EPILOGUE
Harry
Three months later
Tourists flood the city, laughing, sweating, and fanning themselves with brochures of dead emperors and fallen empires. The Sistine Chapel is a furnace in this heat, and if Gigi wasn’t so desperate to visit, I’d have screwed the plan entirely.
Sightseeing somewhere so densely popular is a risky move, but we’ve had a recent bout of luck. A couple of weeks with no trailing cars or shady men following us down the street.
Still, we don’t linger.
We take our steps slowly, the crowd not allowing us to move faster anyway.
Gigi’s blue summer dress flutters in the wind, her hair clipped up hastily to keep her cool, drawing my eyes to her deliciously exposed skin.
From the minute I walked into her life, I should’ve braced myself for her to rip the oxygen straight out of me.
The hem of her dress gathers mid-thigh, exposing a sneak of our Glock in her garter.
Not quite the leg holster she’s used to, but it'll suffice. It’s battered and worn, but so are we.
I throw death glares at the men passing her sideways glances. They snap their heads away. But I’ve already stored their appearances to memory; already imagined how they’ll look strung up by their insides—
“No way,” Gigi says, her voice faintly scratching. “Best behaviour, remember?”
My teeth nip her ear. “That’s boring.”
And she knows it.
She hums, half dismissive, half contemplating the idea. My pulse is already thrumming with the impending high of carrying out a murder, and I feel the goose bumps rising under the path of my lips across her bare shoulders.
But it’s one of our non-negotiables. No deaths unless absolutely necessary.
Although the psychopath in me needily counters that their crudeness makes it necessary, we can’t afford to leave bodies in our path. Even if we do miss the thrill of the chase.
Another rule is that we don’t steal, but with the way the diamond Cartier necklace sparkles round my princess’s throat, it was worth every risk.
We have passports – fake, of course, but expensive – access to cash, and safe houses across Europe.
Gigi could have had that necklace in fifteen minutes if she wanted to, and she knew it, even after sending Richard’s inheritance elsewhere.
She wants nothing to do with his money, and I don’t blame her.
But when she spotted that necklace in the window, she looked at me like the troublesome thing she is, pupils blown with a familiar intensity as if we were entering a heist.
It would have been rude of us to live in denial about what we do best.
Blue lights flare on the curved walls of the Vatican behind us, the distant wail of a siren closing in.
“Don’t run,” I say, my voice low. “Not until I say.”
I see the intrigue in our eyes and her eager nod as Gigi’s hand slides into mine. We quicken our steps, turning the corner just as the first of them shout.
“Now,” she whispers.
The little devil.
We run.
The pavement blurs under our feet as we sprint through the streets of Rome, cutting through crevices and paths barely meant for two people. We dart through passages of old buildings, someone’s washing still hanging above us, dozens of white sheets strung between windows.
I shove the first sheet aside, senses invaded by the scent of detergent and dust.
I don’t dare look back. I only look at Gigi – her bare legs flashing under her dress, the glint in her eye. Her fingers find mine even as we run, clutching, pulling, laughing under her breath.
She turns down a small street before I can answer. I follow without hesitation.
“They’re close,” she gasps.
An officer goes to pass, and I pull her back suddenly. She stumbles a half-step as we duck into a dark, narrow alley. She laughs breathlessly despite the risk, the sound smothered by my hand over her mouth as I flatten her against the stone.
The man sprints past, another one close behind cursing, “Ladra.” Thief.
I feel Gigi’s chest rising and falling under my hand. Her skin is hot despite the cold wall at her back, hair messy from the sprint, lips wet and parted. I want her now. Not tomorrow, not when we’re safe. I want her here, with people aching to catch us.
Christ, I want her so badly my body vibrates with need.
The street is a chaos round us – sirens everywhere, the distant churn of engines – but here, in the mouth of this alleyway, it’s just us.
I push her deeper into the wall, her gasp making me ravenous. The stone scrapes her back, but her eyes stay locked on mine, pupils wide with hunger. I kiss her roughly, teeth clashing. She claws at my shirt, tearing it open.
I grab her ass and lift her. Her legs wrap round me instantly, her dress bunching at her hips. My cock strains against my trousers. She grinds into it, pulling a groan from my chest.
I press a kiss to her jaw, her ear, the place where her pulse hammers. My teeth toy with the diamonds at her throat.
“You’ll crawl to me later wearing nothing other than this necklace.”
She hums in satisfaction. Though for now, I’ll make do by pulling her pathetic excuse for panties aside, nearly losing my grip with her arousal.
I slam into her in one long thrust. The diamonds round her throat catch the glint of the streetlight as I retract then slam back into her, reaching the hilt.
I punctuate with each thrust: “Completely. Utterly. Mine.”
“O-oh, fuck!” she moans. “Harry.”
