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Her throaty laugh fills the space.

My chest stays tight. Something is off. I can’t say what. And I’m not sure I can ask her. Elena has never been a fan of Matteo. “I’m worried he sees through me.”

“He’s a guy who wants to fuck you. He can’t see past that,” she says, with disinterest.

“He’s not like that…” I trail off. I’m not sure what to say. What exactly Matteo is and isn’t.

“He is.” She holds the pause long enough to draw an ellipsis in the air. “I was there the whole time. He might be smart. He might be handsome⁠—"

“He’s brilliant and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.” Why am I defending a man who threw me in jail? Do I have Stockholm syndrome? What the fuck. No. I don’t get out of sorts like this.

He’s a great fuck, that’s all.

And I⁠—

I still won’t let her win this argument.

“You’re not exactly the person I’d go to for advice on a long term relationship,” I say.

She shrugs, not taking a hint of offense. “I know what I want. Do you?”

Of course.

I want to spend the rest of his life having my way with him. The fact the rest of his life ends when I say only makes it sweeter.

Or something.

Whatever.

She doesn’t know better. She doesn’t even know her Berlin lover’s last name.

Elena takes another drag of her cigarette and exhales in the general direction of the Seine. “It’s work, you know. If he had the order, he’d kill you too.”

“I don’t know if he would,” I say.

She shakes her head you’re being ridiculous. “I love you, doll, but I’m not going to watch you sacrifice everything for some guy.”

“I’m allowed to be sad I have to kill my lover.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. Of course. But she’s like me. She’s not comfortable lingering in painful emotions. She breezes straight to action. “Are you sure you don’t want me to step in for you?”

For the first time, I consider it:

The possibility I won’t be able to pull the trigger.

“How would that even work?” I ask. “You’d need an invite to Alex’s party.”

“A man like that has his parties catered and doesn’t bother to background check the help.” She shakes her head honestly, it’s too easy to kill rich assholes.

Maybe she’s right. And maybe I will let her do it. But only if it comes to that.

I shake it off. Rack my brain for any better distraction. “Let’s go to that absinthe bar and get so drunk we don’t see straight. Compete to see who can get the most phone numbers.”

She laughs. “Do you really need the handicap of going to a straight bar?”

“Get drunk and find you another Parisian lover then.”

“You’re speaking my language, doll.” She finishes her cigarette and stubs the butt on the balcony railing.