Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Kira
The heat hits the second I step out of the car.
It’s the kind that clings to you, heavy and alive, filling every breath with salt and sunlight.
The air smells like sea and gasoline, like citrus and smoke, and for a moment, I just stand there, squinting at the brightness that burns off the pavement.
Italy is louder than I imagined—horns in the distance, waves somewhere behind the hotels, people talking with their hands and their whole bodies.
It feels chaotic and warm and human, which is more than I can say for the man standing next to me.
Artyom doesn’t seem to notice the heat. He doesn’t seem to notice anything. His jacket’s still on, his shirt perfectly straight, eyes hidden behind dark lenses as if he’s immune to every ordinary discomfort.
He stands beside me like a wall—silent, solid, impossible to read—and every time his shoulder brushes mine, it’s like the air forgets how to move.
I shouldn’t still be thinking about the way his mouth felt against mine, about the heat that rolled through me so fast it made my whole body forget what fear was.
But I am. I can still taste the memory of him, the kind of kiss that feels like a threat you can’t stop wanting.
I tell myself it was strategy, another one of his power games, but it’s so hard to believe it.
Not when he’s this close, not when every inch of him reminds me that for one reckless heartbeat, I kissed him back.
I hate that I notice how good he looks in the sun—how the light hits his jaw, how the edges of his hair catch gold for just a second before he moves.
“Stay close,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I mutter.
“Good,” he replies without looking at me, “because if you get lost here, I won’t come looking.”
I roll my eyes, too tired to play along. “You’re all heart.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
We walk toward the entrance of the hotel, the soles of my shoes sticking slightly to the hot marble steps.
The building rises above us, white stone and glass and quiet money.
Inside, it’s cool and echoing, full of polished floors and slow, polite conversations.
I catch glimpses of expensive luggage, tailored suits, the kind of people who look like they’ve never sweated in their lives.
And then there’s me.
I’m wearing a plain white shirt that’s already clinging to my back, and jeans that were fine in New York but feel wrong here, too casual for this place and too tight for the heat.
My hair’s a mess, my nerves worse, and the man beside me looks like he walked straight out of a magazine designed to make people feel small.
A few of his men trail behind us, their steps synchronized, their expressions unreadable. Lev speaks quietly to the receptionist in rapid Italian while Artyom waits, silent and coiled. I stand next to him, pretending I’m not aware of the space between our bodies—pretending I can breathe normally.
He hasn’t spoken to me since the plane. Not about the kiss. Not about anything. And I don’t know what’s worse—the silence or the fact that part of me keeps replaying it anyway.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of his hand on my neck, the way his mouth moved against mine, the heat that rolled through my chest so fast it scared me.
“Stop overthinking,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the counter.
I blink. “I’m not.”
“You are. You get quiet when you do.”
I fold my arms. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.”
He looks down at me then, head tilting slightly. “Liar.”
I want to tell him to go to hell. Instead, I look away first.
“Artyom.”
A male voice comes from behind us, familiar to him because the moment it reaches us, something in his posture changes.
When I turn, I see the resemblance instantly.
The man walking toward us is younger, maybe by a few years, but sharper somehow—where Artyom is stillness, this one moves like the world bends for him.
His hair is lighter, his eyes a colder gray, and his smile is the kind that could start fights.
He’s not dressed like Artyom either. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, tattoos slipping out from under the fabric, every inch of him screaming trouble.
“Brother,” the man says, grinning wide.
“Mikhail.” Artyom’s voice doesn’t change, but there’s something there—something like exhaustion wrapped in affection.
Mikhail doesn’t wait for an invitation. He crosses the space between them in three long strides and pulls Artyom into a rough embrace that looks more like a challenge than a greeting. Artyom lets him for a second, then he pulls back with a quiet, “You look like hell.”
Mikhail laughs. “And you look like someone’s accountant. What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Something that fits.”
“That’s debatable.”
I can’t help it—I smile. Just a little.
Mikhail notices. “And who’s this?” he asks, eyes sliding toward me. “You’re definitely not one of ours.”
Artyom steps in before I can answer. “Kira. My fiancée.”
The title hits harder than it should. I almost flinch.
“Fiancée?” Mikhail echoes, looking between us, amused. “You got engaged on the flight?”
“Something like that,” Artyom says.
Mikhail laughs again, loud and genuine. “You’re kidding. He told me he was incapable of commitment.”
“Still am,” Artyom mutters.
Mikhail gives me a long, curious look. “Well, congratulations. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Probably both,” I say before I can stop myself.
He barks out a laugh, delighted. “I like her.”
Artyom’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Don’t.”
