BONUS SCENE
Callum
Rome is a tactical nightmare.
The streets are too narrow, the sightlines are constantly obstructed by centuries-old architecture, and the sheer volume of tourists makes tracking a specific target mathematically impossible. Anyone could be carrying a concealed weapon under a light spring jacket. Anyone could be a threat.
I stand on the terracotta balcony of Ben’s fourth-floor apartment, looking down at the chaotic swarm of pedestrians navigating the cobblestone street below.
I take a slow sip of the dark red wine in my glass. It is a very expensive Barolo. I prefer bourbon, but Gemma insisted we embrace the local culture.
"You’re scanning the crowd again."
I don't turn around. I felt the slight shift in the air pressure when Gemma stepped onto the balcony, and I caught the faint, familiar scent of her vanilla perfume over the smell of the city’s exhaust fumes and baking garlic.
"I am observing the architecture," I reply smoothly.
She steps up beside me, leaning her forearms on the wrought-iron railing. She is wearing a dark red sundress that leaves her shoulders bare. The afternoon sun catches the dark strands of her hair. She looks completely relaxed, her skin holding a faint trace of color from the Italian sun.
"You are evaluating the structural integrity of the awning across the street to see if it could support a sniper," she corrects, taking a sip from her own wine glass.
I look at the awning. "It couldn't. The canvas is degraded, and the support brackets are rusted."
Gemma laughs, the sound bright and clear, completely cutting through the noise of the city below. She turns her head, resting her cheek against my upper arm.
"You survived the Colosseum tour today," she points out. "You didn't even punch the guy who bumped into you at the gelato stand."
"He was an elderly man holding a pistachio cone, Gemma. Assaulting him would have drawn unnecessary attention."
"Progress," she declares, tapping her wine glass against mine with a soft clink .
The glass door behind us slides open, and Ben steps out onto the balcony.
He is wearing a light linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up, looking entirely too comfortable. The bruise on his temple from the van crash in London faded months ago, leaving no scar. He looks like a man who has spent the last year spending syndicate money on expensive pasta and good investments.
In his arms, looking entirely miserable but refusing to move, is a massive, incredibly fat orange tabby cat.
"Vincenzo demands tribute," Ben announces, holding the cat out slightly. "Pippa said if you don't pet him, he’s going to hold a grudge, and I am not dealing with a hostile feline while I’m trying to cook risotto."
I stare at the cat.
The cat stares back at me. Its eyes are a pale, unblinking yellow. It looks exactly like the kind of animal that would sleep on a keyboard just to assert dominance.
"I do not pet cats," I say.
"Callum, just pet the damn cat," Gemma sighs, though she is smiling. "It’s basic social etiquette."
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. I look at Ben, who is fighting a grin, and then at Gemma, who is watching me with absolute amusement.
I reach out with my free hand and run my thumb once, briefly, over the top of the animal’s head.
Vincenzo lets out a sound that is half-purr, half-growl, and immediately turns his head to rub his cheek aggressively against my knuckles. He leaves a patch of orange fur on the dark fabric of my shirt.
"There," Ben says, looking entirely satisfied. "You have been accepted by the local mafia. Dinner is in ten minutes."
Ben turns and walks back inside, the glass door sliding shut behind him.
I look down at the orange fur on my shirt. I brush it off with a sharp flick of my fingers.
"The local mafia," I mutter.
"He’s just happy you’re here," Gemma says softly. She turns fully toward me, stepping into my space. She rests her free hand flat against the center of my chest. "I’m happy we’re here."
I look down at her.
The noise of Rome—the vespas, the shouting tourists, the distant sirens—fades into the background.
I reach out, my hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against me. The Barolo in her glass sloshes slightly, but she doesn't spill it. She just tilts her head back, her dark eyes locking onto mine.
"It’s too crowded," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low rumble. "The security is terrible. The traffic is a logistical nightmare."
"I know." She smiles, rising up on her toes. "But the wine is good."
"The wine is acceptable."
I lean down, pressing my mouth against hers. She tastes like dark grapes and the sweet, sharp edge of the lemon gelato we ate earlier. The kiss is slow, deliberate, and entirely public. I don't care who is watching from the street below. I don't care about the sightlines anymore.
I pull back just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against hers.
"Iceland is better," I murmur.
"Iceland is freezing," she counters, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "But yes. Iceland is home."
I look out over the ancient, sprawling city, holding the woman who burned down an empire to save my life securely against my chest.
The ghost is dead. The war is over.
And for the first time in my life, I have absolutely no desire to be anywhere else.