"I know."
"They'll have questions about why you came here alone. About why I intervened. About what kind of relationship we really have."
"Let them ask." I trace the line of his jaw, marveling at how he leans into the touch. "I'm done pretending this is just business."
"So am I."
The admission settles between us like a pact, binding and irreversible.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say, even though I know neither of us is talking about just leaving the warehouse.
We're talking about the choice. To stop running. To stop pretending. To stand in the fire of what we've become and stay there.
We walk toward the exit, and just before the door, I glance back. Yegor's body lies still in the shadows—the man who saw me as leverage, not a person. He's gone now. And with him, something else is gone too.
The part of me that believed survival was the only thing worth choosing.
Rafa's hand finds mine as we cross the threshold, his fingers curling around mine with instinctive ease. Behind us, Luca and Gio will handle the mess. The blood. The cover-up.
Ahead of us is everything that comes next—our families, the politics, the impossible question of what an alliance means when love starts to eclipse duty.
But for now, with his hand in mine, I let myself believe.
That maybe we can rewrite the rules.
That maybe we can choose us.
That maybe love, in our world, looks like this:
Dangerous. Obscene. Unholy.
And completely, irrevocably worth the cost of keeping it.
CHAPTER 31
Rafa
The safehouse feelsdifferent this time—less like a hiding place and more like a sanctuary. The adrenaline has finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makes even simple movements feel labored.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. They look normal—clean, steady, unremarkable—nothing to indicate that less than two hours ago, they took a life.
“The cleaner confirmed disposal,” I tell Kira, setting my phone aside. “Marco’s people handle these things.”
She nods from where she’s standing by the window, still wearing the clothes from tonight’s operation. Her tactical vest sits discarded on the dresser, but she hasn’t changed or cleaned up. Just stood there for the past twenty minutes, processing.
“Are you okay?” she asks without turning around.
“I should be asking you that question.”
“You’re the one who...” She trails off, finally turning to face me. “You’ve never done that before, have you? Killed someone.”
“No.” The admission feels strange, vulnerable. “I’ve been trained for it, prepared for the possibility, but no. Tonight was my first time.”
“How do you feel?”
I consider the question seriously, taking inventory of my emotional state. “Guilty that I don’t feel worse about it. Shocked at how easy it was. Certain I’d do it again without hesitation.”
