Chapter 14 OKSANA
The next morning…
I wake to the soft itch of sunlight on my eyelids and a head that feels…
cottoned, but not broken. Thankfully, the fuzz is a curtain, not a cage.
I blink my eyes open to an empty room. No Stephano.
For a moment, I'm worried. Did he ever come back last night?
But then I see his jacket on the chair, which wasn't there when I fell asleep.
I'm just about to toss the thin sheet off me when the door clicks and Stephano slips in.
In his arms, he has paper bags from which wafts the sweet, mean smell of coffee.
"Good morning," he says, smug as always. He sets the tray on the bedside table like he’s delivering contraband.
I smile at him because… coffee. Not because I’m starting to like him, or God forbid, the sex that won't stop living rent-free in my head, sex that I absolutely didn’t think about last night.
"Good morning," I echo, already holding my hands out. "Gimme, gimme."
He laughs, warm and surprised. "For a moment, you looked like a normal woman."
I snort. "Define normal."
"Someone who says please before hijacking the coffee."
"Then I’m abnormal," I say, curling my fingers around the cup. The heat bites perfectly. Greedily, I take a careful sip. It’s dark and a little burnt, Italian enough to swagger. Bliss. "And if you used decaf, I’ll reorganize your face."
"Try me." He tears open a paper bag and produces a small feast: sfincione squares glossy with tomato and onion, still warm; a ricotta-filled cornetto dusted with powdered sugar; a wedge of frittata that smells like rosemary and potatoes; a tiny tub of pistachio cream that glows the pale green of dangerous promises.
My stomach actually purrs.
"Eat," he orders, but his tone is soft. He sits on the edge of the chair like he needs to keep a respectful inch of air between us. Sensible. I add a few points to his list.
I bite into the sfincione, a mix of sweet onion and salted anchovy. The crust is a whisper of chewy, but the bottom is oil-soft and out of this world. I close my eyes. "Okay," I murmur. "You live another day."
"High praise." He nudges the pistachio cream toward me. "Locally made. Omar swears by it."
"Omar?" I raise an eyebrow. That's a new name.
"Oh, yeah, I made some friends last night. Americans. Billy and Omar. Their wives had plastic surgery too."
He takes a drink of his coffee, watching me way too nonchalantly over the rim. I take the bait. "Too?"
"Mm-hmm." He doesn’t blink. "Told them you’d had a breast augmentation. Strictly medical discussion, of course."
I freeze. "You what?"
He gestures with his cup. "It came up naturally in conversation."
"Naturally? What conversation leads to you naturally announcing my cup size to total strangers?"
He looks up, thoughtful. "It's a good disguise since you're still hurt."
It takes a bit to keep an irritated expression on my face, but when I say, "You bonded over implants?" I'm having a hard time keeping the amusement out of my voice.
"Shared human experience," he deadpans. "Billy said his wife’s incisions looked painful. I said yours were—"
"Don’t finish that sentence," I warn, pointing my coffee cup at him like a weapon.
He grins—slow, dangerous, unrepentant. "—beautifully healed. That’s all I said."
"Oh, you’re so dead." I toss a napkin at him. It hits his chest, sliding down like a surrender flag he doesn’t deserve.
"Relax," he says, laughter in his throat. "They were taken with your resilience. I may have raised your stock in the international community."
"My stock?!" I lunge for the pistachio cream just to have something to throw, but he catches my wrist midair, easily, like he’s been waiting for me to snap.
"Careful," he murmurs. "That’s locally made."
I glare at him. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and my traitorous pulse betrays me. "I also told them that the doctors dropped you on the floor during surgery, and that's why your face is all… messed up."
"My face is…" I huff for air, because… really? REALLY?
"You’re lucky this coffee’s good," I pout.
"I’m lucky every morning you don’t shoot me."
"Tempting, though."
He leans back, smirking. "If it helps, I told them you’re terrifying. They found that sexy."
"I’ll kill you," I mutter, half-standing. "Slowly. With a dull spoon."
