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“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” I say slowly. Understatement of the year, Abby. “But there’s truth to what I’m saying, too.”

Like the fact that you’re a criminal.

And not just any criminal.

Roman’s enforcer. His executioner. The man who takes the hard orders, then takes care of business.

“I don’t think this is about me.” Dimitry stares straight ahead as he talks. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face your past. And that means facing your parents, Abby. Even if you don’t tell them the whole truth about what’s happened to you in the years since you left Australia.”

If only it was that simple. If only that was all I’m afraid of.

“Even if you’re right,” I say, “whatever choices I’ve made in the past, or might make in the future, don’t change the truth of what I’m saying. My point is that you belong to Roman first. Above everything else. Even above yourself.”

Dimitry makes an impatient noise, thrusting his hands in his pockets as he walks.

But he doesn’t argue.

The hard part is that I know how much he loves his work.

Especially since Roman made him the head of a Miami team dedicated to returning the priceless Naryshkin treasures, which have languished in a vault beneath Darya’s family home since the Russian Revolution.

Now the pieces the old Russian nobility entrusted to her ancestors are being discreetly returned to their rightful owners.

Placing Dimitry at the head of the Naryshkin task force is a clear sign of how much Roman trusts and values his oldest friend. They’ve been like brothers since they were children.

But that’s also part of the problem.

Dimitry’s allegiance to Roman comes first. Above everything and everyone.

Even me.

As much as I can trust anyone to make good decisions, I trust Dimitry. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make the decisions about his life.

Roman does.

And I promised myself a long time ago that I would never again allow my fate to be determined by the bad decisions of others.

I turn to face him at the bottom of the plaza stairs. “What do you truly want, Dimitry? Have you ever even asked yourself that question?”

“Not this again.” He shakes his head impatiently. “Listen, Abby.” He takes a deep breath, clearly trying to calm his tone. “I don’t think my position with Roman is what this is really about.”

A muscle tics beneath the jagged scar on his jaw.

I clench my hand to stop myself from touching it. I’m terrified at how much I want to.

“Forget your family for the moment.” Dimitry’s eyes search mine.

“I think you’re still afraid of something.

” He holds up his hand to stall my protest. “Don’t insult us both by lying about it,” he says quietly.

“I’ve always respected your privacy. But at some point, we have to face this, Abs.

” His brows quirk, his mouth softening. “After all this time, can’t you trust me? ”

I trust you.

I just don’t want you dead.

Which is why there’s no fucking way we’re having this discussion.

I avoid it by glaring at him. “Nice pivot. Let’s just forget it.”

I stomp up the stairs to the plaza, deserted in the rain. Diamond-shaped lamps hang from the arches in the colonnades, casting a mellow glow over the old stone.

“Abby.” Dimitry takes my arm, turning me to face him. “Talk to me.”

Oh, God. I’m not ready for this.

I take a deep breath.

It has to be said sooner or later, Abby.

I meet his eyes, every bone in my body aching at the hurt I’m about to cause. “I can’t go to Miami with you, Dimitry.”

His face is hard as a marble statue, the low light catching the rain tracking down his cheeks. “Why not?”

I lift a shoulder. “I’m in Spain illegally, to begin with. My visa ran out two years ago. If I leave, I can’t come back, or at least not for a long time.”

“So we get you a different passport.” He gestures impatiently, like he’s brushing away a fly. “Another identity, even. You know how easy that shit is for me to sort out.”

“But that’s just it.” I shake my head tiredly.

“It shouldn’t be easy. It shouldn’t be normal .

It isn’t normal that you and Roman could blow up half of Miami a few months ago without even making the local news.

” I pause, searching for the words. “Nothing about the life you live is normal. And if I keep agreeing to be a part of it, then I’m agreeing to live that life, too. ”

“You’ve been living that life.” Dimitry steps forward, his large, scarred boxer’s hand brushing the rain from my cheek. “Has it really been so terrible?”

“You know it hasn’t.” I turn my head against his hand, kissing his palm.

“But it’s not our life, Dimitry. It never has been.

It’s Roman’s life. Darya’s too, I guess.

But I’m not Darya. I wasn’t born into the bratva, or raised like a Russian princess.

I don’t have some glamorous past waiting to be exposed. ”

No, just a tawdry sewer of mistakes I’d rather never discuss.