One hand brackets the wall behind her, the other gripping my hair with a pressure that draws my head back, ripping my mouth from hers. Wetness coats her lips, causing that hunger to tighten in my stomach again.
I squeeze her ass, fingers spreading her as I keep her pinned up, slamming into her with a force that jerks her against the brick with every thrust. Her nails rake across my back, dragging lines that make me groan into her mouth.
“Keep breathing for me,” I growl in her ear, lips brushing the sweat on her temple. “Don’t stop.”
I wrap my fingertip round the necklace and tug on it, pulling it tight enough that she chokes on the raspy whimper leaving her throat.
The stone scrapes her shoulders, yet she clings to me still, her legs wrapped round my waist with a feral need that matches mine.
Her Glock is confined to the garter on her thigh.
I swear that fucking weapon is indestructible.
Lips swollen, Gigi urges, “Tighter.”
And fuck me, I do it. I tighten it until her breath stutters; until her body shudders round me; until I feel like I’m falling heavy into the abyss we built together. Her life hammers against the diamonds, pulsing into my fingers as I hold her breath, her soul, her everything, right in my palm.
And I see it in her eyes: through all the trauma she’s suffered, she trusts me entirely. Her tiny little throat is caged within this necklace, and with the slightest pull, I could end her.
She. Trusts. Me.
I don’t fail her.
I love this woman so fucking much.
My hand slides lower, thumb edging along her clit, coaxing her dangerously close. She gasps then melts round me.
“I’ve … been … thinking,” I murmur between thrusts.
“Mm?”
“I could marry you—”
She kisses me so hard I lose rhythm, getting lost in the feel of her mouth. I growl into it, the taste of copper spilling onto my tongue as I bite her lower lip. Her nails run over my shoulder, feral, fuelled by the excited squeal that vibrates my mouth.
She separates our mouths for barely a breath. “Who says what marriage is?” She slams her mouth onto mine then draws back again. “Who says this isn’t enough—?”
Her words are cut off as a particular deep thrust has her whimpering a broken version of my name. My hands grab her thighs so tightly my knuckles turn white.
“You don’t want a wedding?” I ask. “A trip to see old friends?”
“I just need you.”
She says it with such certainty I almost crumble. I kiss her so hard she forgets whose air she’s breathing, and she meets my mouth with an intensity that rivals mine.
I fuck her harder, slamming her against the graffiti-stained wall.
My fingers rub her clit harder as I thrust in so deeply I hit the spot that makes her completely shatter.
She unleashes with a cry, violent, uncontained, trembling in my arms. I keep going; keep holding her against the wall like she’ll dissolve if I let her go.
I empty myself inside her, teeth clenched, forehead against hers, my body shuddering until my knees threaten to give way.
I smile.
She smiles wider.
Then we laugh, spent, breathless, and high off adrenaline.
She declares, “I love you—”
“Mani in alto!” an Italian man shouts.
My cock is still buried inside Gigi, her dress still torn, barely covering her breasts. All of which is highlighted by the artificial lights pinning us in the darkness of the alley. I spot a police car at either end and the silhouette of no less than seven police officers.
I tap my ear. “English?”
“Hands up where we can see them!”
“Ah.” I nod. “A bit of privacy first, gentlemen? This is a celebratory moment.”
I release Gigi’s thighs, hissing through my teeth at the loss of her as she slides down my front—
“Don’t move!” they shout.
“Get ready, baby,” I whisper.
Her wide smile is her only response. I slip my cock into my jeans while Gigi repositions her dress, moving her panties back into place with eagerness. Her fingers twitch near her upper thigh—
“DON’T MOVE!”
The officers have now upped their weapons – a taser in one hand, a pistol in the other. One of them mumbles into their radio, requesting the need for backup.
And they will need backup.
I hear the click of Gigi’s Glock as her back meets mine, her aim towards her side of the alley. I hum at the heat radiating from her, retrieving my knife from inside my shirt.
I fear for their life more than I fear for hers. I know what she’s capable of.
This is where our third non-negotiable comes to play. If we must die, we die together. My girl always did have a fascination with Romeo and Juliet.
“If one of you even thinks about touching my wife,” – I twirl the dagger along the back of my hand, catching the handle in my palm – “your death has just turned from relatively quick to incredibly gruesome.”
In this small space, we’re just us. We’re not playing different characters; we’re not hiding from ourselves. Right now, right here, we can just be ourselves.
Motherfucking criminals.
“Ready, baby?” I turn to Gigi over my shoulder.
She nods, a glimmer of mischief twinkling in her beautiful eyes. She tilts her chin and places a slow kiss to my mouth, as nonchalant as ever.
“Come back to me,” she says.
I turn forward, my pulse picking up speed as I tighten my hold on the knife. “Always.”