She studies my face, looking for the lie. Finding none—because it isn't a lie. I want to wait because I know, with sickening certainty, that I will never deserve what she's offering. The longer I wait, the longer I can pretend I might.
"Okay," she says softly. "When you're ready."
I will never be ready. But I kiss her forehead and hold her until she falls asleep, then extricate myself and drive home through empty streets, hating myself with every mile.
We last four months.
Four months of stolen hours and secret meetings and a happiness so sharp it feels like bleeding. Four months oflearning her body in increments—the curve of her hip under my palm, the sound she makes when I kiss her neck, the way she melts against me when we dance in her tiny kitchen to music from her phone.
Four months of lying.
She thinks I'm an investor. A businessman who travels frequently but always comes back to her. A man with a complicated past he doesn't like to discuss but who looks at her like she's hung the stars.
She doesn't know I run background checks on everyone she speaks to. Doesn't know I have men watching her apartment around the clock. Doesn't know that her father's organization is crumbling, and that my family is circling the wreckage like sharks.
She doesn't know that every kiss is borrowed time.
The end comes on a Tuesday.
I'm in Dmitri's office, reviewing intelligence reports, when Alexei walks in with a face like a closed door.
"We have a problem," he says, sliding a folder across the desk. "The Benedettis are making moves. Carmine's been reaching out to the Morozovs, trying to broker an alliance. If they succeed, we'll be fighting a war on two fronts."
Dmitri's jaw tightens. "Options?"
"We could approach Carmine directly. Offer him a better deal." Alexei pauses. "Or we could hit them now, while they're weak. Take out the leadership before the alliance solidifies."
I stare at the folder. Inside are surveillance photos, financial records, communication intercepts. And somewhere in that pile of intelligence is Carmine Benedetti—Bianca's father.
"We'll need leverage," Dmitri says, thinking out loud. "Something to bring Carmine to the table on our terms."
"He has a daughter," Alexei says. "Keeps her out of the business, but she's his weak point. If we—"
"No."
The word comes out harder than I intend. Both men turn to look at me.
"No," I repeat, forcing my voice to steady. "We don't touch the daughter. She's a civilian."
Dmitri's eyes narrow. He's known me for seventeen years. He can read me better than anyone alive.
"A civilian," he repeats slowly. "One you seem particularly concerned about."
Silence stretches between us. I can lie—I'm good at lying—but Dmitri will see through it. He always does.
"I know her," I admit. "We've been... involved."
Alexei's expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation behind his eyes. Dmitri's face goes carefully blank.
"Involved," Dmitri says. "With Carmine Benedetti's daughter."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Four months."
The silence that follows is worse than shouting. Dmitri stands slowly, walking to the window, his back to me.
