We take our seats as Vito and my father move to discuss the financial aspects of our joint ventures. The very accounts that are being bled dry by the ghost I’ve refused to name. The irony would be amusing if the stakes weren’t so high.
From across the table, Alexei watches me with veiled concern. He knows something—perhaps everything—about this man’s involvement. His warning echoes in my mind:For your own safety, stop digging.
But safety has never been my priority. Information has. Knowledge. Power.
And now, inexplicably, Rafa.
The realization settles over me like a weight. I’ve allowed him to become a factor in my calculations—not just as a potential ally or convenient escape route, but as a person whose safety concerns me. Whose touch affects me. Whose trust I find myself wanting to earn rather than simply manipulate.
This is dangerous. Far more dangerous than ghosts, stolen millions, or family politics.
In chess—a game my father insisted all his children master—there’s a moment called zugzwang, when any move a player makes will worsen their position. The best option is not to move at all, but the rules require movement. Require vulnerability.
I’ve spent my life avoiding zugzwang, calculating every move ten steps ahead, ensuring I’m never forced into a position where all choices lead to loss.
Yet here I am, caught between loyalty and truth, between self-preservation and unexpected connection, between theBratva princess I was raised to be and the woman I’ve kept carefully hidden beneath layers of code and calculation.
The game has changed, and I didn’t notice until it was too late.
And like a true chess master, I must now adapt my strategy to account for the one variable I never anticipated: my own heart emerging from its carefully constructed firewall.
CHAPTER 13
Rafa
I pacemy apartment like a caged animal, unable to settle despite the late hour. Every surface reminds me of work I should be doing, code I should be writing, escape plans I should be perfecting. But my mind keeps circling back to one thing.
Kira.
The way she’d looked when she admitted there was someone from the Bratva’s past still alive—still dangerous. That flash of vulnerability beneath her perfect control. The concern in her voice when she said knowing his name puts you in danger, as if my safety mattered to her. The memory of her body pressed against mine during our kiss, the way she’d melted into me for those few electric seconds before reality reasserted itself.
I stop pacing and stare out at the city lights, trying to rationalize what I’m about to do.
We need to work together to uncover this ghost’s network, because I doubt he is working alone. We need to identify his accomplices before our families destroy each other over manufactured evidence. These are logical, strategic reasons to seek her out.
But deep down, I know it’s not why I’m reaching for my jacket.
The truth I don’t want to acknowledge is simpler and more dangerous: I need to be near her. Need to breathe in that intoxicating scent of blackberry and vanilla that seems to rewire my brain. Need to feel the electric current that sparks whenever we’re in the same space.
The need to understand what’s happening to me.
I’ve never been driven by physical desire like this. Never felt the pull of another person so acutely that it overrides logic and caution. But Kira has gotten under my skin in a way I can’t ignore or compartmentalize.
The smart thing would be to stay home. To wait until morning, when daylight and professional distance can create safe boundaries between us. Instead, I grab my keys and head for the door.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her building, staring at the lit windows. She’s awake. Working, probably, just as restless as I am.
The Tribeca building’s security system is impressive, featuring biometric scanners, motion sensors, and encrypted access protocols. For most people, it would be impenetrable.
I’m not most people.
It takes me exactly seventeen minutes to bypass the digital locks and camera feeds. The doorman is distracted by his late-night Netflix binge, oblivious to the ghost moving through the supposedly perfectly secure building. Even the elevator’s fingerprint scanner yields to a simple override device Gio designed for situations exactly like this.
As the elevator rises silently to the loft, I question my own judgment. What am I doing here? We could have continued our conversation in daylight tomorrow through proper channels.
The elevator opens directly into her loft foyer. Soft lighting casts everything in warm shadows. The space is minimal yet elegant in a way only serious wealth can achieve.
I take three steps into the main living area before I hear the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked.
