Chapter 10
Zora
Soft amber lighting glows against dark wood and polished black surfaces as Domenico’s private jet cuts smoothly through the clouds toward Ireland. The cabin is expensive in his kind of way. Everything feels deliberate. Clean lines. Rich leather. Minimal noise. No unnecessary displays of wealth.
Very him.
Across from me, Domenico sits with one arm resting loosely against the armrest while security files glow across the screen of his tablet.
His attention moves calmly between surveillance layouts, guest lists, and estate maps as though infiltrating one of the most dangerous families in Europe is merely another scheduled obligation.
Nothing about him suggests tension. Which somehow makes him more unsettling.
A few moments later, Domenico reaches into a leather folder beside him and pulls out two passports.
He keeps one for himself and slides the other across the table toward me.
"For the party." He says simply.
I pick it up carefully. Vivienne Laurent. French.
The photo looks enough like me to pass without hesitation. Entry stamps from Monaco, Milan, Zurich, and Dubai fill several pages, creating the illusion of a life lived under this name for years instead of days.
Attached beneath the passport sits a thinner file containing supporting documents. Investment records. Charity affiliations. Private membership accounts. A complete identity built carefully enough to survive scrutiny from people trained to notice inconsistencies.
Across from me, Domenico flips open his own passport briefly before setting it beside his tablet.
Lucien Moreau.
The document looks older than mine. Used. Broken in around the edges like this identity has lived an actual life before tonight.
I flip through several pages before looking up at him. "These are thorough."
"They need to be." His tone remains calm as he sets his tablet aside.
"The Keegans investigate everyone invited into their orbit. Real names create unnecessary complications."
I study the passport again. "And our cover?"
"Wealthy private investors with old European connections." His gaze lifts briefly to mine. "Dated long enough to look comfortable around each other. Detached enough not to attract attention."
The last part feels intentional. Like he already expects friction between us.
"You’ve done this before."
A faint smile touches his mouth.
"How many names do you actually have?"
He leans back slightly in his seat, completely at ease. "Enough."
I look back down at the passport in my hand, suddenly aware of how carefully constructed this entire operation already is. How careful he is.
"We maintain the cover at all times once we land." Domenico says after a moment. "Not just at the party."
I glance up again.
"The Keegans’ people monitor arrivals days before major events. Drivers. Hotel staff. Local security. They look for inconsistencies long before guests ever enter the estate."
"So we perform for an entire week."
"We convince people we belong together for an entire week." He corrects smoothly.
The distinction does not help.
I close the passport slowly. "Convincing does not require theatrics."
"No." He agrees. "But it does require instinct."
His gaze lingers on me briefly before continuing. "People who are close touch without thinking about it. They move differently around each other. Familiarity is difficult to fake unless both people stop overanalyzing every interaction."
I narrow my eyes slightly. "You say that like this is entirely my problem."
One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. "You prefer distance."
"I prefer professionalism."
"You prefer control." He says calmly. "There is a difference."
The observation irritates me immediately because it lands too close to the truth.
"I am fully capable of handling myself socially." I reply evenly. "You do not need to lecture me on body language."
"I am not lecturing you." His voice remains infuriatingly calm. "I am reminding you that hesitation gets noticed in rooms like this."
I lean back slightly in my seat, holding his gaze.
"And what exactly are you expecting?" I ask. "For me to spend a week attached to your arm pretending to adore you?"
Domenico studies me for a second before a quiet laugh leaves him. "I was not aware the idea troubled you this much."
"It does not trouble me."
"Mm." The sound carries enough skepticism to make my irritation sharpen further.
"Relax, Elf." He says after a pause. "You might even start enjoying yourself eventually."
I stare at him flatly.
"Stop calling me Elf." I snap back sharply. "It is irritating and unprofessional."
Domenico’s smirk deepens slightly.
"It suits you." He says. "Small. Sharp. Difficult to hold onto."
I glare at him flatly. "That sounded less insulting in your head, didn’t it?"
"Probably."
The lack of shame in his voice is infuriating.
He reaches for the passports again, flipping one open lazily before looking back at me.
"Let us see how convincing you are under pressure." He says. "How did we meet?"
"At a charity gala in Monaco." I answer immediately. "Two years ago. You approached me after a speech on sustainable shipping investments."
His expression remains unreadable. "How long have we been together?"
"Fourteen months."
"What is my preferred drink?"
My lips part but I can’t find words fast enough. Only a fraction of hesitation, but Domenico notices it instantly.
"There." He says quietly. "That pause would get noticed."
I lean back slightly in my seat. "Most people at the party will not interrogate us over whiskey preferences."
"No." He agrees calmly. "But they will notice uncertainty."
His eyes stay fixed on mine for a second longer before repeating, "What is my preferred drink?"
