Tone - 2 months later
The phone shattered the quiet, sharp enough to cut through the stillness that had settled over the house like a second skin.
I stilled where I stood in the kitchen, my hand hovering over the edge of the marble bench, listening to it ring again. The sound carried through the open space, echoing faintly against high ceilings and sunlit walls, out of place in a morning that had been otherwise… peaceful.
Archie’s phone.
He’d left it on the dining table.
I moved toward it slowly, bare feet silent against the cool stone floors, my fingers curling around the vibrating device just as the screen lit up again.
It was an unknown number.
Something in my chest tightened.
I didn’t think. I just turned and walked toward the back terrace.
He was outside, leaning against the railing that overlooked the rolling hills, his shoulders loose, posture easy in a way it hadn’t been for weeks.
The Tuscan countryside stretched out in front of him—endless green, dotted with cypress trees and sun-warmed stone—and for a moment, he looked like he was finally at peace.
“Archie,” I called softly.
He turned at the sound of my voice, eyes finding mine instantly.
I held up the phone.
His expression shifted the second he saw it. But I caught it.
He pushed off the railing and crossed the distance between us, taking the phone from my hand without a word. His fingers brushed mine briefly—warm, grounding—and then he stepped past me, already answering.
I didn’t follow.
I stayed where I was, watching him from a distance as he moved further down the terrace, his voice low, measured. Serious.
Whatever this was—it wasn’t nothing.
My arms folded loosely across my chest as I leaned back against the doorway, letting the moment stretch while my gaze drifted over him.
Two months.
It had been two months since the airstrip. Since blood and fire and the kind of fear that carved itself into your bones and stayed there.
Archie’s recovery had been slow. It had been brutal in its own quiet way.
There were nights he hadn’t slept. Days his body had fought him with every step, every movement. Weeks where I’d watched him relearn things he used to do without thinking—strength coming back in increments that felt too small to matter, until one day they did.
Now he stood tall again. The hand of death had touched him, but he’d managed to find his way home.
My chest tightened. Because I knew. I remembered just as much as he did.
Every time my mind slipped back there—every time I saw him lying still—something dark twisted through me. A shadow that hadn’t quite left.
My hand moved without thinking, settling against my stomach.
The curve was slight. Easy to miss. But I felt it. Constantly.
A quiet, steady reminder that something had shifted. That the future I’d almost lost had rewritten itself into something else entirely. Something fragile yet extraordinary.
I exhaled slowly, my thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of my dress.
We were okay now. More than okay. Better than I ever thought we’d be.
Things with Raze had… settled. They were not perfect, but we were making our way back to the place we’d once been.
Time didn’t erase what had happened between Archie and Raze.
But they were better. Now, somehow, they got along.
Not just tolerated each other—actually got along.
In their own way. Which mostly involved dry insults, veiled threats, and the occasional shared drink that neither of them would admit they enjoyed.
Progress.
We’d moved here to Tuscany not long after Archie was discharged.
It was a place that felt like it existed outside of everything we’d come from. Far removed from the chaos and destruction we were both born into.
The house sat on a stretch of land that rolled endlessly into green hills and sunlit fields. It had soaring white walls with wide windows and open space.
It wasn’t built for war or power or control. It was built for comfort. A place to raise a family. And somehow, we’d made it ours.
For the first time in a long time, things felt… steady. Safe.
Archie’s voice shifted slightly in the distance, pulling my attention back to him.
I watched as his posture changed. Subtle, but unmistakable.
His shoulders tightened. His head dipped slightly, like he was listening harder now.
Something in my chest went still. Whatever was being said was important.
The call didn’t last much longer. When he ended it, he didn’t move right away.
He just stood there for a moment, staring out over the hills, the phone still in his hand.
Then he turned. And started walking back toward me.
I straightened, pushing off the doorway.
His expression stopped me before he even reached me. Solemn. Quiet. Too controlled. The old Archie.
“Archie?”
He didn’t answer immediately as he closed the distance between us, his gaze locked on mine, unreadable in a way I didn’t like.
“That was Russia,” he said finally.
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“My uncle.”
A beat.
“And?”
Something flickered in his eyes then. A coldness I wasn’t accustomed to from him.
“My father’s dead.”
The words landed between us, heavy and unmovable, even though the world didn’t react. The sun still stretched across the hills. The breeze still moved through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out like nothing had changed.
But it had. I felt it. A shift beneath the surface. Quietly dangerous.
I wondered what this meant for Archie. How it affected him. I didn’t know much about his family in Russia-a subject he never so much as touched on-so I wasn’t sure what sort of relationship Archie had with his father.
I searched his face, my voice quieter now.
“What does that mean?”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“It means,” he said slowly, “I have to go back to Russia.”
And just like that—Tuscany didn’t feel so safe anymore.