“All possibilities.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Including the possibility that I’ve been playing you from the beginning? That this whole partnership is just another Petrov manipulation?”
“Is it?”
The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered. For a moment, we stare at each other across the charged space of my workspace, and I see something that looks like hurt flash across her features.
“Fuck you, Rosso.” Her voice is quiet, deadly. “Fuck you for even asking that.”
“Then explain it to me,” I demand, standing to face her. “Explain how your brother’s name is all over these shell companies. Explain how the thefts coincide with his travel schedule. Explain how you can claim to want the truth while defending him despite overwhelming evidence.”
“Because he’s my brother!” The words explode from her with surprising force. “Because despite everything—despite this fucked up world we live in, despite the things our families have done—blood still means something to me.”
“More than the truth?”
“The truth?” She takes a step toward me, anger radiating from her like heat. “You want to talk about truth? Let’s talk about how you’ve been keeping your own family secrets. How you’ve been planning your escape for years while playing the loyal underboss. How you’re willing to betray Vito for me, but you can’t understand why I might hesitate to condemn Alexei based on circumstantial evidence.”
Her words hit like physical blows, each one precisely aimed at my own hypocrisies and hidden motivations.
“That’s different,” I say weakly.
“How?” She’s close now, enough that I can see the flecks of silver in her gray eyes and feel the heat of her anger like a living thing between us. “How is your betrayal more justified than what you think Alexei is doing?”
“Because I’m trying to save both our families from war,” I snap back. “Because I’m trying to protect something worth protecting.”
“What if Alexei is doing the same thing? What if there’s more to this story than what your precious evidence shows?”
“Then tell me what it is!” I take a step closer, frustration and attraction warring in my chest. “Stop defending him and start explaining him.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?” Her voice drops to a whisper, but the intensity doesn’t diminish. “Either way, you’ve already made up your mind about where my loyalties lie.”
“Your loyalties?” I laugh bitterly. “I don’t even know what those are anymore. Every time I think I understand you, every time I think we’re building something real, you retreat behind family obligations and Petrov solidarity.”
“Real?” She practically spits the word. “You want to talk about real? Nothing about this is real, Rafa. This arrangement, this partnership, whatever the hell we think is happening between us—none of it is real. We’re both just playing roles, trying to survive in a world that wants to destroy us.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She’s so close now that I can see the rapid pulse at her throat, and I smell that intoxicating scent of blackberry and vanilla that scrambles my thoughts. “Tell me honestly—if our families weren’t forcing us together, if there was no money being stolen, no Durov threatening us—would you have given me a second thought?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m unprepared to confront. Because the honest answer is complicated, layered with attraction and respect and something deeper that I don’t have words for yet.
“I...” I start, then stop, because anything I say will either be a lie or a revelation that changes everything between us.
“Exactly.” Her smile is sharp, cutting. “We’re convenient for each other right now. I need your help with Durov. You need my cooperation to prevent a war. But let’s not pretend this is anything more than mutually beneficial deception.”
“You’re wrong.” The words come out rougher than I intend, weighted with an emotion I don’t fully understand. “Whatever this is, it’s not just convenience.”
“Prove it.”
The challenge hangs between us like a gauntlet thrown down. She’s standing inches away, chin tilted up defiantly, eyes blazing with anger and something else—something that looks suspiciously like hope wrapped in hurt.
I could kiss her right now. Close the distance between us and show her exactly how wrong she is about my motivations. It could prove that whatever’s happening between us transcends strategic alliances and family obligations.
But I don’t.
Because she’s right about one thing, we are both playing roles, both trapped in circumstances beyond our control. And kissing her now, in anger and frustration, would prove nothing except that I’m as susceptible to manipulation as anyone else.
