His mouth is still curling around the last word when I feel the snap in my chest, a hot spark of violence that comes before thought.
One second I’m standing a few paces away from him; the next I’ve crossed the space so fast the air moves around me. I grab him by the collar and slam him back into the marble wall hard enough that the picture frame above him rattles.
His eyes go wide as my hand closes around his throat, fingers digging into the flesh the way a vise closes around metal. He chokes, boots scraping against the floor as he tries to find footing.
“Say it again,” I growl, my face inches from his. “Say it again and see how fast I take your tongue out of your mouth.”
He sputters, grabbing at my wrist, trying to pry my fingers loose. His face turns red, veins popping along his temple, the sound of his labored breath filling the room.
Mikhail is the only one who steps forward.
“That’s enough,” he says calmly.
I ignore him.
Raffaele tries to wheeze something—an apology maybe—but I tighten my grip. The room closes in. My pulse pounds hardenough I can hear it in my ears. A flash of last night hits me, the fear in Kira’s eyes, and the rage swells again.
I lean in, my hand tightening so hard his boots lift off the ground for a second.
“You mock me again,” I say, my voice low, deadly calm, “and I’ll kill you. You speak her name again with that tone, and I’ll make sure they never find your body. Understand?”
His lips move but no sound comes out. He nods violently instead.
Mikhail puts a hand on my shoulder. “Artyom. He’s done.”
I hold another second, just to make sure he will never forget it, then I release him. Raffaele gasps, stumbling to his knees, coughing hard, clutching his throat with both hands. His face is the color of raw meat.
I straighten my shirt and glance at him once.
“You should be careful,” I say quietly.
Mikhail guides me back with a firm hand, muttering under his breath, “You almost killed him.”
Behind us, the room remains silent. No one jokes now. No one even breathes too loudly. Every man in that lobby understandsexactly what I meant and exactly how close Raffaele came to dying with his back against that marble wall.
Mikhail keeps a hand on my shoulder for another second, mostly to make sure I’m done and not because he thinks he can actually stop me if I decide otherwise. When he finally lets go, I roll my neck once, slow, releasing the last crack of tension, and straighten my shirt.
I turn away from all of them and start walking across the lobby. My shoes hit the marble with slow, controlled steps, but the anger is still running underneath my skin, hot and steady, making my hands curl into fists without me realizing it. I reach the elevator and jab the button harder than I need to, my reflection staring back at me in the polished metal of the doors.
And the only thought left in my head is simple: I need to see her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kira
I’m halfway under the bed with my arm stretched so far that my shoulder is pressed against the floorboards, my hair falling into my face, and the only thing I hear is my own annoyed exhale echoing in the small space, when the door swings open. I’m already frustrated, already sweating a little, already mentally retracing every step I took this morning, so it takes me a second to register the way the air shifts when he steps into the room.
“Kira,” Artyom says, and the sound of his voice is enough to make my elbow slip against the floor, but I keep reaching, fingers brushing against dust.
“Not now,” I mumble, pulling back and sitting upright, brushing hair out of my eyes as I scan the room again, my gaze flicking from the nightstand to the dresser to the suitcase I just emptied on the floor.
He closes the door behind him and walks farther inside, his eyes following the trail of clothes, the open drawers, the flipped blanket, and the fact that I’m kneeling in the middle of it all like I’m trying to summon chaos.
“We have to leave,” he says, calm but firm, like he expects me to get up immediately.
“I figured,” I say, already crawling toward the dresser. “But I can’t go until I find it.”
“What,” he says, the word long and flat, “is it?”
