"Some things never change." I lean against the stone balustrade.
“I don’t know.” She studies me. “You’re even scarier looking than I remember.”
I snort. “You were never scared of me.”
She shrugs. “No. Deep down, you’re a cream puff.”
“You tell anyone that and I’ll have to kill you.”
We both laugh at that.
“Seriously, though. Except for more gray and wrinkles, nothing has changed,” I say, easing into the question I shouldn’t ask but won’t be able to stop myself from voicing.
“Why should anything change?”
“Does that mean Katerina Petrov is still around?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Valentina's smirk widens into something knowing. "Yes, big brother. Your Russian beauty still graces our halls regularly."
My chest tightens at the confirmation. Katerina. Here. The name alone sends a current through my body that I've spent seven years and countless women trying to forget.
"She's not my anything," I mutter.
Valentina laughs. "Please. All this time, and you still can't say her name without that look."
"What look?"
"Like someone punched you in the gut and you're thanking them for it."
I scowl but can't deny it. Katerina Petrov. Auburn hair that shone like fire in the sunlight. Eyes like arctic ice that somehow burned when they looked at me. The only woman who ever saw past the Dante name to the man beneath.
"It's just… strange," I say carefully. "The Bratva connection. With everything happening?—"
"You mean with Father murdered and everyone pointing fingers at the Russians?" Valentina's voice drops lower. "Yes, it's complicated her position. Alessandro keeps her close."
My jaw clenches as images of my brother fucking what’s mine flash in my mind. "How close?"
Valentina gives me a sidelong glance. "Not like that. He values her diplomatic skills. She navigates between our world and theirs better than anyone."
"Does she know I'm back?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Valentina's eyes soften, just slightly. But I think I see pity. It makes me wonder if Katerina is married. How will I not kill him if she is?
"She'll be at the funeral tomorrow,” Valentina says. “But don’t get your hopes up. When you left… things changed. She changed.”
My heart, which for a moment picked up that pace at the idea of seeing her again, screeches to a halt.
"She hates me." It's not a question.
Valentina shrugs, turning back to the roses, leaning in to sniff one. "Hate requires passion. I'm not sure she allows herself that luxury anymore." She pauses, as if she’s considering her next words. "But she flinched when your name came up at breakfast. Just for a second."
That tiny admission ignites something dangerous in my chest. Hope. The most vicious of emotions.
"Be careful, Luca," Valentina warns, suddenly sounding older than her twenty years. "Everyone's choosing sides. Even people we thought we knew."
I nod, understanding the layers in her warning. Trust no one. Not even the woman I once would have died for.
Especially not her.
