She hesitates, then walks past me down the steps, sunlight catching in her hair.
I follow a few paces behind, the ring box heavy in my pocket—the same ring my mother wore until the day she died. I told myself giving it to Kira was strategy. Looking at her now, I’m not sure I believe it.
The Italian heat hits hard, full of salt and noise and everything I can’t control. Somewhere behind my ribs, something shifts, small but dangerous. I ignore it, because control is all I have.
And because wanting her feels like the first crack in my armor I can’t afford to let widen.
CHAPTER NINE
Kira
The heat hits the second I step out of the car. It’s the kind that clings to you, heavy and alive, filling every breath with salt and sunlight. The air smells like sea and gasoline, like citrus and smoke, and for a moment, I just stand there, squinting at the brightness that burns off the pavement. Italy is louder than I imagined—horns in the distance, waves somewhere behind the hotels, people talking with their hands and their whole bodies. It feels chaotic and warm and human, which is more than I can say for the man standing next to me.
Artyom doesn’t seem to notice the heat. He doesn’t seem to noticeanything. His jacket’s still on, his shirt perfectly straight, eyes hidden behind dark lenses as if he’s immune to every ordinary discomfort.
He stands beside me like a wall—silent, solid, impossible to read—and every time his shoulder brushes mine, it’s like the air forgets how to move. I shouldn’t still be thinking about the wayhis mouth felt against mine, about the heat that rolled through me so fast it made my whole body forget what fear was. But I am. I can still taste the memory of him, the kind of kiss that feels like a threat you can’t stop wanting. I tell myself it was strategy, another one of his power games, but it’s so hard to believe it. Not when he’s this close, not when every inch of him reminds me that for one reckless heartbeat, I kissed him back.
I hate that I notice how good he looks in the sun—how the light hits his jaw, how the edges of his hair catch gold for just a second before he moves.
“Stay close,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I mutter.
“Good,” he replies without looking at me, “because if you get lost here, I won’t come looking.”
I roll my eyes, too tired to play along. “You’re all heart.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
We walk toward the entrance of the hotel, the soles of my shoes sticking slightly to the hot marble steps. The building rises above us, white stone and glass and quiet money. Inside, it’s cool and echoing, full of polished floors and slow, polite conversations. I catch glimpses of expensive luggage, tailored suits, the kind of people who look like they’ve never sweated in their lives.
And then there’s me.
I’m wearing a plain white shirt that’s already clinging to my back, and jeans that were fine in New York but feel wrong here, too casual for this place and too tight for the heat. My hair’s a mess, my nerves worse, and the man beside me looks like he walked straight out of a magazine designed to make people feel small.
A few of his men trail behind us, their steps synchronized, their expressions unreadable. Lev speaks quietly to the receptionist in rapid Italian while Artyom waits, silent and coiled. I stand next to him, pretending I’m not aware of the space between our bodies—pretending I can breathe normally.
He hasn’t spoken to me since the plane. Not about the kiss. Not about anything. And I don’t know what’s worse—the silence or the fact that part of me keeps replaying it anyway.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of his hand on my neck, the way his mouth moved against mine, the heat that rolled through my chest so fast it scared me.
“Stop overthinking,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the counter.
I blink. “I’m not.”
“You are. You get quiet when you do.”
I fold my arms. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.”
He looks down at me then, head tilting slightly. “Liar.”
I want to tell him to go to hell. Instead, I look away first.
“Artyom.”
A male voice comes from behind us, familiar to him because the moment it reaches us, something in his posture changes.
When I turn, I see the resemblance instantly.
