Then again, maybe it’s not possible. I don’t belong to him. I’m a pawn between the Bratva and the Dante family.
Now when Luca is finally feeling a part of his family, maybe he doesn’t want to upset the tenuous connection by taking me and Enzo with him when he leaves.
Luca's eyes darken, and he leans down, capturing my mouth with his. The kiss is slow, deliberate, a promise I don’t think he can keep. Heat coils in my belly as his hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips.
I kiss him back, trying to lose myself in the moment, in the feel of his body against mine.
But even as desire floods through me, a tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Forty-eight hours is all we have left.
And when it's over, will I be strong enough to let him go again?
We break apart at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and I step back, crossing my arms over my chest like that can protect my heart.
A part of me wants him to leave now.
To end this torturous purgatory.
But another part wants to throw myself back into his arms, savor every second we have left.
He steps closer, backing me against the wall. “Stop fighting us."
"You make it sound so easy."
"It's not." His forehead touches mine. "But some things are worth the fight."
I close my eyes, unable to protect myself when he’s so close. He must know it, as his lips brush mine again, and I'm caught again.
As Luca's lips leave mine, my phone vibrates in my pocket. When I check it, the screen displays a blocked number, and my stomach drops. I step back, breaking our connection.
"I need to take this.”
Luca's eyes narrow. "Who is it?"
I force a casual shrug. "Probably work. Give me a minute?"
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens. But he nods once, giving me space.
I slip outside the room and head to the terrace, closing the French doors behind me. "Hello?"
"Katerina."
I recognize the voice immediately and my blood runs cold. "Maksim." I look over my shoulder to make sure Luca can't hear. He’s standing inside, his dark, knowing eyes watching with concern.
I turn away again. “Why are you calling me?” He rarely ever does. He worked closer with Pyotr.
A low chuckle vibrates through the line. "We've known each other too long for me to delegate this conversation, don't you think?"
The Pakhan’s voice carries a casual warmth, but I know it’s fake. I've seen Maksim Vasiliev shoot a man between the eyes while discussing the weather with the same pleasant tone.
"I'm sorry about Pyotr," he continues. "A regrettable loss. He was always so… dedicated to our cause."
"What do you want?"
"Want? To check on you, of course." His voice drips with false concern. "After all, you're living with your brother's killer. How are you managing that particular arrangement?"
"I'm fine," I say carefully. "The situation is complicated."
