Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Artyom
The steam follows me out of the bathroom, warm against my back as I rub a towel over my hair, trying to shake off the heat and settle the rush still running under my skin after everything that happened downstairs.
I’m still thinking about that kiss, about the way she looked at me before she left for the bathroom, about the tension humming between us like a live wire.
But the second I step into the room, everything inside me slows.
Kira’s sitting on the edge of the bed like she’s trying to fold into the smallest version of herself, her shoulders tight, her breath shallow, eyes fixed on a magazine she’s not actually reading.
The pages aren’t moving, her gaze keeps slipping, and her fingers are clenched around the edges like she needs something to hold onto, so she doesn’t fall apart.
Something’s wrong.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, testing her reaction.
She startles slightly, then forces a smile that doesn’t even pretend to be real. “Hi.”
Her eyes flick down my body too quickly for her to pretend she didn’t look, then snap back up with a blush crawling up her throat.
Normally I’d tease her, or at least let myself smirk, but the tension in her shoulders tells me this isn’t about me walking out half-naked.
She looks like she saw a ghost and is trying to pretend she didn’t.
I drop the towel on the chair and reach for my clothes. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
It’s automatic, and she’s terrible at lying, which normally I’d find almost endearing, but not today.
I open my closet, pull out black pants and a shirt, start dressing slowly while keeping her in the corner of my eye. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, fiddling with the corner of the blanket like she needs to tear something apart just to stay upright.
“You sure?” I ask, slipping my shirt over my shoulders. “You look pale.”
Her jaw tightens. “I said I’m fine.”
That sharp, defensive tone means she’s hiding something but pushing her won’t get me answers. All it’ll do is make her shut down more, so I don’t push.
I button my shirt and walk toward her, and she goes even more still, like she’s bracing for something, and I just stand close enough that she has to feel my presence, but not enough to touch.
“I have another meeting downstairs,” I tell her. “It won’t take long.”
She swallows hard, but she nods. “Okay.”
I exhale slowly, fighting the urge to tilt her chin up so she’ll look at me and tell me what the hell happened while I was in the shower. I can feel the distance between us pulled too tight, one wrong move away from snapping.
I grab my watch, fasten it onto my wrist, then walk to the door, pausing for a moment because she’s still sitting there on the bed like she’s trying not to move too fast or too suddenly, like any shift in her body might give away whatever the hell she’s hiding.
She doesn’t look up when I pull the handle, only smooths her dress with slow, distracted movements that tell me more than any words would.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say, keeping my voice steady, softer than I mean to. “Stay here.”
She nods without lifting her eyes. “Okay.”
I open the door fully, but I stay there for another heartbeat, watching her stare down at the pages in her lap like she’s trying to disappear into it. Her breathing is too shallow, her fingers tapping anxiously against the spine, her whole body coiled tight with something she’s afraid of.
She’s hiding something that scares her, and I don’t like that at all.
I force myself to leave, pulling the door closed behind me, the sound echoing louder in the hallway than I expect.
The moment I step into the elevator, my fake calm slips for a second because I hate the feeling of walking away from her like this, with her looking that pale and tense, with her hands trembling on the blanket when she thinks I’m not watching.
By the time I make it downstairs, anyone paying attention can see the shift in my mood, because the second I step into the meeting room and catch all their eyes turning toward me.
Boris with his constant irritation, the Irishmen whispering among themselves, Marco pretending he’s relaxed even though he keeps bouncing his knee under the table, Luciano De Luca sitting at the head like he was carved straight into the chair, and two of his lieutenants hovering behind him like shadows.
I already feel the atmosphere tighten around the room.
And this time, there’s someone else.
The man from last night, the one who teased Kira during the party, stands near the wall, half-hidden behind the lieutenants, flipping through a tablet.
He’s wearing the same dark tailored jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, not for comfort but because his wrist is wrapped tight in a thick bandage, the skin around it swollen and bruised in dark, angry shades, a reminder of the moment I snapped it without hesitation.
