Luca
I read over my last message chain with Stephano again, my body tensing up with every mile we close in on Italy.
Steph: The Lake Como house is yours when you come back. All the Trapanis will be in London for some art auctions, and the staff is on leave. I’ll meet up with them on the yacht in Sicily for a week afterwards, to give you more time, depending on what happens.
Fuck. Depending on what happens. Stephano is also expecting the worst. Once we worked through the to-do list, we tackled the risk-list and then had to face the reality of having too many risks out of our control to count.
Me: At least you say when and not if.
That was my response in the moment, trying to keep things light with all the snark I can muster in a text message.
But fuck my life. Both Steph and Benedict concluded this could end up as a suicide mission.
Meticulous as always, Benedict forced me to write farewell letters to Matteo and Dominic, so he won’t have to please explain if we don’t come back.
Steph: You have two weeks. Don’t make me send out a search party.
I plan to be dead before that happens. Won’t be needed.
Steph: Fuck, Luca. REAL FUCKING TALK. Are you ready to kill the woman you’re in love with to save her from the worst? To kill her baby? If it comes to that? TO PROTECT THEM? As a last resort?
The visual is too vivid.
I don’t respond.
Now his last words to me are the blade to my neck, sharp and cold. Menacing.
Sketching worst-case scenarios in my head isn’t helpful, but fuck, I pray it won’t come to that. But what if it does?
I stare at Milana, still asleep next to me. I wish she was in my arms, but somewhere during the night, we shifted, each into our own space. Falling asleep as we did, limbs weaved together, as close as we could get, wasn’t something I’d ever done with a woman before.
All I want is more. All I want is to hold her again.
One last time, to pull her to me. We’re landing soon and there won’t be time, which is probably for the best. She’s so deep under my skin, after crawling into me from mere photos and one lone video, where a desire sprouted like a small seed, but now, she has wound her way around and grown roots straight into my heart.
Killing her will kill me. It’s as simple as that.
And after last night, it’s as if she’s ferreted out every last empty space inside me and slotted right in, completing me.
I power down my phone, since I’m not taking it with me. As I toss it aside, I know Steph’s last words will haunt me, whichever way this mission goes. It’s a choice no man should ever make.
Closing the gap between us, I slide my hand to Milana’s waist, warning my morning wood to let go of any expectations here.
What the fuck am I even thinking? I’ll always want her.
I need her. I revel in the moment of holding her like this, filling my cup with this memory.
Drinking in the feel of her soft warm curves against my body, inhaling the sleep on her—it smells like home.
I want to stop time and just be here, just like this, for days. Forever.
She groans as I nuzzle my nose into her hair and press a soft kiss to her temple. “Princess.”
“Hmm.” Her hand reaches for mine, caressing my knuckles where I’ve splayed my fingers over her belly. “We need to get up, don’t we?”
“Yes. We’re landing in about fifty minutes.”
She twists around and burrows into me, the hand that clutches my side tensing. “Promise me we’ll get to do that again?”
“Do what?”
“Last night. I want to do that again. With you.”
“What?” Which part? The three orgasms or…?
“Make love.”
My heart seems to slow down with the meaning of her words as my soul floats off on a high I’ve never experienced before.
My gorgeous wife, this beautiful woman who has bewitched me…
wants to make love with me again. Not meet me in a dark room and fuck just for the release of it, to forget for a few hours who we are, what we look like, who we look like, hiding the parts we don’t like, free from any expectations.
We can just be ourselves, lights on, all in.
Make love. Days on end. A life fully lived.
The joy is so bright, and Russia and what we have to do there is so dark, I have to flip the visual, if only to get myself into the right headspace to step off this plane in forty minutes and not head straight back to the States and safety.
Do I have it in me to kill her? To save her from enslavement to the Bratva, and whatever else that entails?
Reality jerks my chain, even as I softly rake my fingers into her messy bedhead and hold her close, loving how she’s cuddling into me.
I can’t even think about Zoe right now. It will break me.
But we have a baby to save and love, a baby to be ours because I organized it in a way that would serve my wants, my needs, things I’ve never told anybody about. In some depraved way, I’m using her just like a pawn and she is, unwittingly, filling every void in my life.
