Chapter 28
I turned on my heel and walked toward the kitchen. Rinsed my mug. Got another one. Forgot that the colour of the mug disgusted me.
They followed. Of course they did.
I opened a cabinet too hard. Slammed a mug on the counter. Behind me, I could feel them: Aurelio's quiet stare, Zorian's brooding heat.
"Versace," Aurelio said gently, like he was choosing each word with care. "I was going to wait until we weren't surrounded by death glares, but…"
I turned, narrowing my eyes. "But?"
"I want to take you to Paris."
I blinked, completely forgetting about the tea.
"What?"
"A trip," he said, hands out in front of him like he was handling a skittish animal. "Just two days. You and me. No politics, no business. Just us. I know I haven't earned it, not really. But I want to try."
My mouth opened. Then closed. Then—
"No," Zorian cut in, stepping forward.
I whipped my head toward him; eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"You're not going with him."
The air shifted. Heavy. Tense.
Zorian's jaw flexed, eyes hard. "You can't disappear like that. It's unsafe. You know what's out there. You think they'll stop because you're having a little European getaway?"
"I think," I said slowly, making sure the hot water was a safe distance away from me before I hauled it at him, "that I don't remember asking for your permission."
"It's not permission, it's logic."
"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"
His voice lowered. "You don't trust him."
"Don't I?" I said, sarcasm seething in my teeth. His audacity was jarring.
Aurelio was quiet. Not defensive. Just watching.
Zorian stepped forward again. "This is reckless. He's reckless."
I laughed bitterly. "You know what's reckless? Getting attached to someone when your fucking job is to be silent and protect. You're a shadow, for God's sake."
Zorian flinched.
And there it was. The truth I hadn't meant to say, now out in the open like spilled wine on white silk.
I exhaled, then turned to Aurelio.
"When do we leave?"
His eyes flicked from mine to Zorian and back again, cautious. "We could leave tonight."
"Fine," I said. "Call it."
Zorian's voice cracked through the silence like a whip. "Versace."
I turned slowly. "No bodyguards. No shadows. No tracking. I want to fucking breathe."
"You think he's the answer?" Zorian's voice was low now, almost quiet. "That he's peace?"
"No," I said, steady. "But he's trying. And for once, I want to go somewhere and not feel like I'm being babysat by a ghost I can't touch."
That shut him up.
And with that, I walked out of the room.
We didn't speak after that.
I heaved.
I could almost see the future, and to help him, to ease his choices, I had to make the boundary clear.
We didn't speak.
Not when I packed a carry-on with clothes I didn't even look at. Not when Aurelio texted someone to prepare the jet.
Not even when Zorian stood silently by the door as I walked past him with my sunglasses on like armour.
I didn't look back.
He didn't say goodbye.
The jet was ready within the hour. Of course it was. Aurelio Kashani didn't do commercial.
He held the door open for me. Didn't make a sound when I brushed past him, still fuming. Once we were both seated, silence stretched between us like the sky itself, high, wide, untouchable.
He poured me a glass of wine. Placed it on the table between us.
Didn't speak.
Didn't push.
I hated that.
I hated that he knew exactly how to deal with me when I was angry.
"Why Paris?" I asked finally.
His voice was calm. "Because you deserve to see something beautiful that wasn't made to hurt you."
That shut me up.
And I could feel a small smile creep onto my face as I used the wine glass to conceal it.
We arrived in the evening.
Paris was draped in that golden-blue twilight that made it look like a painting. The car took us straight to the hotel, a luxury suite that overlooked the Seine, of course.
I didn't even ask how much it cost. I didn't want to know.
Money wasn't really a problem for the mafia. We just weren't sane in the head. I tried to be the better of them, but the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, as they say.
"I made dinner reservations," Aurelio said softly as he rolled up his sleeves. "You don't have to go if you're tired."
I wasn't. But I liked that he asked.
"Where?"
He smiled a little. "The Eiffel Tower."
I snorted, nudging his shoulder. "You're such a cliché."
"I’m trying."
The elevator up the tower was lit in gold. Everything sparkled; the city below, the wine glasses on every table, his eyes when they landed on me in the black silk dress I hadn't worn since Rome.
He didn't say I looked good.