I study him for a beat, trying to place him, but before I can, one of the lieutenants calls out in a clipped tone, “Raffaele.”
So that’s his name.
He glances up briefly when he hears his name, catching my stare head-on for a second before dipping his chin in a professional acknowledgment that doesn’t soften anything in his face.
I sit next to Mikhail, opposite Luciano, dropping into the chair with a heaviness I don’t bother hiding, my hands resting flat on the table, my jaw tight enough to ache.
I nod once, waiting for him to speak, but part of my mind is still two floors above us, in that room where Kira was gripping a magazine she wasn’t reading and looking like she was one breath away from shattering.
It’s hard to focus, but I pull myself back into the present because this is not the meeting I can afford to tune out of.
Luciano finally leans forward, elbows resting on the polished table, his expression carved into something sharp and unreadable as he says, in that steady, controlled tone that always carries more threat than shouting ever could, “Mikhail briefed me on what happened last night, but I need the details from you directly. Those things do not happen in my hotel. Not under Camorra protection.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his words hits the room clean and quiet, and both lieutenants straighten behind him, their stances going rigid in a way that tells me they heard the warning woven under every syllable.
He fixes his eyes on me, steady and direct. “Tell me exactly how it happened.”
I hold his stare for a long second, letting the room settle, letting the silence stretch just enough so everyone here understands I’m not sugar-coating a damn thing. Then I lean back in my chair, resting one arm over the back of it, my voice low and even when I finally speak.
“It started with a noise,” I say. “Metal scraping. I was already awake. I saw the door handle move before the lock clicked, so I told Kira not to move. The second the door opened, the guy rushed in fast.”
Gregorio shifts in his seat, but I ignore him.
“He went straight for her,” I continue. “Didn’t look at me, or scan the room, didn’t even hesitate.”
Luciano’s jaw tightens a fraction, subtle but there.
“I intercepted him before he made it three steps,” I say. “He fought back, but he wasn’t trained enough to make it. He tried to use a knife against me, and I slit his throat with it. It was over in less than ten seconds.”
One of the lieutenants clears his throat quietly, but Luciano doesn’t look away from me.
“Any indication who sent him?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “But he was prepared. Someone gave him her location and told him exactly what to do. And he didn’t care about getting out alive.”
Luciano nods once, fingers tapping slowly against the table, thinking. “Where is the body now?”
“Mikhail handled it,” I say.
A tiny smirk twitches in Mikhail’s direction.
He shrugs. “All clean.”
Enzo makes a disgusted noise under his breath, but I don’t entertain it.
Luciano continues, “Did the man say anything? Anything at all?”
“No. He wasn’t there to talk.” I pause. “He went for her because she was the target.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
Marco leans forward, frowning. “Why her? Why not you? Why not both?”
I don’t answer immediately, because I don’t like the truth swirling in the back of my mind. He’s right, if this was random, the guy would’ve gone for whoever he could get his hands on.
Luciano watches me with sharp eyes, reading the silence. “Whoever sent that man wasn’t trying to provoke you,” he says quietly. “They were trying to take her.”
The words hit the table like another blow, and for a moment the room feels too tight, too still.
“That means someone inside my hotel helped them,” Luciano adds, his voice calm. “Or looked the other way. We will find out who, and when we do… it will be handled.”
Luciano turns to me again. “Is she safe now?”
“She’s upstairs,” I say.
“And you’re sure she’s okay?”
That… I don’t answer right away, because I don’t know. She wasn’t okay when I left.
“She’s fine,” I say eventually. “Just shaken.”
Luciano studies me for a moment, then nods slowly, accepting the answer even though he knows I’m holding back more than I’m saying.
He shifts his attention to the rest of the table. “Security is doubled on all floors. No one moves without my permission. Until we know who did this, no one breathes in this hotel without my men knowing about it.”
“If it’s an inside job,” Boris mutters, almost to himself but loud enough for all of us to hear. “We’ll have to answer it in blood.”