He sets down his cup, smiling like a man who’s proud of his own funeral arrangements. "They were impressed. Said Italian men don’t usually talk so fondly about their wives."
"I’m not your wife," I snap.
"Tell that to the hospital people." He leans back, still grinning. "Anyway, I figured honesty builds trust."
"Honesty gets you castrated," I correct. "And while we’re at it, what else did you share? Blood type? Birthmarks? Favorite position?"
He pretends to think. "No. But now that you mention it, I could’ve mentioned that you're very flexible."
I groan. "You’re impossible."
"And yet, here you are, still eating my breakfast."
"Only because it’s good," I shoot back.
"So am I," he says with that infuriating little half-smile and a wink that makes my ovaries flutter. Yes, flutter. That’s a new one.
I lob a piece of sfincione at his chest. It hits squarely, leaving a tiny red stain on his shirt. "You’re lucky I don’t have a gun right now."
He looks down at the sauce, then at me. "You just marked me. Symbolic."
"You’re about to be symbolic for regret," I tell him, trying—and failing—not to smile. Why is this man growing on me?
He grins wider, wiping the sauce off with his thumb. "See? Normal breakfast conversation. We’re getting along already."
"Keep talking," I warn. "I’ll add ex to that title of yours before lunch."
"Noted." He raises his cup. "To your very natural breasts and my continued survival."
"Drink fast," I say. "You’re on borrowed time."
He does, and I hate that the sound of his laugh lingers longer than my anger.
I swipe a finger through the pistachio cream and smear it onto the cornetto.
It hits my tongue like nut and butter got married in a back room.
My bad mood packs its bags. He watches me eat like a man learning my tells.
Not creepy. Attentive. I should hate that.
I decide to table the hating for later and dip my finger back into the cream.
Slowly, intentionally, I lick it up from the base all the way to the top, before sticking the entire finger into my mouth.
"Hmm. Good." I move the finger in and out for dramatics. All the while watching him.
A groan escapes him, and he shifts in his seat. Probably rearranging his man parts. I smile wickedly, and he shakes his head before clearing his throat and asking, "How’s the head?" in a deep, husky voice.
"Foggy in the corners, but the main roads are open." I decide to have some mercy and switch to my coffee, sipping it slowly, eyeing him over the rim. "You drugged me."
We both knew the painkillers he gave me would put me out, but it's more fun playing with him this way.
"Allegedly," he replies innocently, picking up my game. "You needed the sleep, and you slept."
"I did." I hate how grateful my bones feel. "Don’t make a habit of being right. It’s unattractive."
"Noted."
He pulls out his phone. "We got some drone footage from last night."
I shift, set the coffee on my knee, and lean closer. The screen shows a husk of buildings stitched from concrete and rust. Corrugated roofs. A long, buckled strip that used to be a parade ground. Then it switches to thermal images. Heat sources move through the darkness. My pulse speeds up.
"Count with me," he says.
I do. A pocket behind a hangar. A cluster near the old motor pool. A line moving like a patrol along the fence. I count thirty-six; he taps four I missed. Forty.
"Definitely life," I say. "Not just rats and ghosts."
"People," he agrees. "Armed, most likely. The way they move is too tidy to be squatters."
"So we go in hot and heavy?" I ask, licking sugar off my thumb. I make it obvious. He notices; his gaze flicks to my mouth and back, disciplined but not dead. Good.
He gives me a skeptical glance, all mafia boss man, measuring risk and appetite. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
I lift my chin. "Once I take a shower, not even a freight train will stop me."
His mouth does that slow, maybe-smile. "Your brother called me last night."
I stop mid-reach for a frittata. "He did?"
"Hmm." He forks a bite of potatoes into his own mouth, chewing like this is the evening news. "Told me not to let you die and that you’re as stubborn as a mule. So I’ll ask again: how do you feel? And before you answer, consider that I like living."