"Whiskey. Neat. Older than twenty years if possible." I hold his gaze steadily this time. "And you hate champagne because it gives you headaches."
A faint nod. "Better."
He closes the passport and studies me carefully. "What do we do in public?"
I already know this is another test.
"We stay close." I say evenly. "You keep a hand on me when we walk. We look familiar with each other. Comfortable." My eyes narrow slightly. "Like people who have spent enough time together not to think about it anymore."
Domenico watches me for a second before standing. The movement draws my attention immediately.
He walks around the table slowly and lowers himself into the seat beside me. The shift in proximity is immediate. Intentional.
The leather seat dips slightly beneath his weight.
"Across the cabin from each other is not going to help us." He says calmly.
I turn my head slightly toward him. "And this will?"
"Yes."
Before I can respond, he leans in just enough for his arm to settle along the back of my seat, his hand resting lightly against my side near my waist.
Not aggressive. Not hesitant either.
Warmth spreads instantly beneath the thin fabric of my clothes, and I hate how aware of it I become.
Domenico notices. Of course he notices.
"Relax." He murmurs. "You look like you are preparing for combat."
"I am."
A low chuckle leaves him. "This is exactly what I mean. If every touch makes you tense, people will start paying attention."
I force my expression to remain neutral despite the irritation flickering beneath my skin.
"You seem remarkably committed to this exercise."
"It is called preparation."
"It feels suspiciously close to entertainment."
That earns another quiet laugh from him. His gaze drifts slowly across my face before returning to my eyes.
"You know," he says casually, "for someone insisting this is strictly professional, you are very aware of where my hand is."
I turn toward him fully. "And for someone claiming this is operational strategy, you seem to be enjoying yourself far too much."
His expression barely shifts. But his eyes darken slightly. "Your body language disagrees with your tone."
The tension between us sharpens almost immediately after the words leave his mouth. His hand remains warm against my side, steady enough to feel intentional, and the close quarters of the jet suddenly feel far too small.
I become painfully aware of everything at once. The heat of him beside me. The quiet confidence in his voice. The fact that he notices every reaction before I can hide it.
I almost roll my eyes.
"Do not flatter yourself." I say coolly. "I am focused on the fact that we are flying toward a family known for making people disappear, not on your hand."
"Mm." Again with that sound. I look down pointedly at the hand still resting against my waist.
"Remove it if you would like to keep full use of your fingers."
That finally makes him laugh properly. Low. Genuine.
I narrow my eyes. "You are insufferable."
"And yet you are still sitting here."
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates softly against the table. Sebastian.
Something in my chest tightens immediately, settling into an emotion I don't particularly want to examine.
I answer after a second. "Sebastian."
His voice comes through, calm but tense beneath the surface. "You landed yet?"
"Not yet."
"You should have taken additional security with you."
I glance briefly toward Domenico, who says nothing but watches me carefully.
"We already discussed this." I reply evenly.
A pause. Then Sebastian exhales quietly. "Call me when you land."
"I will."
The conversation ends shortly after that.
I place the phone back down beside me, only to realize Domenico still has not moved his hand from my waist.
One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. "Fiancé?"
I hesitate for half a second before answering. "Yes."
Domenico nods once. Then, mercifully, he lets the subject go. He reaches for one of the files spread across the table and opens it between us.
"Darragh Keegan." He says. "Officially charming. Unofficially dangerous."
Pictures slide across the tablet screen. Dark hair. Sharp suit. Controlled smile.
"He is intelligent enough to appear civilized while ordering violence from a distance." Domenico continues calmly. "Which makes him significantly more dangerous than men who enjoy blood openly."
I study the screen carefully. "And Fergus?"
"Old-fashioned." His voice cools slightly. "Believes fear is the cleanest form of authority."
A quiet silence settles between us for a moment as the weight of the operation presses back into focus.
Then Domenico looks at me again.
"Do not underestimate anyone at that estate." He says quietly. "The Keegans survive because powerful people need them to."
I nod slowly. "I know. I am not here to fail."
Domenico studies me for a moment before a faint, almost approving smile appears. "Good."
The rest of the flight passes between cover stories, security protocols, and discussions about the estate’s weaknesses. And somewhere during the middle of it, I stop noticing the fact that his hand is still resting lightly against my waist.
By the time the jet begins descending through thick Irish clouds, the atmosphere inside the cabin feels heavier somehow.
Through the window, dark coastline appears beneath the rain and fog, distant lights glowing faintly against the hills. Ireland.
Domenico finally withdraws his hand before straightening slightly in his seat.
Then he looks at me directly.
"Once we step inside the Keegan estate," he says quietly, "we stop being ourselves completely. Remember that."
I nod once as the wheels touch Irish grounds. The operation has officially begun.