She settles deeper into the seat, one leg folding under her, dress gathered carelessly over her thighs like she stopped giving a fuck the second we left.
Her heels are off. One is tipped over near the floor mat. The other somehow made it halfway under the seat. She catches me looking and lifts a brow.
“What?”
“You’re a mess.”
“And yet,” she says, taking another bite, “you’re obsessed with me.”
That gets a smirk out of me. “Obsessed is a strong word.”
She turns her head then, slow and unimpressed. “Maksim. Lies don’t suit you.”
“Fine,” I say, reaching over to drag my thumb across the corner of her mouth where a few crumbs clung. “Maybe a little.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Sharp. Amused. Warm in that guarded way she gets when she doesn’t want to show too much of anything.
Then she looks down at what’s left of the empanada and says, “Still not sharing.”
“Selfish.”
“Survival instinct.”
I huff and look back to the road.
The city slides by outside in long ribbons of light. For a minute, that’s all it is. The hum of the engine. Her beside me. The taste of whiskey stilllow on my tongue. Her perfume mixing with fried dough and meat and the faint sweet scent of marshmallow.
Mine.
My phone lights up across the dash.
LUCIANO.
I answer without thinking. “Aren’t you suppose to be on your honeymoon?”
“Turn around.”
Every part of me stills.
Cold.
I glance at Ayla, then back at the road. “Why?”
A beat.
Then Luciano says, flat and vicious, “Valentina’s been taken.”
My grip tightens around the wheel. “How?”
“She was taken right after Santo and Vasilisa left.”
Ayla straightens beside me, the empanada forgotten in her hand.
“You got footage?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Send it.”