I grind my jaw, hardening myself. Thinking like this is a wicked spiral, and I can’t go there. Not if I’m going to go through with this plan we’ve set in motion. I have no choice. I can’t leave Annushka—Zoe—in Russia, even if it means I get to keep Milana safe.
I’m going to be that fucker. I need to be this fucker in this moment, otherwise I’m going to cop out.
“Yes, princess,” I murmur, steeling myself as I roll my hips into her, showing her how on board my body is with that idea.
Giving her a yes with my soul—with my heart—would hurt too much, so I’ll say what I need to say to put cracks in this thing between us, because how else do I survive the coming days and an outcome neither of us wants?
How else do I drag her into war and keep cold, distanced, and clear-headed about it?
My life is worth nothing; I’ve always only been a prop, but I’m risking her life.
Zoe’s life. I force down my emotions, tapping into the hard fucker inside me who I let out occasionally.
“We’ll fuck again if you want. It was fun. ”
She stiffens in my arms, and I force myself to roll away before she can say anything. “I’m going to shower. Maybe grab breakfast while you can.”
I’m off the bed and walk straight into the bathroom, cursing myself every step of the way.
That wasn’t only cruel, it was uncalled for.
I want to go back, apologize, take her in my arms and tell her everything, show her my fear, but beyond the closed bathroom door, I hear the flight attendant knock, giving Milana the heads up that we’re landing in forty minutes.
I stand in the cold shower, wanting to reverse time, but also wanting to fast-forward to the point where I can take those words back without fear.
Because I’ve walked the path ahead of me and we are safely back in Italy or America, Zoe in her arms. If I fail Milana, if I fail Zoe, who knows what the Bratva would do to them?
To Ivan. To Ivan’s girls. To Gabi, who is now his wife.
For the first time, I see the bigger picture of how failing this mission would trigger a landslide I’d have no control over. The stakes just doubled.
When I step out to get dressed five minutes later, the room is empty, her suitcase tossed on the bed, her warmth gone.
She’s having breakfast as I’m walking into the cabin. Our gazes lock across the room, and for a split second, the pain in her eyes is clear before she masks it and then blushes profusely as she drops her gaze.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
I sit down across from her, signal to the steward to bring me whatever Milana is having, and reach for her hand. Her fingers are cold and stiff in mine, and after a few seconds, she retracts her hand.
“We need to focus, Milana.” It’s a weak-ass excuse for my inner turmoil, but it’s what I can give her without breaking the fuck down in front of her.
“I know.” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Let’s just get through the first hurdles of traveling on these fake passports and see if we actually make it to Saint Petersburg. I know what’s at stake, more than you do. She’s mine after all, and not yours.”
Ouch. After the way I treated her, I’ve earned this back-handed slap.
We eat in silence, get off the jet with only cursory conversation, and then, once we’ve been stamped into Italy, we’re on our way to Milan’s Malpensa Airport for our connecting flight to Istanbul. We’re both tense, making it through passport control without a glitch.
At the Istanbul airport, a hub in the center of so many simmering tempers, the baggage security is extra, and we both slump in our seats in relief once we’re on the airplane to Saint Peterburg without any drama.
“Told you it wouldn’t be a problem. Ben is good.” His connections are not to be scoffed at, either.
She nods, saying nothing. Traveling like this is a drag, hurry up and wait, more wait, more hurry, connections, luggage checks, security scans which never allow us to relax, but Milana’s cabin bag doesn’t attract any attention.
A gun passing blindly through all of them.
Fuck. What is Chertnikov up to, creating weapons like these?
And then wanting to use the Petrovs’ logistics infrastructure to move…
what exactly? It can’t be more guns, not to the States where we have plenty, but my gut revolts at all the possibilities, knowing every day is an opportunity to enhance the technology he has, improve on this prototype that’s made to slip through the cracks.
I pray we won’t need to use it, but who the fuck knows what we’re really stepping into here.
When we’re finally in Saint Petersburg, and even Milana has entered her home ground without raising an eyebrow at passport control, we both heave a sigh of relief.
We get the keys to the rental car, find it in the parking lot, and I put our suitcases in the back.
I take a minute to extract the things we need now that we are in Russia: bullets, gloves, scarves, and hats.
A gust of wind cuts through the parking lot like an icy slap in the face.