“Relax, brother. I’m not stealing your wife.”
“She’s not—” Artyom stops himself, jaw flexing once, then glances at me. “She’s waiting for a keycard, Mikhail. Not conversation.”
“Touchy,” Mikhail says, still grinning. He leans closer to me, voice dropping. “You must be doing something right.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the sound of heels on marble cuts through the room like a blade.
I turn just in time to see a woman.
Even before I know her name, I know what she is—the kind of woman who walks into a room and makes the air go thin.
She looks like she’s been carved for admiration: tall, elegant, her dark hair pinned with jeweled clips that catch the light.
Her dress is pale silk, her perfume expensive and deliberate.
She moves like someone who’s used to being watched, and she knows it.
Her eyes find Artyom first. Of course they do. The smile that forms is slow, practiced, designed to look natural but sharpened enough to cut.
“Artyom,” she says, voice honeyed, accent soft but deliberate. “It’s been too long.”
He straightens. “Irina.”
She steps closer, ignoring everyone else in the room. “I almost didn’t believe the rumors.”
“What rumors?” he asks, though I think he already knows.
“That you were finally bringing….” her gaze flickers to me then, and the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, “…someone. And now I see why.”
Something about her tone makes my skin prickle. I should look away, but I don’t.
“Irina,” Artyom says, steady, controlled, “this is Kira. My fiancée.”
Her eyes drag over me, slow and assessing, from the scuffed edge of my shoes to the hair I haven’t had time to brush since we landed. It’s not subtle. It’s a dissection.
“I see,” she says finally. “How… unexpected.”
The words land like a slap.
“Unexpected?” I say before I can stop myself. “Why?”
For the first time, Irina’s perfect smile falters, only for a breath, and Mikhail chokes on a laugh behind us.
Artyom glances at me, expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something dark and almost pleased.
Irina recovers fast. “I imagine it must be difficult, keeping up with Artyom, that’s all.”
“Not really,” I say. “He makes it so easy for me.”
Her brows lift, and the air goes taut. Artyom clears his throat, calm but warning. “That’s enough.”
I press my lips together, staring at the marble instead of her. My pulse is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the low murmur of the lobby. I can’t tell if it’s anger or nerves or just the leftover heat from him standing too close. I hate that I can’t tell the difference.
Irina turns back to him like I’ve already been dismissed, her smile stretching just enough to look gracious. “You’re staying here, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So are we,” she says, voice syrup-smooth, the sound of someone who’s used to winning. “My father insisted. Old friends should stay close.”
“Friends,” Mikhail mutters, too low for most people to hear. Artyom’s sharp look is instant.
Irina pretends not to notice. “He’s very eager to see you, Artyom. It’s been… what, two years? He still speaks of you often.”
“Does he?” Artyom’s tone is polite, but there’s something underneath it—something cold enough to slice through the air between them.
She tilts her head, studying him. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“It depends on what he’s saying.”
That earns him a faint smile, more teeth this time. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Her perfume drifts between us again—something floral, heavy, expensive.
It makes the space feel smaller, like she’s filling every inch of it on purpose.
I step back before I realize I’ve moved.
Artyom’s hand flicks slightly, a gesture I think he doesn’t even mean to make—half a motion toward me, then stillness again.
Mikhail catches it, his grin widening. “Looks like the reunion’s already tense. Can’t wait to see dinner tonight.”
“Shut up,” Artyom says quietly, not even looking at him.
Irina laughs lightly. “Don’t be so serious. It’s only dinner. My father has… questions, that’s all.” Her gaze slides to me again, assessing, cruelly amused. “And I’m sure he’ll have a few for your fiancée too.”
Something in Artyom’s posture shifts—so small I almost don’t see it, but I do.
He’s bracing for something. That realization sends a pulse of unease through me, quick and sharp.
Whatever’s coming, he’s already preparing for it, already building the wall I’ll never get through.
I want to ask what she means, but I don’t.
I just stand there, pretending I don’t feel the weight in the air or the way my stomach twists at the thought of what kind of man could make him tense.
Irina looks pleased with herself, like she’s the only one who knows the secret. Maybe she is. Maybe everyone in this room has read the script except me, and I’m standing here waiting for my cue.
The elevator behind us dings softly, breaking the quiet.
Irina’s smile sharpens. “Speak of the devil.”
When I turn, I see the man stepping out is older but built like he could still break someone in half with a single swing. Every movement deliberate, slow, confident, like a predator. The noise in the lobby seems to fade as he walks toward us, each step echoing off marble and glass.
He looks first at Artyom, then at me. And the smile that curves his mouth is the kind that is not a welcome.