Chapter 42 Chapter 42
Chapter 42
Nina’s POV
My lips still burned.
I sat frozen in the cream leather seat, fingers pressed to my mouth as if I could trap the memory there. The kiss replayed behind my eyes in slow, searing flashes: Nikolai’s hand fisting my hair, the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, the way his tongue had claimed every inch like he owned it. Heat pooled low in my belly even now, traitorous and unwelcome.
I could still taste him—smoke, metal, something darker that made my pulse stutter. My cheeks flamed hotter every time I replayed the moment his teeth grazed my lip, drawing that tiny gasp I hated myself for making.
I had kissed back. Just for a second. Enough to feel the wildfire catch. Then Isabela’s “eww” had shattered it, and I jerked away like I had been electrocuted. Blushing. Mortified. Unable to meet his golden-hazel stare. I had stared at the window instead, watching city lights streak below us in golden ribbons, pretending the roar of the rotors could drown out the pounding in my ears.
I had no idea when we landed.
The chopper descended so smoothly I barely registered the shift until gentle fingers touched my shoulder.
“Miss? We are home.”
I startled so hard my knee banged the seat in front of me. My head whipped around.
The pilot stood in the open doorway, uniform crisp navy with gold trim, cap tucked under one arm. He was unfairly handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, with soft brown curls peeking from under the cap and eyes the color of warm honey.
Kind eyes. Dove-soft, almost innocent, like he belonged in a fairy tale instead of flying criminals and their unwilling captives across continents. No tattoos crawling up his neck, no scars, no menace. Just quiet professionalism and a small, polite smile that made my awkward laugh bubble up before I could stop it.
“Oh yeah,” I managed, voice cracking. “Right. Home.”
I scrambled out of the seat, bare feet slapping the cool metal floor. The diamonds were still clenched in my fist; I shoved them into the pocket of my ruined hotel pants as I ducked through the door. Cool night air rushed over me, scented with pine and distant sea salt. The helipad sat on a sprawling estate that looked more like a fortress than a house—stone walls lit by soft floodlights, manicured gardens stretching into darkness.
Enzo waited at the edge of the pad, arms crossed, head thrown back in laughter so loud it echoed off the rotors winding down.
“Oh wow, Nina the explorer returns!” he called, wiping at his eyes. “Did you bring us souvenirs from your grand Italian adventure? Maybe a postcard that says ‘Wish you were here, suckers’?”
He doubled over again, shoulders shaking.
I marched toward him, cheeks still burning from the kiss memory, and swung a playful fist at his arm. My knuckles connected with solid muscle. “Shut up, Enzo.”
He caught my wrist mid-swing, still grinning like an idiot. “Come on, admit it. You missed me. You were out there swinging helmets and stealing chains, thinking ‘If only Enzo were here to cheer me on.’”
I yanked my hand free and shoved his shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
But I was smiling—small, reluctant—because his teasing felt almost normal in this madhouse. Almost safe.
The moment shattered.
“Stop playing around.”
Dante’s voice cut through the night like a blade. Cold. Precise.
He stepped out from the shadows near the stone archway, phone already to his ear, dark suit immaculate even at this hour. His eyes flicked over me—once, dismissive—then back to the call.
“Get dressed for the ball. The chopper is still taking us.” He paused, listening to whoever was on the line, then lowered the phone just enough to pin me with a stare that made my spine straighten. “And Nina? The next time you try this silly stunt of yours, I will make sure you lose two of your fingers and a tooth. With pliers. Slowly.”
He turned away, resuming his conversation in low Italian as if he had not just threatened to mutilate me.
Isabela appeared behind him, heels clicking on the stone path. She had changed somehow—still furious, but composed again. Her red dress was gone, replaced by sleek black silk that clung like a second skin. She glanced at me with pure venom.
“Your clothes will be in your room, bitch.”
She hissed the word low enough that only I heard it, then swept past toward the house.
Nikolai was nowhere.
One second he had been kissing me like the world was ending; the next, vanished. Like smoke. I scanned the helipad, the gardens, the shadowed doorway. Nothing. My stomach twisted—relief and disappointment tangling together in a knot I refused to untangle.
Enzo caught my eye and smirked. We both looked at each other for a beat, then burst into quiet laughter—light, breathless, the kind that came from surviving something ridiculous together.
“Welcome home, little prisoner,” he said, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. He jerked his thumb toward the house. “Go get dressed before Dante comes back with actual pliers. I’ll handle the boss man.”
He clapped my shoulder once—almost gentle—then strode off after Dante, disappearing through the arched entrance.
I stood there a moment longer, wind tugging at my tangled hair, bare feet chilled on the stone. Home. The word tasted bitter. But I had no choice.
I sighed and turned toward the main house. Marble steps led up to double doors that opened silently as I approached—some sensor, some watchful eye. Inside, the foyer smelled of polished wood and fresh lilies. A maid I didn’t recognize nodded once and gestured toward the east wing without a word.
My room looked exactly as I had left it: too big, too beautiful, too much like a gilded cage. Moonlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, silvering the four-poster bed. And there, laid out across the silk duvet like an accusation, were the couture dresses.
Three garment bags.
I unzipped the first one slowly.
My breath caught.
This was not the dress I had chosen weeks ago for the upcoming ball—the elegant midnight-blue gown with clean lines and modest neckline. This was… something else.
Crimson satin poured out of the bag like spilled blood. The bodice was corseted, boned so tightly it would force my waist into an impossible hourglass. Thin straps of black lace crisscrossed the plunging neckline, barely containing what they were supposed to cover. The skirt split high on one thigh—dangerously high—revealing leg with every step. Crystals dripped from the hem like frozen tears, catching moonlight in wicked sparks. It looked designed to shock, to display, to make me impossible to ignore.
Not something a sane person would wear.
Not something I would ever choose.
I hissed under my breath and tore open the second bag.
Emerald green velvet this time. Equally scandalous—backless to the dimples above my hips, front slashed open in a deep V that would expose everything if I breathed too hard. The third bag held black lace over nude illusion, sheer panels strategically placed to tease rather than conceal.
None of them were mine.
Someone had swapped them. Deliberately.
My fingers trembled as I rifled through the remaining tissue paper, searching for the original blue gown.