fee." Lorenzo studies me with assessing eyes. "I was about to mention that—"
A shadow appears in the doorway, and my heart stutters. Anton stands there, tall and devastating in a charcoal suit that hugs his broad shoulders as if it were made for him. Well, itwasmade for him. Gone is the tactical gear, the weapons, the blood. In their place is a man who could walk a runway in Milan. He's holding an armful of white lilies, their fragrance driftingacross the room. Clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled, like he just stepped out of a Manhattan boardroom instead of whatever hell he's been through.
Almost perfect. But I see the signs. A fresh cut on his right eyebrow, the skin around it still slightly swollen and red. His knuckles are raw, the skin scraped and bruised like he punched something, or someone, over and over without stopping. He's holding the flowers carefully, but I notice the slight stiffness in his movements.
The violence he's done is written on his body in small, brutal details. And he's trying so hard to hide it. For me.
Lorenzo smiles knowingly. "—that Anton would show up here in no time once he figured out you weren't in your room."
My eyes lock with Anton's storm-gray ones across the room. There's a lightness I haven't seen before. A weight has been lifted.
Anton crosses to me, then sinks to one knee in front of my chair. He places the lilies on the side table and takes my hands in his. His thumbs trace gentle circles on my skin.
"How are you feeling, Solnishko?" His voice is a low rumble that I feel in my bones.
"Better." I reach out, needing to touch him, to confirm he's real. My fingers brush his clean-shaven jaw. "Still foggy, but better now that you're here. That I can see you."
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone in that way that's becoming familiar, necessary.
For me, there's just Anton, kneeling before me like some ancient warrior pledging fealty.
"You look good in a suit," I whisper. "Like something I'd want to unwrap slowly."
His lips twitch. "That can be arranged. When you're recovered."
I gasp, heat flooding my cheeks when I realize I've said that thought out loud. This drug fog is worse than I thought.
