7. Pietro
Pietro
She’s hard to resist.
Even when she’s pointing a gun at my chest.
“Again,” Valaria snaps.
Wearing her red silk stilettos for the gala, she’s lethal grace.
We’re in the villa’s underground training chamber—converted wine cellar, stone walls, sweat in the air. She insisted we run through worst-case scenarios before the gala. Escape plans. Tactical drills. Improvised weapons.
She’s a perfectionist. I’m chaos wrapped in discipline. Which means we’re either going to kill each other or kiss.
Possibly both.
I pray for another kiss before I die.
“You’re too slow drawing your sidearm,” she says, circling me like a panther. “You hesitate.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?” she sneers. “My earring?”
“Your mouth.”
That stops her.
Her eyes narrow. And I know I’ve hit the mark—dead center, no armor.
“Holster the charm, Cucinotta.”
“Holster the lip gloss, Serrano.”
She lunges. I catch her wrist. Spin her. Pin her.
But she’s faster than I expected. She slams her knee between my thighs—just a warning tap, not full force. She’s dangerous like that. Mercy laced with menace.
We struggle, bodies tangled. Breath on breath. My back hits the wall. Her palm flattens against my chest—she nails her stiletto between my toes—clean through my regulation patent leather pumps for the gala.
And then?—
The lights cut out.
Total darkness.
“What the hell—” she starts.
“Backup generator’s failing,” I say.
Lights flash—dim to darkness.
A hiss. A pop.
Smoke creeps under the door. Alarms flash red.
Real danger.
“Fire,” I bark, switching to combat mode. “We need to evacuate.”
She races through the corridor— a gazelle in stilettos. I overtake her, my sidearm drawn. I throw open the door to the kitchen. Flames lick the walls. Not an accident. This was targeted.
“Stay behind me,” I growl.
“Not a chance,” she shoots back.
We move as one, side by side, clearing the rooms, sweeping for saboteurs. Nothing. No one.
Only fire. Heat scorches my face; smoke burns my lungs.
A ceiling fan falls—instinct propels me into it before it hits her—the metal blade cuts into my forearm. I shake it off—grab the fire extinguisher, yank the pin, and squeeze the handle. Foam bursts out in a hiss smothering the worst of the fire.
Valaria coughs as she radios for backup—knowing it’s likely it will arrive too late, if at all. Her voice is clear. Controlled. But her hands shake just a little.
The fire’s out, but we’re still burning—heaving breaths, hearts pounding into the silence. We stand there panting, drenched in sweat and ash. Valaria turns to me, eyes wild. “That was a message,” she says.
“Someone knows we’re here.”
She nods, throat working.
I step closer.
This time, she doesn’t stop me.
Our faces are inches apart. Her lips are ash-smudged, parted. My hand finds her jaw. I grab her face like I’m afraid she’ll vanish.
She doesn’t pull back.
I kiss her like the villa’s still burning. It’s not soft. It’s fury. It’s need. Rough. Desperate.
Like I’m trying to memorize the taste of her in case we don’t survive the night.
She kisses me back.
Fists tangled in my shirt. Teeth clashing. Mouths warring.
When we finally break, both of us breathing like we just ran a mile through fire, I rest my forehead against hers.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she whispers.
I nod.
Lie.
“It changes everything.”