Chapter 18

LUCA POV

So close.

Too close.

Her breath was on my chin, warm, sweet, laced with espresso and sin.

My grip on her wrist was the only thing keeping me tethered to the vow I’d made a lifetime ago.

She looked at me like I was already hers.

Like she knew I’d fall.

Like she wanted to be there when I did.

“Because I want you to burn with me.”

Hell.

I was already on fire.

My lips moved on instinct, drawn by some force older than blood, older than loyalty—pure, dangerous Andria.

And then—

The phone rang.

Emergency line. Red light.

The sound of the past clawing into the present.

It was like being doused with cold water and slapped by God himself.

I answered the call, heart still thundering from something that wasn’t fear.

“Figlia?”

Grigori’s voice.

Sharp. Clipped. Edged with something deadly.

I straightened.

Andria muttered behind me like a woman scorned by the universe. Something about mozzarella, sabotage, and fashion week. I almost smiled.

But Grigori wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

“Someone breached a line inside the Rome safe house. Your location might’ve been compromised. Take her to the fallback site. Use Route C. No stops. No calls.”

My blood ran cold.

Fallback site?

We hadn’t touched that plan since the Naples incident.

“Understood.”

I hung up.

She was still fuming behind me, beautiful and oblivious to the storm that just detonated.

“Pack,” I said.

She blinked. “Pack what? We just got here—”

“Now.”

It took me two minutes.

I tossed essentials into the black duffel. Ammo. Cash. Burner phones. Two sets of clothes. Hers. Mine.

She was complaining the whole time.

“Do you know how long it takes to pack skincare?”

“We’re leaving the best coffee I’ve ever had. Is this a crime?”

“Oh my god, if this is because I almost kissed you back—”

I zipped her mouth shut with a glare and the second duffel.

Then she stormed to the SUV in her oversized sunglasses and rage-bun like she was going to a Vogue shoot during the apocalypse.

The cabin door slammed behind us.

The storm had calmed—but the air was still heavy. Charged. Tense.

Like the kiss-that-almost-happened was still alive between us, following us into the car like a ghost.

I gripped the wheel.

She crossed her legs too dramatically.

“Are we going to Siberia?” she huffed. “Because if I freeze my ass off, I’m suing the Gregori family.”

I said nothing. Because if I opened my mouth, I’d confess everything.

That I wanted her. That I almost kissed her. That I still felt her. And I couldn’t.

Not with her father’s voice still ringing in my ears.

Because when Grigori calls on the red line—it means blood or wine or both.

And one wrong move? I’d be bleeding before dessert.

Fifteen minutes down the narrow valley road.

The trees grew thicker.

Rain started again—sharp, cold, stinging.

Thunder rolled behind the mountains like a warning.

Andria was in the passenger seat. Still muttering about leaving her hydrating mist and silk pillowcase behind.

I should’ve been annoyed.

But something was wrong.

I felt it. The kind of wrong that crawls up your spine and whispers, “Not yet. Don’t relax.”

A click.

Soft. Too soft.

Beneath the engine.

My jaw locked.

“Andria.”

She paused mid-complaint, blinked at my tone.

“What?” she asked warily.

“Shut up for five seconds.”

She glared. “Excuse me—”

“Silence.”

Her mouth closed. She stilled.

And then—

Red light. Far. Distant. Focused.

Sniper.

No—detonator.

I didn’t think. I moved.

Snatched her by the waist, unbuckled her in one clean motion, and launched us both out of the SUV.

We hit the dirt. The world exploded.

The blast roared.

Fire and shrapnel swallowed the car as it tumbled off the cliff.

The force knocked the breath from my lungs.

Andria screamed once—cut off as I cradled her head against my chest. Her body limp.

She wasn’t moving.

“ANDRIA!”

Nothing.

My heart went cold.

I checked her pulse—still there. Shallow. Fast.

Shocked.

Unconscious.

I hoisted her into my arms, ignoring the burn in my ribs, the sting on my temple.

We had to get out. Now.

Through the rain, I ran.

The world narrowed to just me and her.

No mafia. No orders. Just the fire behind us and the girl in my arms.

She was everything. I saw a shadow—a hut.Barely standing. Tucked into the slope behind a patch of trees. I kicked the door open.

Empty. Small. Cold. Stone walls. A woodstove that hadn’t been used in years. Mismatched chairs. One cot. Dust.

And a single emergency flashlight hanging from a rusted nail.

I laid her down on the cot.

Her hair was wet. Her cheek bruised from the fall. Her robe torn slightly at the hem.

She groaned, flinched, started to wake.

I crouched beside her, gripping the edge of the cot like it was the last thing keeping me sane.

“Andria. Hey. Hey—look at me.”

Her lashes fluttered.

Then her eyes—blurry, dazed, wide.

“...Luca?”

“Yeah,” I rasped. “We’re okay.”

“What happened?”

“We were targeted. Car’s gone. You fainted. We're lucky we made it out.”

She blinked. Then slowly sat up. Looked around. Look in the tiny hut, the battered flashlight, the fact that I was drenched, bleeding, and still hovering like a man possessed.

“Let me guess,” she croaked. “There’s one blanket?”

I exhaled.

“Yep.”