CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Artyom
The hallway feels too narrow with her this close behind me. I can hear the click of her heels, slow and measured, every sound like a reminder of what just happened in the room. The air between us is still heavy, charged in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I can still see her when I blink—the curve of her body in the half-light, the defiance in her eyes when she dared me to look. The sight of her standing there, bare and unafraid, did something to me I don’t have a name for. It crawls under my skin now, sharp and restless, refusing to fade. She hasn’t said a word since we left the suite, and I don’t blame her. If I open my mouth, I might say something I can’t take back.
We reach the elevator, the doors sliding open with that soft, mechanical sigh. She steps in first, her reflection catching mine in the mirrored walls. The black dress clings to her like sin and highlights all her curves. I should look away, but I just can’t.
Part of me still aches from stopping.
I wanted to make her come more than I’ve wanted anything in years—to feel her lose control because of me, to see what she’d sound like when she stopped fighting it. But if I had, I wouldn’t have left that room for anything. There’s no way I’d have been able to walk into this damn cocktail, shake hands, and pretend to be sane after that.
She stares straight ahead, arms crossed loosely at her waist, pretending not to notice that I’m watching her. The muscles in her shoulders are tense, her jaw set. I can feel the resentment rolling off her in waves. I deserve it. Maybe that’s why I don’t try to break the silence.
The ride down feels longer than it should. When the doors finally open, the hum of voices and faint music spills in like a release valve. The cocktail’s already started.
The room is all glass and chandeliers, the kind of wealth that doesn’t have to prove itself anymore. People in tailored suits and diamonds stand in small clusters, speaking in low tones that don’t match their smiles. The city at night glitters through the windows behind them—gold and blue and restless.
I feel Kira stiffen beside me the moment the first pair of eyes turn our way. They always look. They always whisper. Every room we walk into seems to shrink around her, like it can sense she doesn’t belong to this world and resents her for daring to stand inside it.
I rest my hand lightly at the small of her back, guiding her forward through the noise and the perfume and the low hum. She doesn’t pull away, but her body is a wire beneath my palm, trying not to give me the satisfaction of knowing she feels my touch.
“Smile,” I murmur without looking at her, my tone soft enough to sound harmless but meant as an order.
She doesn’t. Her chin lifts instead, a silent refusal that almost makes me laugh. Fine. I can do the smiling for both of us.
Heads turn as we make our way through the crowd. The familiar faces of too many enemies pretending to be friends. Luciano De Luca is near the bar, a glass of scotch in hand, watching everything like a man who already knows how it ends. Patrick O’Callaghan laughs too loud at something no one else seems to find funny. Boris Petrov isn’t here yet, but I can feel the echo of his name in the curious, expectant way people look at me.
When I stop near a small circle of Camorra and Irish men, Kira does too. She stands half a step behind me, her expression composed, eyes sharp. She’s learning. That quiet defiance looks good on her, even when she’s furious with me.
I introduce her like nothing’s wrong. Like she didn’t nearly throw something at my head an hour ago.
“This is Kira Jones,” I say evenly, my voice carrying just enough weight to quiet the nearest conversation. “My fiancée.”
The word lands heavier than I expect. I see it in the small shift of her shoulders, the breath she doesn’t quite let out. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her gaze fixed ahead, chin slightly lifted the way she does when she’s trying not to show her nerves. I keep my tone smooth, my face neutral, as if I can will the whole room to believe what neither of us fully does.
Luciano De Luca gives a polite nod, his gold ring catching the chandelier light. “A pleasure, Miss Jones.”
She returns the gesture, her lips curving into a smile that looks perfect from a distance but close up doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Likewise,” she says softly, each syllable too careful.
A man with a slick smile steps forward, extending his hand. “Miss Jones, it’s an honor,” he says, his tone just shy of patronizing.
Kira glances at me once, then takes his hand. “Thank you,” she says, voice steady, though I catch the faint tremor in her fingers before she pulls away.
Another man leans in, drink in hand. “So this is the fiancée,” he says to no one in particular, his eyes running the length of her dress. “I was expecting someone older.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “I get that a lot.” She reaches for a passing tray, takes a glass of champagne like it’s armor, and lifts it slightly toward him. “Must be the good genes.”
He blinks, caught off guard, then laughs. She doesn’t.
“Miss Jones,” one of Luciano’s lieutenants says with a polite nod. “You look lovely this evening.”
“Thank you,” she replies, a touch more confident now, the words smoother, easier. Her smile holds steady, her posture loosens by degrees.
They keep talking—small compliments, empty questions about New York—and she starts answering without hesitation. Her voice finds its rhythm, her movements slow. By the third handshake, she’s stopped fidgeting altogether. The smile still isn’t warm, but it’s convincing, and when one of the men laughs too loudly at something she says, she tips her head just slightly, pretending it doesn’t bother her.
