Chapter 26
DANTE
The apartment is dark except for the faint city glow seeping through the curtains. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, the quiet ticking like water in my ears. Sleep will not come. I turn my head and watch Adriana.
She lies curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, hair fanned across the sheet.
Her breathing is steady, almost soundless.
In the dim light she looks fragile, but I know better.
The files on my laptop are proof. A. Voltskaya, relentless reporter, the voice that toppled Serrano’s club and wrote half a dozen stories that rattled City Hall. All of it hidden behind that calm face.
I study her profile, the slope of her throat, the faint rise and fall of her chest. How many nights did she slip out chasing leads while I assumed she was simply restless? How many times did I underestimate her?
My father would call this a weakness. If you know a secret you use it before someone uses it against you.
Old Volkov rule. But I don’t want to crush her or cage her.
I need to decide whether to protect her or stop her.
Maybe both. I picture her in an alley with a dealer who works for the Romanovs, asking questions that can get her killed.
The memory tightens in my chest like a fist.
I run a hand over my face. There are choices to make. I can confront her tomorrow, demand the truth and pull her off the story. Lock it down. Keep her safe even if she hates me for it. Or I can give her space and risk that someone harsher than me will silence her first.
She murmurs in her sleep, brows drawing together, then settles. I reach out, almost touch her hair, and stop. If I wake her now I will say too much or not enough.
Instead, I turn back to the ceiling. I’ll gather more information at first light, then decide. Whatever I choose, no one is harming her while I breathe.
I turn onto my side again and watch the slow rise of her breathing. The possessive pull in my chest is stronger than anger, stronger than fear. It surprises me every time it grips me. I have guarded businesses, territory, reputation, but never a person. Not like this.
I try to name the feeling. It’s more than duty.
My father’s orders can explain marrying her, protecting the family image, keeping the Petrovs in check.
They don’t explain why the thought of anyone threatening her makes my blood run hot.
They don’t explain why I cared enough to follow her tonight on foot like a common tail.
It hits me that I don’t want anyone else to know her secrets. They’re mine now.
I stay perfectly still, waiting until I’m certain she’s fully asleep. The clock glows past three in the morning.
Slowly, I slip out of bed. I pad barefoot across the cool floor, careful not to make a sound. The laptop she uses is where she left it on the living room desk. I know she keeps her own files, but curiosity and worry gnaw at me. I need to see what she’s been up to.
I wake the laptop, scrolling through the user logins. She’s set up her own profile.
I try a few combinations before it finally opens with her birthday and her younger brother’s name. Classic.
One folder jumps out at me: “Case Notes.” My gut tightens as I click.
Inside, I see subfolders labeled with women’s names. The first one—Anya. My breath catches. I know that name.
Anya. The girl the police pulled out of the river, the one that Remik is so worried about.
I didn’t expect to see her name here, in Adriana’s files.
Screenshots of news stories, coroner’s reports, blurry club camera stills, pages of notes in her handwriting. She’s made a timeline, written questions in the margins—Why the gap? Who last saw her alive? There’s even a highlighted list of security staff. I see familiar names.
I move to the next folder—Samie. So that’s why she was meeting the guy in the alley today. She was trying to find info on her.
According to her notes, they were both last seen at the Portello before they vanished. And her footnotes lead me to believe, as Adriana does, that they aren’t the only ones who have disappeared.
I close the laptop, my hands cold, my mind running in circles. I saw what they did to Anya. I know how deep this goes. But I didn’t know my wife was risking herself like this, digging after answers, putting herself right in the path of men who’d kill to keep these secrets buried.
She’s not safe.
I sit back, staring at the shadows stretching across the room. All this time, I thought Adriana was just a harmless little thing—quiet, soft-spoken, a girl caught in the middle of a war between families. That’s what everyone saw when they looked at her. That’s what I let myself believe.
Now I see how wrong we all were. She isn’t harmless.
She isn’t fragile or naive. She’s bold enough to chase killers, stubborn enough to follow a story even when it brings her to the edge of real danger.
She moves quietly, but she never gives up.
She’s braver than the men who think they run this city, and maybe more reckless too.
Everyone underestimated her. Not knowing what she was. Not seeing the fighter underneath the careful manners and the soft voice. I wonder, for the first time, how much of her I still don’t know. And how much of my own world she’s about to turn upside down.
I walk quietly back to the bedroom, my thoughts still spinning.
Adriana hasn’t moved, still curled on her side, lost in some dream I can’t reach.
I slide under the covers beside her, careful not to wake her.
For a long time I just watch her sleep, the soft movement of her breath, the way a strand of hair falls across her cheek.
I stretch out my hand, wanting to touch her, to feel that she’s real and still here.
But I stop myself, letting my fingers rest just inches from hers on the sheets.
Close enough to feel her warmth, but not close enough to bridge the distance between us.
I lie there until sleep finally pulls me under, our hands nearly touching in the dark.
I wake with a start, sunlight already pouring in through the curtains. I glance at the clock—shit. I haven’t slept this late in years. My body feels heavy and stiff, muscles tight from a night of restless sleep and too many thoughts.
I push out of bed and stretch my arms overhead, rolling the tension from my neck.
If there’s one thing that helps, it’s movement.
I throw on a T-shirt and sweats, then head out toward the private gym two floors down.
