When I turn around, Matteo is standing in the doorway. Face unreadable.
“I have to be somewhere.” His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Pack some things, let’s go.”
I duck into my bedroom and throw a few days’ worth of clothes into a bag, grab my purse, my charger, my toothbrush. The essentials of a life in limbo.
I meet Matteo at the door. Try not to think about what almost happened.
Try not to think about how badly I wanted it to.
As we step into the hallway, his hand finds the small of my back. The touch is light and barely there, but it sends heat racing up my spine and coiling low in my belly.
I’m about to spend the day alone in this man’s house. A man I almost kissed. A man who just held my hands like I was something worth protecting.
This is either the smartest decision I’ve ever made or the dumbest.
13
MATTEO
Neutral groundis a pretty concept.A gentleman’s agreement between men who’ve long forgotten what it means to be civilized.
The reality is simpler.
Both sides show up armed to the fucking teeth, and the only thing keeping anyone from pulling a trigger is the guarantee of mutual annihilation.
Fear of death. That’s the real treaty.
Kozlov arrived first. Lorenzo let him. Gave the bastard his little power play, the illusion of control. But I can see it in the way the Pakhan’s men stand—shoulders tight, hands hovering near weapons. They know they’re in a cage, same as us.
This war has been grinding on for two years. Bodies on both sides. Territory disputes. Retaliations that breed more retaliations. And this is the first time Lorenzo and Kozlov have sat down face to face to try to end it.
I already know how it’s going to go. But Lorenzo has to try.
The gentleman’s club smells like whiskey and cigar smoke, thick enough to coat my tongue.
Lorenzo walks ahead of me, spine straight, expression carved from granite. I stay close. Too close for comfort, probably, but I don’t give a shit about his comfort right now. I care about keeping him breathing.
I count twelve of Kozlov’s guys. There are more. Has to be. Hidden in the back rooms, ready to flood in if this goes sideways.
If Lorenzo goes down, the organization survives. His son, Dario, takes over, and we keep moving. But watching the man who pulled me out of my darkest moment take a bullet in front of me? That’s not something I’m willing to let happen.
We settle into position. Lorenzo takes the chair across from Kozlov, and our soldiers fan out behind him in a defensive semicircle. The Bratva mirrors us.
My fingers twitch toward my gun. I could end this right now. Put a bullet between Kozlov’s eyes and deal with the consequences.
But I don’t. I stand rigid, scanning every face, cataloging every weapon, waiting for the first sign that this polite little meeting is about to become a bloodbath.
Kozlov leans back in his chair, studying Lorenzo with the lazy arrogance of a man who thinks he’s already won.
“You look like hell, Lorenzo.”
Disrespect. Right out of the gate. Testing boundaries.
Lorenzo doesn’t flinch. “And you’re aging poorly, Anton. Shall we move on?”
Annoyance flashes in Kozlov’s pale eyes. Or maybe it’s the kind of cold calculation that precedes violence.
“Fine.” Kozlov reaches for the crystal tumbler in front of him, turning it slowly between his fingers. The amber liquid catches the light. He doesn’t drink. Just holds it there, like he’s savoring something. “I want more territory.”
