Chapter 41
Lily’s still asleep when my phone vibrates against the nightstand the next morning.
She’s sprawled across the bed, hair a dark spill over the pillow, lashes fluttering faintly as she dreams. She looks peaceful, and so dangerously unaware of the war raging inside my chest. She looks like sin and salvation wrapped up in silk sheets, and for a second, I consider letting the phone keep ringing until it dies.
But I’m already lying to half the people who matter. Ignoring this won’t make it better.
Antonio’s reply to my carefully constructed story about a deal going sideways back home—and my conveniently vague timeline for returning—had been full of suspicion.
It’s clear he doesn’t like not knowing when I’ll be back, and he definitely doesn’t like being shut out.
The fact he thinks I’m in London instead of Lyon, tangled up with the one woman I shouldn’t be anywhere near, only makes the knot in my gut tighter.
With a quiet curse, I ease out of bed and grab the phone before it can wake her.
The name on the screen stops me short.
Owen.
I step into the kitchen, the tiles cold under my bare feet. Her presence lingers everywhere—her perfume clinging to the air, sweet and warm, like she might appear behind me at any second and wrap herself around my waist.
The phone rings again.
“Owen?” I murmur, voice still rough with sleep.
His voice comes through urgently, talking a hundred miles an hour like stopping for breath is a waste of time he can’t afford. “We’ve got movement. There’s a shipment coming out of Turin tonight or tomorrow. Nico’s signature is all over the paperwork, and I don’t think—”
“This shipment isn’t wine,” I cut him off, dragging a hand through my hair. My chest tightens, and I feel the heat of adrenaline threading through my veins. The truth settles over me like a weight I can’t shrug off.
“Exactly.”
I glance back towards the bedroom door, pulse thudding loud in my ears. Lily’s in there. Asleep, safe, unaware that the fragile pocket of normal we’ve carved out for ourselves is already collapsing.
“I’ll be there by this afternoon,” I sigh.
The words land like a verdict. There’s no room for hesitation anymore.
Years of dead ends and buried bodies and almosts—it could all come down to this.
If we get our hands on that shipment, it might finally be over.
I’m not missing the chance to put this shit to bed, to get answers, and if I’m really lucky, revenge.
Owen exhales slowly. “You sure that’s smart? You’ve been keeping your distance for a reason.”
“I know,” I say, my voice dropping before I can stop it. “But if there’s a chance to catch them in the act, I’m not sitting on my hands.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll tell Antonio Da needs me in the Pit. He’ll buy it.”
I don’t say that Antonio already thinks I’m in London.
I don’t say that leaving Lily feels like tearing something vital out of my chest.
I definitely don’t say that every instinct I have is screaming at me to stay.
“Alright,” Owen says finally. “We’ll be ready.”
The call ends, and for a moment, I just stand there, the silence pressing against me. The kind of silence that feels too still, like the air before a storm. The fragile bubble of domestic peace I’d been living in has just burst.
When I step back into the bedroom, the early morning sun spills over Lily, nudging her awake.
Her eyes flutter open—lazy, and soft—the kind of sleepy that makes you forget what world you live in.
She blinks up at me, momentarily disoriented, then smiles that small, unguarded curve of her lips that could bring a man to his knees.
For a heartbeat, I consider crawling back into bed and pretending Owen never called.
Pretending this moment is all that exists.
“Morning,” she yawns, voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The simple intimacy tightens my chest. The last forty-eight hours have given me more than I dared hope for, and walking away now feels like tearing open something that hasn’t even had time to heal.
But at the same time, it feels like we’re closer than ever to answers.
To revenge and moving the hell on with our lives.
“I have to go to London,” I say quietly. “Owen thinks they’ve got a lead.”
Her brow furrows. “Salvatore?”
“Maybe.” I hesitate. “It could be nothing, but—”
“It could be everything,” she finishes for me, already pushing herself up, the sheet slipping down her shoulder with the movement. “You’ll be careful?”
Always. But promises aren’t a luxury I can afford, not when the wrong move could get people killed.
Instead, I take her hand and press my mouth to her knuckles.
Her skin is warm under my lips, her pulse steady beneath my thumb on her wrist, grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.