He just stood there for a second, staring, until the hostess asked if we were ready. That said more than words.
I know he was trying hard to make me comfortable, but that was slightly awkward.
"What do you think of the meal?" he asked as I put a spoon in my mouth.
I placed the spoon on my chin, pretending to think. "I'd say j'adore vraiment ce repas." I really love this meal.
He stared, startled. "Honestly, I don't know why I thought you didn't know how to speak French. Or that you'd never been to Paris."
I sighed. "I actually haven't been to Paris."
"Why?"
"I guess I kept saving Paris for when I'd be happy. And I never got there. Until now, maybe."
We ate slowly and laughed.
He told me stories about how he used to sneak into the kitchens of five-star hotels just to piss off his tutors. I told him about the first time I tried croissants in Italy and cried because they were so good.
He ordered a baguette halfway through dinner. I thought it was a joke until the waiter brought it.
"I remember you said you wanted a real Paris baguette one day," he said with a shrug. "I listen."
I stared at him. "That's unfair."
"What is?"
"You do something sweet and then pretend like you didn't."
His smile was quiet. "I don't have to pretend."
Later, we walked through the streets; me barefoot because my heels gave up on me, him holding them in one hand and a paper bag of macarons in the other. People stared at us like we were some loving couple.
We stopped at a bookstore; some quiet little thing tucked between cafés. I wasn't going to go in. But Aurelio pulled me toward it without a word.
There, in the aisle between translated poetry and dusty old travel books, he said:"You don't have to choose me, Versace."
I turned.
He looked calm, but not cold. Tired, maybe. Real.
"I like me better when I'm with you."
I didn't interrupt. I just listened.
"And if there's even a small part of you that wants peace, not escape, not silence—just peace. I want to be that for you. Even if it's for a little while."
My chest tightened.
I looked at the book in my hand. It was in Old French. I couldn't even read it. And maybe that was the point.
"I'm tired," I whispered, changing the subject.
He nodded. "So am I."
He raised his hand. I hesitated. Stared at my hand, then at his and walked closer, locking arms with him.
"Let's go."
We walked peacefully to the hotel, no words shared, just enjoying the scenery and the silence that came with it.
I wondered for a moment, if this was what it felt like to choose quiet over chaos.
To choose comfort over history.
To choose someone who chooses you, every time.
We got to the hotel, and the room was predictably one bed.
One. Giant. King-sized. Bed.
I stared at the concierge's note.
"Monsieur Kashani, enjoy our honeymoon suite, as requested."
I turned slowly. "You booked the honeymoon suite?"
Aurelio raised a brow, looked around. "Oh. That's why there are rose petals in the tub."
"You—"
"I didn't request the petals, if that helps?"
It didn't.
But I was too tired to argue. I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the bed face-first.
"You know I'm sleeping on the edge."
"You can have the whole bed. I'll take the floor."
I lifted my head and gave him a look. "No, you won't. You're too dramatic to sleep on hardwood. You'll whine the entire time, and I'll throw you out the window."
He smirked. "You know me so well."
It was past midnight. I rolled over again. Still awake. There was no pillow wall this time. The bed was too big for us to cross paths.
Aurelio laid still, arms behind his head, hair a mess, staring at the ceiling.
"You can't sleep either?"
He turned his head slightly. "I thought I was being subtle."
I thought for a second, then said, "Want to sit on the floor and do something dumb?"
His brow lifted. "How dumb?"
I reached into my bag and pulled out a pack of UNO cards I got at one of the stores.
"Deadly."
Ten minutes later, we were sitting on the carpet, cross-legged like kids, cards fanned in our hands.
"You're cheating," I accused, as he dropped a +4 card for the second time in a row.
"I'm not," he said casually. "Maybe you're just bad."
"I am the Queen of UNO, Kashani."
"Well, consider this a coup."
We played three rounds. He won twice. I accused him of witchcraft. He said I had a resting villain face and was intimidating the deck.
"You're an idiot," I mumbled through a laugh, half-curled on the rug.
"Guilty."
When I looked at him, really looked at him, laughing in Paris, barefoot on a hotel carpet with me…I didn't see the mafia prince, or the dealmaker, or the son of my father's enemy.
