Chapter 3
LUCA
The church doors creak as I step inside. My father's funeral. Not how I imagined my homecoming.
I hang back in the shadows, by order of my brother so as not to cause a stir.
I know in reality, he’s worried my arrival home will give others in the family, perhaps even in the Bratva, an idea that I’ve come to usurp my brother.
Whatever. I didn’t come home to cause problems or even to pay respect to the father who exiled me. I came home because of the anonymous note.
The Dante family sits front and center. Alessandro rigid with newfound authority, Adriano stone-faced beside him, Valentina's delicate profile stoic.
The rest are a sea of black suits, respectful nods, and calculating eyes measuring the power vacuum my father's death created.
Then I see her.
Katerina.
Auburn hair swept into an elegant knot, profile regal like a queen.
Seven years dissolve.
My chest constricts as if the bullet that should have killed me in Chicago had found its mark.
She's even more beautiful now, no longer the passionate girl who'd trace my tattoos with her fingertips, but a woman with poise and power.
Memories assault me.
Katerina stretched across my sheets, moonlight bathing her skin silver, her laugh low and secret against my neck.
Her whispered Russian endearments, the way she'd bite my shoulder to keep quiet when my family was nearby.
How her eyes would hold mine without flinching when everyone else looked away.
I'd left it all behind. Left her behind.
Had to.
The family demanded blood for my transgression.
It was exile or execution.
Maybe I’m a coward.
Perhaps it would have been better for both of us if I were dead.
Then at least I wouldn’t have to suffer the gaping hole in my chest.
Her brother leans in, whispers something.
Her lips curve slightly.
And just like that, I’m helplessly drawn to her.
I move up the aisle, defying my brother’s orders.
Whispers follow me as I pass mourners.
But I keep my gaze on Katerina, ignoring Alessandro's narrowed eyes.
She turns her head and sees me approaching.
Her spine straightens.
Seven years ago, she would've run to me, consequences be damned.
We'd meet in abandoned warehouses, on rooftops with Manhattan sprawled below us, in the back of my car with fogged windows and racing hearts.
We were reckless, drunk on each other.
Our eyes lock across the diminishing space between us.
For one heartbeat, I see pain, rage, something that might be longing, before she shuts it down.
But it was long enough for me to feel the impact my leaving caused her. I’ve never been a man who felt regret or guilt. Until now.
"Katerina."
She meets my gaze with glacier-cold composure. "Luca Dante. I didn't expect to see you here."
Her voice carries no warmth, no hint of our shared history. It's as if she's greeting a distant business acquaintance rather than the man who once knew every inch of her body.
"I came to pay my respects."
"Seven years is a little late for respect."
The barb lands on its mark. Nearby mourners pretend not to listen, but I feel their attention like insects crawling across my skin.
"Katerina, I—"
"Your father is dead, Luca. Whatever you came back for, you won't find it here." She turns slightly toward her brother, dismissing me.
I've survived knife wounds that hurt less than this cold indifference from the woman who once couldn't keep her hands off me.
I slide into the pew beside her. A bold move. Disruptive. Inappropriate. Exactly my style.
Katerina stiffens, her shoulder angling away from mine.
Her brother glares daggers, but I meet his eyes with the steady confidence of a man who's built an empire from nothing. He looks away first.
The priest's Latin incantations wash over us, but I don’t hear them.
All I can take in now is Katerina.
Her perfume hasn't changed, a sweetness mixed with a hint of exotic.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispers, eyes fixed forward on my father's casket.
"Next to you, or at the funeral?"
"Both."
I lean slightly closer, not touching her but close enough that she can feel my warmth. "Tough shit, Kat. I'm not going anywhere."
Her laced fingers tighten their clasp, knuckles whitening. The old nickname, Kat, lands like a grenade between us.
Alessandro turns from the front row, his expression promising retribution for my disruption.
Let him try.
I've faced worse threats than my brother's disapproval.
"Your father deserves respect," Katerina murmurs. "This isn't about us."
"There's still an us to discuss? Interesting."
She turns just enough for me to catch the flash of blue fire in her eyes. "There is nothing to discuss."
But her pulse jumps at her throat, betraying her. Seven years apart, and I can still read her body like a book written just for me.
The priest calls for prayer.
Everyone bows their heads, but I keep my eyes on Katerina's profile.
She clearly didn’t send the letter.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking that maybe this trip home will afford me the chance to reclaim what I lost.
The service ends. Mourners rise in a synchronized wave, murmuring condolences as they shuffle toward the exit.
Katerina stands, her brother already positioning himself protectively at her side.
She's planning her escape. Not happening.
I step into her path, blocking the narrow aisle with my frame. People flow around us.
"Move, Luca." Her voice is steel wrapped in silk.
"Not until you talk to me."
Her brother steps forward. "This isn't the place—"
"It's fine, Pyotr," Katerina cuts him off. "Go ahead. I'll handle this."
Reluctantly, he leaves.
Smart man.
I have no interest in the politics between my family and the Bratva, which means I have no reason to maintain the status quo.
I have no qualms about eliminating Pyotr or anyone who gets in my way.