For a moment, the noise fades—the work, the lies, the blood and fallout waiting for me on the other side of this choice.
“I’ll call when I land,” I say instead. “And I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
My voice is even, but every part of me is pulling in the opposite direction. I don’t want to leave her, not when being near her feels like the only thing keeping the world from closing in.
She nods, understanding settling quietly between us.
We both know this has to happen. That stepping away now is the price of finishing this properly.
Still, the weight of it presses hard against my ribs, and I hold her hand in mine for as long as I dare, memorising the warmth I’ll be chasing the entire way.
I kiss her once more, slower this time—the taste of her, the soft exhale she presses against my mouth, like she’s trying to hold me there.
Every second drags, each heartbeat screaming that I don’t want to let go.
But I pull away before I can change my mind, before desire and fear collide and I lose all sense of control.
I linger close, our foreheads nearly touching, breathing in the faint scent of her, soaking in the warmth of her.
Leaving her is the last thing I want, but staying isn’t an option, not yet.
And the ache of it, the desperate pull between us, settles deep in my chest, making every step toward the door feel like a betrayal.
The flight passes in that strange, hollow way time does when you’re not really inside it. Morning bleeds into afternoon, sunlight crawling across the cabin walls, but none of it lands. The city disappears beneath the clouds, the engines hum, and I register none of it.
All I can see is Lily—tangled in the sheets, that sleepy, trusting smile, her fingers laced through mine like she was handing me something fragile and hoping I wouldn’t drop it.
The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can go home to her. What that home looks like, I don’t know, but for the first time, I don’t care. The past year has shown me that as long as she’s by my side, everything else is inconsequential.
When the plane dips through the clouds over London, it feels like slipping back into an old skin—a touch too tight, like in the two months I’ve been away, I’ve outgrown here.
The air that greets me is colder, sharper.
Even the sky looks different here. I feel like a completely different version of myself than the last time I was here in a way I could never have predicted.
I check in with Antonio as I leave the terminal, clearing customs and escaping the overhead announcements.
“Still in London,” I lie easily, voice sure and steady, giving nothing away. “This deal’s a fucking mess. Jonathan needs me for a few more days.”
There’s a pause—long enough to feel his irritation—but it’s obvious his focus isn’t on me when all he does is grunt.
“Don’t stretch it out,” he says, clipped. “Get back as soon as you can.”
The line goes dead.
The lack of questions only sharpens my suspicions. Maybe this shipment really is more than wine. Maybe that’s why he’s distracted. Why he doesn’t gloat over me seemingly sharing Points business like this. Maybe he can feel the clock running down.
Too many fucking questions. Not enough answers. It’s becoming a problem.
The moment the call ends, I slump against the nearest wall and swipe to my contacts to dial the only number that matters.
“Matt?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” I sigh, leaning back against the wall, letting the sound of her breathing anchor me. “I’ve just landed at Heathrow. I needed to hear your voice.”
Her laugh drifts through the line—light, warm. “You sound dramatic,” she teases, but there’s something softer beneath it. “Are you okay?”
For a second, I close my eyes and pretend she’s close enough to touch.
“I am now,” I admit, voice low. I push off the wall, following the signs to the taxi rank. “I hate not knowing what I’m walking into.”
“Owen loves to play vague.” Her sigh comes through the line, and I can picture it—her brow furrowed, lips pouting just slightly, the way she’d roll her eyes.
I start moving, weaving through the small crowd, slipping into the first free taxi I see.
“You know as well as I do he doesn’t trust phone lines,” I say, the wry edge in my voice more habit than feeling. I give the driver Owen’s address before focusing back on Lily. “Enough about my mess. How’s your day been?”
“Well,” she begins, a spark of excitement slipping into her voice, “I never got the chance to tell you, but at the showcase, I got a card from an investor. They seemed to really like my piece.”
“You think they liked it?” I tease, though the pride in my voice gives me away.
“I know they did,” she counters, laughter threading through her words. “I mean, I still have to follow up, but… it feels like a real opportunity.”
“Then don’t let it pass you by.” My tone turns firm as we splash through a puddle-slicked intersection, my hand tapping against the leather seat. “This is what you’ve been working toward, baby. Take the shot.”