“Wasn’t it?” She finally closes the laptop, giving me her full attention with the kind of clinical detachment she might show a particularly tedious business meeting. “Two people ina high-stress situation, alone together, experiencing heightened emotional states due to recent trauma. It was just sex. Physical intimacy as a coping mechanism is entirely predictable.”
“Predictable,” I repeat the word like it tastes bitter. “Is that your professional assessment, Dr. Petrov?”
“It’s my realistic assessment of a situation that got briefly out of hand.” She stands, moving toward the coffee maker with deliberate casualness. “It won’t happen again.”
“Why?” The question comes out rougher than I intended. “Because it was meaningless, or because it meant too much?”
Her hand freezes on the coffee pot for just a fraction of a second—so brief I almost miss it. Then the mask slides back into place.
“Because it was a distraction we can’t afford,” she says with infuriating calm. “We have more important things to focus on than temporary lapses in judgment.”
“Temporary lapses in—” I catch myself before saying something I regret. “You know what, Petrov? Fine. If that’s how you want to play this, fine.”
“I’m not playing anything. I’m being practical.”
“Right. Practical.” I grab my jacket from the back of a chair, desperate to escape her calculated indifference. “Wouldn’t want to let emotions cloud your judgment.”
“Emotions are a luxury people like us can’t afford.”
“People like us,” I echo. “You mean criminals? Or cowards?”
This time, the mask slips completely. Fire flashes in her eyes, her composure cracking just enough to show the real Kira underneath—the one who kissed me like she was drowning and I was air.
“I’m not a coward,” she says quietly, but with deadly intensity.
“No?” I step closer, close enough to see the rapid pulse at her throat that betrays her affected calm. “Then what wouldyou call someone who runs away from the first real thing that’s happened to them in years or if ever?”
“Smart,” she replies without hesitation. “I’d call them smart.”
The finality in her voice tells me this conversation is over. She’s made her choice, drawn her lines, and retreated behind apparently impenetrable walls.
Fine. I can play that game too.
“We should head back to the city,” I say, matching her professional tone. “Analyze the intelligence properly, plan our next move.”
“Agreed.”
The drive back to Manhattan passes in tense silence, both of us staring out our respective windows at the changing landscape. Every mile that carries us away from the safehouse feels like another layer of distance being constructed between us.
By the time we reach the city, it’s as if the previous night never happened at all.
---
That evening, my apartment
The bottle of Scotch is half empty when the knock comes at my door. I consider ignoring it—I’m in no mood for company, especially not the kind that asks questions I don’t want to answer.
But the knocking persists, accompanied by Luca’s voice calling through the reinforced wood.
“Open up, fratello. We know you’re in there.”
I unlock the multiple deadbolts with clumsy fingers, revealing not just Luca but also Gio and Sal. The concerned expressions on all three faces tell me my recent radio silence hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“You look like shit,” Luca observes with his usual tact, pushing past me into the apartment.
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“When’s the last time you showered?” Gio asks, following Luca inside. “Or slept? Or answered your phone?”