"Seven years of silence and now you demand conversation?" She tries to step around me, but I mirror her movement. "Get out of my way."
"Why are you so angry?" I keep my voice low, intimate. "If anyone should be furious, it's me. I come home to find everyone treating me like I'm radioactive, including you."
Her laugh is bitter, something I’ve never heard from her before. I wonder what life has been like for her that she’d have developed it, along with her cool demeanor.
"You want to know why I'm angry? You disappeared without a word. No goodbye, no explanation."
"I had my reasons."
"And I'm sure they were excellent ones." The sarcasm drips from her words. "Very noble. Very Dante. Did they keep you warm at night in Chicago while you were building your empire?"
Her knowledge about my life surprises me. She's been keeping tabs. That’s a good sign, right?
"You think I wanted to leave?"
"I think what you want has always mattered more than what anyone else needs."
I see a flash of raw hurt beneath her armor. For a moment, she's the girl I left behind, wounded and bewildered.
But then, with a shake of her head, her ice queen mask slips back in pace. "Why does it matter now? You'll be gone again as soon as whatever brought you back is resolved." She adjusts her purse strap, and I wonder if she wants to clobber me with it. "Some things don't change, Luca. Including you."
"You don't know a damn thing about who I am now."
"And whose fault is that? Seven years is a long time. People change. They move on. They build new lives."
Something in her tone makes my instincts flare. There's more she isn't saying.
Is she married?
Surely, Valentina would have mentioned that.
“What new life do you have?”
“You gave up your right to know about my life when you walked out of it.” It’s getting harder for her to hide the pain, and guilt starts to grow again. “And I have no doubt that when this funeral is done, you’ll be gone again, so I’m not sure why you’re doing this.”
"Look at me." I step closer, lowering my voice. "I’m not leaving. Not yet. Someone sent for me, and I'm not leaving until I find out who and why."
Her eyes widen slightly. "And you think I know something about that?"
"I think you know more than you're saying about everything." I resist the urge to touch her face, to trace the curve of her cheekbone with my thumb like I used to. "But right now, I just want you to know I'm staying. I have unfinished business here."
"With your family?"
"With everyone." I let the implication hang between us, but she doesn’t crack.
Frustration burns through me as she maintains that cool facade.
She's looking at me like I'm a stranger when she once knew every secret, every scar, every dream I had.
I take a chance and reach for her hand, grazing her fingers with mine. The brief contact sends electricity up my arm. "I don't expect forgiveness. But my leaving wasn’t by choice.”
She pulls her hand back. “Everyone has choices, Luca. And some bridges can't be rebuilt once they're burned.”
I shrug, not wanting to reveal how much her words annoy… hurt me. "Watch me try anyway."
The moment fractures as Pyotr reappears, inserting himself between us like a human barrier.
His stance is protective, shoulders squared, chin raised.
The universal body language of a man defending what's his. In this case, his sister.
"I thought I told you to go ahead," Katerina says, irritation threading through her voice.
"And leave you alone with him? Not happening." Pyotr's eyes never leave mine, assessing me like I'm a bomb that might detonate. I suppose he’s not wrong. It’s one of the reasons I was sent away.
"The car's waiting.”
"I can handle myself, Pyotr."
"I'm sure you can." His gaze remains locked on me. "But Enzo is waiting."
Enzo?
Katerina's posture tenses. "You're right," she concedes. "We should go."
Pyotr steps fully into my space now, close enough that I catch the scent of expensive cologne and barely contained hostility.
We used to drink together, hunt together, laugh at the same jokes. Now he looks at me like I'm something scraped off his shoe.
His voice drops, meant for my ears alone. "Interesting timing, coming back only after the Don is dead."
"Careful, Pyotr." My warning is velvet-wrapped steel.
"No, you be careful." His finger jabs the air inches from my chest. "What exactly are you after? The family business? Allesandro’s rightful position? You always thought you were so much smarter."
I am.
“But you’re just an impulsive dick.”
I resist the urge to grab his finger and break it.
“Stay away from my sister.” Contempt drips from every syllable. It’s taking every bit of restraint I can muster not to kill him right here and now for his disrespect.
"Pyotr," Katerina calls sharply. "We're leaving."
The look he gives me contains years of accumulated resentment before he turns to join his sister, placing a protective hand on her lower back as they walk away.
My hands curl into fists as rage bubbles up.
The kind that used to get me into trouble before I learned to harness it, to make it work for me instead of against me.
Who the fuck is Enzo?
The name rattles around my skull.
Something about the way Katerina reacted, that instant shift from anger to urgency, tells me this Enzo matters. Matters deeply.
A lover? A husband? The thought sends my rage toward an inferno.
Seven years is a lifetime. Of course she moved on.
I should let her go.
The smart play would be focusing on why I'm here, who called me back, and what game Alessandro is playing.
Family business. Power struggles.
That's the battlefield I'm equipped for.
But standing in this empty church, watching Katerina's silhouette disappear through the door, I know one undeniable truth. I never stopped loving her.
Not in Chicago. Not in exile.
Not in the arms of women whose names I forgot by morning.
And I'll be damned if I walk away from her twice.