Chapter 8
The sky is still a soft, hazy indigo when I wake, the sunrise resting just below the horizon. It’s so early that even the city that never sleeps is still quiet. Not the apartment, though—my brother, Enzo, and Nikolai are making more than enough noise downstairs to rouse me.
I make my way toward the quieting commotion and pad barefoot into the living room with my arms wrapped around my chest, regretting not putting on more clothes before coming down here.
Cillian is in the kitchen, struggling with the telescopic handle on a small carry-on suitcase.
His dark red hair is wet, and his tight jaw and furrowed brows make him appear years older than twenty-nine .
“Are you sure you have to go?” I ask, my voice still rough and scratchy with sleep.
He glances up at me as he fidgets with the handle, and his sincere expression softens. “We’ve talked about this, Eav.”
“I know. Just…” My words trail off as I try to find the right ones. I can’t exactly tell him I don’t want to be left here with Enzo. “Just asking again, on the off chance you’re going to change your mind.”
He sighs as he stands, leaving him suddenly towering over me.
“I need to go make nice with Sargsyan. Explain that we’re pulling out of the deal our fathers made.
We need him to believe we had nothing to do with what happened to his brother and that we want peace.
Trying to bring our three families together will be a tough enough feat.
We don’t need a fourth trying to tip the scales.
And we definitely don’t need him coming after us. After you. ”
I gulp at his final words. After me . Our family.
The Roseti and Romanov families are the ones I expected that I would need to be kept safe from.
I somehow thought that with Sargsyan dead, the Armenians wouldn’t be an issue anymore.
The last reason I want Cillian to fly halfway around the world is for me, but the three of them made it very clear last night that this was part of the plan well before I was carried into it kicking and screaming.
Stepping toward him, I hug him tightly. He hugs me back and groans as I squeeze him, shifting his weight. “You okay?” I ask, pulling back from our embrace to look up at his face .
“The couch,” he mutters. “When I get back, we’re figuring out some new sleeping arrangements. I want my bed back.”
“She can sleep in mine.” Enzo’s smooth and flirtatious voice cuts through the room like a knife.
When I step away from Cillian, I expect to find Enzo with that smug smirk behind me.
And like clockwork, there it is. Leaning casually against the kitchen island, his dark hair is tousled from sleep, and he somehow still looks like he just stepped out of a GQ photo shoot.
Barefoot. Gray cotton pants resting low on his hips.
A soft black Henley that clings just right—enough that I’m remembering exactly what he looks underneath it.
Near certain he’s baiting me, I stare at him silently for a moment. “You’d give up your room for me?” I ask warily.
“I never said I wouldn’t be in it, princess.” His smirk widens to a full-on grin.
Turning away fast enough that my hair swings behind me, I snip, “In your dreams.” And mine.
Because if my dreams are going to continue anything like last night, they are far too detailed—with an unwelcome co-star’s deep brown eyes staring at me as his warm hands roam over my skin with finesse, knowing exactly what they’re doing.
My sex life in my dreams is a thousand times better than my nonexistent real one. It’s infuriating.
His eyes glancing between the two of us, Cillian lets out a deep sigh, but he doesn’t say a word about Enzo’s offer. He gives me one last look, then nods to Enzo. “Take care of her.”
Enzo returns the movement, and his tone is sincere when he vows, “Always.” I’ll try not to read into that .
“You ready?” Nikolai calls from the front door. “Our car to Teterboro is waiting out front.”
“Yeah,” Cillian mutters, not turning his attention from me. “You’ll be safe here. Please, do as Enzo says.”
The two of them leave, and the front door clicks shut before I’m given a chance to protest. The tension that suddenly fills the apartment is so thick I can barely breathe. I’m alone… with him.
I spend the entire day trying to keep myself occupied. Drifting from room to room, I don’t really settle anywhere for long. Cleaning the pantry to feel useful. Reading a book—of which I didn’t comprehend a word. Desperately trying to appear busy.
He’s unusually quiet today, hardly speaking at all.
Each pass of the living room is the same—the searing heat of Enzo’s gaze like a brand across my skin when he glances up from his phone or the Sports Illustrated he’s reading.
He just watches me from his spot on the couch, like he’s expecting me to crack first. He’s going to be waiting a long time.
I would give him credit for the space he’s giving me, but it feels intentional—like a predator giving their prey just enough rope to walk themselves into a trap.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he announces, breaking the silence as he slips on a pair of loafers. “I’m going to run across the street to pick up dinner. Try to behave while I’m gone.”
“Don’t count on it,” I mutter, but he’s already out the door .
As promised, he returns within a few minutes with a white plastic bag in one hand and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. The mouth-watering aroma of Chinese food follows his every step—ginger, garlic, and something spicy. Against my will, my stomach growls angrily.
“Good. You’re hungry,” he teases, unpacking the paper cartons onto the white granite of the island. “I didn’t think to ask what you liked before leaving, so I got a little of everything.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out wine glasses, promptly pouring two generous servings of a deep red Grenache.
The food is surprisingly good—although I am starving and would eat anything right now. That tiny peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had at lunch didn’t quite tide me over. We eat in silence, the two of us perched at the kitchen island. It’s almost peaceful.
Almost .
“You always this quiet, princess?” Enzo asks around a mouthful of rice.
“You always so cocky?”
“Yes.” He chuckles smugly, somehow lifting the heaviness that’s been hanging in the air since I got here.
We pass the takeout containers between us, the conversation growing easier as the evening progresses—and I am suddenly feeling far too comfortable with him. It’s the wine. It has to be the wine .
“Rude!” I playfully scoff when he inadvertently insults my well-worn black leggings. “You’re one to talk. You’re literally a walking Italian mafia cliché.”
He lowers his chopsticks and stares at me with a slightly gaped mouth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The suits. The silk ties. The fancy shoes.” I wave a hand at his outfit. “The only thing missing from your Tony Soprano starter kit is the velour tracksuit and a cigar.”
He glares at me, clearly insulted. And I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. A loud, obnoxious howl rising from my belly. I haven’t laughed like this in days. Weeks, maybe. But it feels good, even if it is in front of him.
Shaking his head, he watches me with an unreadable expression. I try to place it as I finish the rest of my wine—amusement, maybe. Interest. Hunger.
I reach for the bottle, and his hand lands over mine when we both grab it at the same time—the lightheartedness of our meal immediately fizzling out.
It’s just a brush of his skin against mine.
But it’s electric—a spark that travels up my arm and settles somewhere deep in my core.
The way he stares back at me, it’s like he knows exactly what he is doing to me.
I tear my hand away, nearly spilling the bottle of wine.
“It’s late… I should probably go to bed,” I blurt, standing abruptly from my stool, almost toppling it as well.
Enzo leans back in his barstool, arms folded across his chest and that damn smirk on his face again. “It’s only eight thirty. But if you’re that eager, princess… ”
“Alone!” I snap, feeling a warmth caused by something other than the wine flushing my cheeks.
He chuckles softly. “Sure.”
I head toward the spiral staircase, fighting the urge to look back at him over my shoulder. But I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching. His gaze is boring through my skin.
When I reach Cillian’s room, I lean against the back of the door and let out a shaky breath. Two days. Cillian will be home in two more days. If I somehow survive the next forty-eight hours alone with Enzo Roseti and his smug, maddening, too-pretty face, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.