I picture Grigori making that call, knowing the pride he had to swallow and then pretend wasn’t there. It tugs at something old and steel-edged in me. "He must have hated dialing your number," I mumble, trying for light and not quite making it.
Steph’s eyes soften one shade. "He hated it," he says honestly, with a hint of respect. "But he did it anyway."
Of course he did. My throat goes tight for a heartbeat, then the moment passes. I spear a corner of frittata, let the rosemary break clean across my tongue. "Fine," I concede. "I feel… ninety percent. The ten I’m missing is patience."
"Patience is the part that keeps you alive," he warns.
I shake my head and tilt it. "No, it's the part that keeps you alive."
"Ugh," he laughs. "Logic before lunch."
"This is lunch." I correct, pointing the fork at the half-ruined pastry in my hand. "And logic says forty heat signatures is not a knock-and-ask situation." I tap the screen. "The motor pool is our entry. A few grenades will make a big firework distraction."
He nods in approval.
"See that dead ground between the fence and the south barracks?" I trace it. My finger almost brushes his; I leave it there half a second too long. He doesn’t move. "We could crawl that," I say, low. "Get ears on who runs what."
"We," he repeats, amused. "You and who else?"
"Me and the showered version of me," I say. "She’s faster, meaner, and has better hair."
He huffs a laugh. "Appealing as that is, you’re benched until I’m convinced you won’t fall asleep mid-infiltration and drool on my operation."
"Drool would be a new angle," I say. "Confuse the enemy. Weaponized boredom."
"Tempting," he says, not tempted at all. His thigh is close to mine now, close enough that heat becomes a fact. He doesn’t crowd. He offers the option. I take another sip of coffee to stop myself from taking it.
He swipes to a wider shot: perimeter roads, a canal that snakes past the rear fence, and a caretaker shack by a river gate.
"There’s a way to watch without touching," he says.
"Tonight, I'll have men posted to count shifts and mark command paths.
If the numbers make sense, and you still feel like a freight train, we can talk entry. "
"Freight train’s offended," I say. "But it will allow reconnaissance."
"Freight train is learning manners," he replies, pleased.
I lean back against the pillows, let my ankle bump his shin, and don’t apologize. "If we’re doing this your careful way, I want a second coffee and a promise you won’t chloroform me again."
"Coffee is easy." He leans in like he might steal the cup, then doesn’t. The not-doing is a touch. I feel it anyway. "And I don’t use chloroform."
"Whatever romance-novel trick you used," I say, smiling despite myself. "If you do it again, I’ll tell Grigori you made me nap."
He winces theatrically. "He’d send a fruit basket with a bomb in it."
"He’d send you a silence and make you live in it." I lick a streak of sugar from my lip. His eyes drop again. Oh, he wants. Good. I want, too. Better.
"Shower," his voice is a fraction lower. "Then we plan."
"Go find more food and come back in thirty," I order, snagging the last cornetto and pushing the tray into his hands. My fingers brush his; he’s warm, steady. Infuriating. Reliable.
He stands, lingering, like he’s giving me the option to say don’t go. I don’t. He doesn’t need that power. Not yet.
But as he moves to the door, I hear myself say, "Steph?"
He looks over his shoulder.
"Thank you," I say. For the coffee. For the sleep I didn’t want, because we both know I wouldn't have taken the damn pills without him insisting. For answering Grigori’s pride with something that wasn’t mockery.
He nods once. "Don’t make me regret it."
"Bring me one more of those sfincione," I counter, "and I’ll consider being normal for two minutes."
His grin is quick and criminal. "One minute," he says. "Let’s not rush your development."
He leaves. I finish the cornetto slowly, savoring the last sweet grit of sugar, and slide off the bed. The room tilts, then steadies. I feel strong enough to chase ghosts through concrete and count men by their heat.
The water in the shower will be hot. The day will be long. And Stephano Conti, damn him, is starting to sound like the kind of man who gets under your skin and builds a little outpost there.
I let the thought live for exactly one breath. Then I lock it up, step into the bathroom, and turn the tap until the world goes white with steam.