I only saw a boy who wanted to make me laugh.
We woke up tangled on the carpet, the king-sized bed abandoned like some distant dream.
Aurelio stretched, yawned, and muttered, "This is what happens when you're too stubborn to sleep."
I rolled over, blinking against the light. "You snore."
He smirked. "You fell asleep on the floor. Who's stubborn now?"
"We fell asleep like kids."
"Sleeping on the floor is overrated," I teased.
He smirked. "Not as overrated as losing at UNO, twice."
I stuck out my tongue, then got up, pulling on my shoes.
He grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the window. Outside, the city was waking, streets already humming with life.
"The shopping district?" I asked.
"You need new heels," he said.
"I have heels."
"You screamed at them yesterday."
"They stabbed me."
"Exactly."
We laughed quietly, still caught in the slow, warm haze of the night before.
Later, he dragged me straight to the shopping district.
We moved between boutiques, and at the fourth, he did the unexpected.
He flopped onto a velvet couch and told the attendant, "Bring her everything."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
Aurelio gave me that crooked smile. "I want to see you in red. No, purple. Wait, both. Oh! Try that green thing. It looks dramatic. I like it."
"I'm not your Barbie."
"You're my chaos."
I smirked. "Try telling me that when I'm making your life difficult."
He shrugged, "You do it with style."
I tried on seven dresses, then ten, then twelve. He rated each one.
"That one's a two," he said, pointing at a floral dress. "Looks like a designer tablecloth."
I glared. "That's harsh."
"And this one," he said, pointing at a black satin dress that hugged my curves just right, "a solid twelve. You look too soft in this one."
"Soft isn't always bad."
"We'll find a balance."
We laughed until my ribs hurt, and he bought every dress I smiled in.
The sales assistant stared in quiet amusement. Maybe she didn't understand English, or maybe she was just fascinated.
Next, we wandered through the market. We walked together, pointing at every beautiful thing like tourists seeing the world for the first time.
The smell of fresh bread, cheeses, and spices filled the air.
He pulled me toward a flower stall and bought me a bunch of wildflowers.
"I shouldn't let you spoil me," I said, playing with the petals.
"You deserve it."
We tasted chocolates, argued over the last strawberry tart, and I dared him to try escargot.
He nearly gagged.
"See? That's what you get for trusting me."
Later, we found a street artist set up near Montmartre.
"Come on," Aurelio urged, "let's paint."
I rolled my eyes but followed him.
We sat on tiny stools, each with a canvas and paints.
I went for chaos—wild, jagged strokes, bright colours.
He surprised me with a delicate portrait of me, softer than I thought I'd let anyone see. "I didn't know you had it in you."
He smiled, "Someone has to be the patient one."
"I'm glad it's you."
After that, we rented a small boat on the Seine. The water was calm, the city shimmering around us.
Aurelio tried steering. "I got this," he said.
"No, no, no!" I yelled, but it was too late.
He slipped, and in the chaos, dragged me down with him.
Splash.
We spent the rest of the ride soaked, splashing each other, laughing like fools. Hanging onto the boat.
That night, dressed in one of the new dresses, the one he called dangerous, we went to the opera.
Outside, the press waited as if they knew we would be in the opera.
Someone shouted, "Monsieur Kashani, is this your girlfriend?"
He looked at me, sliding an arm around my waist like I belonged there.
"I’m still trying to woo her," he said.
Flashes popped, cameras clicking, and in that moment, I felt human.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted but smiling. Aurelio stood by the window, watching the city lights shimmer.
"We fly back tomorrow," I said softly.
He nodded.
"I'll probably avoid you again."
"And I'll probably call you names."
"Will you ask me to stay?"
He turned slowly. "No."
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because you already did. You said yes. You came with me. You let yourself have this. That's more than I ever expected."
I leaned into him.
"Not everything has to be war."
"Sometimes," he said softly, "it's enough to just be."
I smiled.
"Let's do this again sometime," I said quietly, "me and you, if I accept your proposal."
He smiled back, the kind that felt like a promise.
"I like me better when I'm with you."
And for once, I believed it.
Not a weapon. Not a pawn.
Just a girl, and the boy who made Paris feel like something close to peace.