Page 47

Her smirk is sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re braver than most women here. Or maybe just dumber.”

“Maybe both.”

She laughs, the sound surprisingly warm. “You’ve got guts, Dans. I’ll give you that.”

The night blurs after that. I talk to strangers who smile too wide and laugh too loud. The kind of people who’d sell their souls for power and then wonder why their lives feel empty.

****

There’s a chill in the air when I step into the garden. Above me, on the balcony, I catch the faint outlines of a man and a woman, their silhouettes blurred by the dim light. I don’t stop to watch. I have other things on my mind.

The garden glows softly under string lights draped between wooden posts, casting a warm, almost magical light over the space.. I spot roses, chrysanthemums, and dahlias, their vibrant colors muted in the night. There are other flowers I can’t quite name, though that might have more to do with the drinksI’ve had rather than my lack of gardening knowledge. Benches painted in bright, mismatched colors sit scattered across the space, their edges wrapped in zigzagging fairy lights. Everything looks surreal and dreamlike, as though I’ve wandered into another world.

I hate how much I like it. Staying here, in Remo’s world, is supposed to be temporary, but a place like this makes me wish for something I can’t quite put into words.

And then I see him.

The air is cool, laced with the faint scent of roses. He’s sitting on a stone bench with his head tilted back as he exhales a curl of smoke into the night.

His back is to me, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice carries through the garden—low, harsh, commanding. He’s speaking Russian this time, and though I know he’s fluent in Italian and English, the sharp, guttural rhythm of his Russian stirs something deep inside me. It’s ridiculous, I know. But his voice—so raw, so controlled—makes my pulse quicken in ways I’d rather not admit.

As I watch him, I’m struck by the thought that this is the man who could destroy me, and yet, he’s the one I can’t seem to stay away from.

I think about touching myself to the sound of his voice but stop myself.

I need to taste him to relieve this tension. As I take a step forward, he stops talking and turns around so quickly that I don’t have time to prepare. His face is lit by the lights, but there’s a searing shadow there too. Just as I’m about to tease him, he wriggles his hand, revealing a gun. Instinctively, I raise my hands, resisting the urge to scream when he doesn’t immediately lower the barrel.

“Remo,” I say quickly, my voice unsteady. “It’s me. Daniela. Don’t shoot.”

He doesn’t lower the gun immediately. His eyes narrow, scanning me like I’m a stranger. “Daniela,” he says slowly. “What are you doing here?”

I force myself to hold his stare. “I saw you were done with your meeting and came out here. I thought…” My words falter. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Why?” His voice is gruff and hard, making it almost impossible to reason with him. Still, I forge on, fueled by too much alcohol and a desperate need to confront him about everything he represents.

“I saw that you were upset,” I say. “I wanted to make you feel better.”

For a tense ten seconds, he keeps the gun pointed at me as if on the verge of making a fatal decision. Remo pulls away the safety, cocks his head, and places a finger on the trigger. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now, Daniela.”

I’m scared, but the alcohol dulls my fear enough for me to find my footing. “If you shoot me, you’ll never hear what I came here to tell you.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes my heart pound so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it. Finally, with an exasperated shake of his head, he flips the safety back on and lowers the gun. He mutters something into his phone before ending the call and slipping it into his jacket.

“Fine. Talk,” he says, his tone clipped. “What was so important that it couldn’t wait?”

I close the distance between us and place a hand on his chest. His body tenses under my touch, but he doesn’t push me away. It’s a small victory, but I take it.

“You look…” I falter, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must sound. “There’s no word in the dictionary for how good you look tonight.”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, it hardens. “That’s it?” he says flatly. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

“I mean it,” I say, doubling down. “You’re…you’re pretty.”

He blinks at me, his incredulous stare making me want to crawl into a hole. “Pretty?” His voice drips with disbelief. “Are you drunk?”

“Not drunk,” I say quickly. “Maybe a little intoxicated, but drunk? I’ve never been into that.”

“What are you into then?” he asks.