It’s mine alone; nobody else in the building has the code.
Thirty minutes later, sweat is running down my back and my breath comes hard, but my mind is clearer.
I take the service elevator up, towel around my neck.
The kitchen is already buzzing. Liam sits at the counter, coffee in hand, and Adriana is across from him, hair pulled up, fork twirling through scrambled eggs.
Liam says something, voice low and teasing, and Adriana throws her head back, laughing.
Rage flares in my chest, sudden and hot. I watch them for a moment, unseen in the doorway. She’s never laughed like that with me.
I walk into the room, footsteps heavier than I intend. Both of them look up. Adriana’s laughter fades, her eyes darting to me. Liam just gives me a lazy smile, like he’s daring me to start something.
I nod at them, jaw tight, and reach for the coffee pot, trying not to show how much it bothers me that she’s smiling for him, not for me.
Adriana doesn’t look my way, doesn’t offer a smile, doesn’t even ask if I want breakfast. She clears her own plate, pours another cup of coffee for herself, and keeps talking to Liam.
I pour myself a cup in silence, watching her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to say something. She doesn’t.
My mood gets worse with every minute. I know it’s petty, but I can’t help it. She laughs again at something Liam says, not even glancing my way.
After a while, Liam pushes back from the counter, grabs his jacket, and stands. He glances at me, that lazy grin never leaving his face. “Don’t act like a sourpussy all day,” he says. “You’re making the kitchen colder than the fridge.”
I stare at my coffee, jaw clenched, annoyed at both of them for reasons I can’t even say out loud.
Liam doesn’t linger. He waves goodbye, throws me a knowing look, and heads out the door, leaving the apartment heavy with silence.
I thought I’d wait, let things cool off before talking to Adriana, but she doesn’t give me a chance. She clears the dishes, rinses her cup, and keeps her distance. Every time I glance her way, she’s already looking somewhere else—at her phone, at the window, at anything but me.
My patience thins with every quiet minute. I keep waiting for her to break the ice, to say something about last night or this morning, but she acts like I’m invisible. It pisses me off more than I want to admit.
I set my cup down a little harder than necessary and finally decide I’m done waiting. If she wants cold, she can have it, but I’m not letting her slip away without answers.
I can’t take the silence anymore. I cross the room in two long strides. She tries to step around me, but I catch her wrist, gentle but firm, and pull her closer until she’s just inches from my chest. The air between us crackles.
“What are you hiding from me, Adriana?” I ask, voice low, gaze searching her face.
She looks away, stubborn as always, lips pressed tight.
I lean in, her hair brushing my jaw, my grip still gentle but unyielding. I lower my mouth to her ear, speaking just above a whisper. “Or should I call you A. Voltskaya?” I murmur. “You want to keep pretending with me, or are you ready to tell the truth?”
That does it. Her eyes fly to mine, wide and startled, color draining from her cheeks. She blinks, chest rising and falling faster now.
“You know?” Her voice is barely audible, almost trembling.
I nod, my thumb brushing over her wrist, the pulse racing beneath my hand. “I know everything, Adriana. About The Herald. About Serrano’s club. About the girls you’ve been tracking.” I pause, letting my words sink in, letting her feel the heat between us. “You should’ve told me.”
For a moment, we just stand there, caught in the charged space between anger and longing. I press my forehead to hers, my hand still wrapped around her wrist, refusing to let her go.
“Told you what?” she whispers, her eyes still wide, her pulse fluttering under my hand. “That I’m a reporter?”
“Were,” I correct her, my voice low. “You’re not doing that anymore.”
She tries to pull free, but I don’t let her. “You can’t stop me,” she protests, her defiance soft and shaky at the edges.
I smirk, dipping my head until my lips brush her cheek, letting her feel my breath. “I can’t?” I murmur, sliding my knee between her thighs, forcing her closer. Her breath hitches, her fingers clenching around my shirt.
She shivers, her resolve wavering as my thigh presses between her legs. Her hips shift, just slightly, and I can’t help but grin. “Tell me you’re done with this story,” I say, my voice a promise and a warning.
She tips her head back, lips parting, her resistance melting just a little under my hands. “Let go of me,” she whispers, but her tone is more breathless than angry.
“Not until you tell me the truth,” I whisper against her mouth. “Not until you admit what you’re really after.”
She’s trembling now, caught between fight and surrender. “You want the truth?” she whispers, eyes locked on mine.
“Yes.”
“Fine. Here’s mine.” She meets my eyes, and I see the vulnerability there, the pain, the fear. “I can’t stop digging, Dante. I can’t stop chasing the story. I need to know who did this. I need to understand why these girls died, why nobody cared enough to find out.”
I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone. Her skin is hot beneath my touch. “I’m not your enemy, Adriana.”
She shakes her head, blinking back tears. “I want to believe that. God, I want to. But every time I get close to the truth, I find you standing in my way.”
There’s a long, charged silence. I watch as she struggles with what she wants to say, all that stubborn pride warring with the secrets she’s been carrying. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t look away. For a second, I think she might kiss me or tell me she hates me—maybe both.
My stomach clenches, her words hitting harder than I expect.
She looks away, then back at me, eyes shining. “God help me, I want you to tell me, Dante. Tell me the truth.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper, trembling with everything she’s been afraid to ask. “Did you kill them? Did you kill those girls?”