“I’m just an ordinary country girl from Australia,” I go on, blocking out the unpleasant internal voice, “who wants to make a life for herself. One that means something.” I meet his eyes.

“And I guess I don’t understand why you don’t want to make a life for yourself, too.

I know you love Roman like a brother. But you deserve to be more than what he chooses to give you, Dimitry. ”

His jaw hardens. “Roman is my pakhan , Abby. Maybe in the world you come from, that doesn’t mean anything. But in mine, it’s the only thing that matters.”

The familiar frustration rises in me like a red wave, made all the worse because I know that deep down, the things I’m saying aren’t the real problem.

And because I can’t ever talk about what that problem really is.

“Haven’t you ever wondered what your life would look like? Without... all of it?” I wave my arm, trying to encompass Roman, the bratva—the entire world of wealth, crime, and violence he occupies. “What you might do with your life, if it was your choice?”

“This life will always be my choice.” Dimitry takes a step closer. “It’s been my life since I was a kid, one I’ve chosen every day from then until now.” He touches my cheek. “But I chose you, too. And you are my life just as much as Roman ever has been. More.”

He strokes a damp piece of hair back from my face .

“Tell me what you want our life to look like, and I will make it happen.”

His jaw clenches, his scar gleaming under the street lights.

“Art college? Done.” His thumb strokes my jaw. “I’ll enroll you in the best damn degree Miami has to offer. A home? I’ll buy whatever you want, wherever you want it. Spain, Miami, London—anywhere. Children? Done, and done again.”

The harsh lines of his face soften, and my heart melts with them.

“I can give you all of that, Abby. I want to give you that. If I haven’t ever said it before, then let me make it as plain as I possibly can.”

He steps forward, cradling my face in his big hands, and it feels so good I want to lean into him, savor his touch.

“I want to marry you, Abby Chalmers.” He smiles crookedly.

“I’ve wanted to marry you since the first day we met, when you told me to go to hell over the counter of that Malaga café.

Just say yes.” His thumbs stroke the hollows beneath my eyes.

“I don’t have a ring,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

“But only because you told me long ago that you think it’s totally outrageous for a man to choose the ring his wife has to wear for the rest of her life. ”

I giggle despite myself, although the sound is half sob.

Dimitry’s smile widens, his thumbs moving down to caress my jaw. “As soon as you say yes , I’ll take you to pick out anything you want. Tonight. Straight away. I’ll find the bastards who own the best jewelry shop in Madrid and wake them up at gunpoint if I have to.”

This time my sob catches in my throat. “Kiss me.”

“Is that a yes?” He’s still smiling, but his eyes are grave.

“Kiss me,” I whisper, pressing my body against his. I close my eyes, leaning into him.

For a moment I think he’s going to force a decision, and I’m not sure what I will do if he does. Then his hand twines in my hair, and his mouth takes mine.

It’s the heat it always has been, between us. A fire that blazes with the sudden fury of an Australian bushfire, out of control and consuming everything in its path.

Every objection.

Every argument.

Every ounce of fucking sense.

“Christ, I’ve missed you,” Dimitry murmurs against my mouth. “Every minute I’ve been in Miami without you has been torture, Abby.”

I lower my hands to the hard flat of his ass and pull him against me. “Take me back to the apartment.” I kiss his neck.

He takes my mouth roughly, his hand sliding down to press me closer.

I pull back and put my mouth against his ear. “Now, Dimitry. I want you inside me.”

He tenses, but if he was going to push me for an answer, his resolve disappears when I take his hand and slide it up my skirt, over the top of my stockings, to the fork between my thighs.

“Fuck.” His eyes glaze over. “You’re so wet.”

Taking his other hand, I slide his index finger into my mouth and roll my tongue around it, holding his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you told me you were coming home.

” I moan around his fingers as he strokes me through my satin underwear, my eyes fluttering closed as I press down onto him.

“Christ.” Dimitry’s voice is hoarse. “Come on.” Tugging my skirt down, he pulls me close and virtually carries me across the plaza to the foyer of our apartment building and into the lift. He hits the button that takes us up to the penthouse, his mouth on mine the moment the door closes.

By the time it opens again my silk shirt is gaping open, my skirt is around my waist, and my loose bun is undone altogether.

I unbuckle Dimitry’s belt as we stumble into the hallway, tugging at his trousers as he pulls his shirt off. He lifts my top over my head, then takes my mouth again.