By the time we finished our meals, I was halfway through my glass of wine when Dario's phone rang again. The jazz singer had long since stepped off the stage, replaced by the low, soulful music flowing from the hidden speakers, the restaurant settling into low hums of conversations.
I leaned back in my chair as Dario excused himself, murmuring something about the bathroom before disappearing into the crowd.
I couldn't help but wish for my phone. But it was gone, misplaced somewhere in that apartment back in London or in my bag before Alexandre caught me and held me hostage. I hadn't even had the time to replace it. I had been back for less than a day and already, the world felt smaller.
And then there it was again.
His gaze.
It pressed against my chest like a slow burn, deliberate and unrelenting. He was hidden in plain sight, tucked into shadow so seamlessly that I was almost offended none of our men had noticed him. Not even Dario.
Alexandre Barinov was alive. The very man our world believed was dead, was sitting here, breathing. Watching me. Alive in a way that made my pulse stutter.
How he had made his death looked so effortless was beyond me.
But the realization settled deep and sharp: his death was a game. A long one. And sooner or later, I would understand exactly what it was.
Dario was still nowhere in sight. So I enjoyed my wine alone, pretending that this wasn't awkward at all. I let it linger, this moment of stillness, until a shadow fell across the table.
The waiter stopped beside me and placed a folded slip of paper near my hand.
"From the gentleman in the corner," he murmured, already retreating before I could respond.
My fingers hesitated, trembling, for only a second before I picked it up.
I'll have you again. You're mine.
-A.
My pulse betrayed me, sharp and sudden. I didn't even look at him. Didn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, I crushed the paper in my fist, folded it once more and slipped it into my purse as if it meant nothing.
As if it hadn't undone me.
Dario stormed in just moments later, his expression tight. His presence heavy as he took his seat across from me. I lifted my glass and finished the last of my wine in a single, steady swallow. Composed and unshaken, like I was bored waiting.
"Need my help?" I asked lightly, as if we were discussing nothing more than the check.
He shot me a sharp look. "I don't remember you being this insolent," he said, his voice clipped. "New York is mine. I have it handled."
I gave a small shrug, unbothered. "Suit yourself."
His jaw tightened, irritation flickering across his face before he masked it. "We're leaving," he decided. "It's getting late. And you've had too much to drink."
I glanced at my glass, then back at him. "It was barely a bottle," I said as calmly as I can. "And if we're being honest, it wasn't even a particularly good one."
Dario didn't bother responding. He rose instead, straightening his jacket with practiced ease, the offered his arm as if it were instinct, expected. A gesture meant for these watchful eyes.
I hesitated only a fraction of a second before taking it.
My fingers curling lightly around his sleeve, formal and rehearsed.
We moved through the restaurant together, every inch the picture of a couple who belonged exactly where they were. I could hear conversations softened as we passed. The way their heads had turned. Whispers followed. This was the version of us the world was meant to see.
It wasn't until we reached that shadowed corner by the exit, that I felt that unmistakable pull. A presence I didn't need to look for, to know was there.
I could sense his gaze the way one feels heat before the fire, steady and unyielding. Yet, no matter how much I wanted to, I did not turn my head. I only kept my chin lifted and my expression serene. As if I didn't notice him, nor cared.
My hand was firm on Dario's arm the moment we stepped into the night.
If Alexandre wanted a reaction, I wasn't going to give it to him.
The door closed behind us with a muted thud, sealing away everything. The warmth. And him.
I scanned the street by instinct. There were no flashes. No shouted names. Just the low hum of traffic and the muted glow of streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement.
So I released his arm, stepping a few pace ahead.
The valet pulled up moments later, the black sedan gliding to a smooth stop right in front of us. Dario was tipping the valet when I pulled the passenger's door open, sliding into the seat on my own. The leather cool beneath my palms, as the door closed with a soft click.
"I'm taking you back to the penthouse," he said the moment he pulled into the traffic. "I'll head out afterward and see how things are progressing."
"Oh?" I said, my voice cool, edged just enough to cut. "So I'm no longer entitled to information?"
"You've had too much to drink," he said, his jaw set, hands tightening around the steering wheel. "And you've just woken up from a head injury."
"How long was I out?" I asked. "And how did you find me? At least tell me that."
Silence.
It stretched, deliberate and controlled. Like he was still debating whether to tell me. And I hated it. I'm so fucking sick of people keeping things from me. Of men deciding what I could and could not know.
"A few days," he said at last. "A stranger brought you into a hospital on the outskirts of New York after you went off the grid, said he found you injured. Later, our men recovered the footage of you in the forest. How you fired at him, center mass. The video looked like it came from a car's dash camera."
My fingers curled slowly in my lap.
"We went in immediately," he continued. "Recovered the body below the cliff and confirmed it."
Below the cliff.
The words landed with weight, cold and final.
I stared out the window as the city blurred past, my reflection staring back at me. Composed, unbroken and perfectly intact. And yet, something inside me knew.
The city blurring past the window, lights streaking across the glass as he drove in silence, two hands on the wheel. I didn't look at him again. I didn't even give him the satisfaction of knowing which part of his tory had lodged itself under my skin.
"Thank you for telling me," I said at last.
The words landed between us, measured and neutral. Like an acknowledgement.
"I meant what I said, Sol," he replied, his voice firm, sharpening at the edges. "I want this union to work. A proper partnership. You understand how much of our family is depending on this union to work."
I turned to face him then. Not defiantly, just honestly.
"I want that too, Dario," I said carefully. "But I can't promise you anything beyond that."
Something tightened in his expression. His jaw flexed once, like he was swallowing a response he didn't want to give.
"I know," he said.
I nodded once, sealing it there. Not as agreement, but as an understanding. Something neither of us was ready to name.
The car eased to a stop right in front of the entrance of the penthouse building. The doorman was there before Dario had even cut the engine, opening my door with practiced efficiency. I stepped out, smoothing my expression into something unreadable and head inside.
I didn't need to turn around to know Dario had already driven off. The low growl of the engine echoing through the driveway before fading into the city, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake.
It wasn't until I walked into my bedroom, guided by James, that I finally could breathe. I slipped out of my heels, took three steps into my bedroom and that was when I felt it. A presence.
I stopped dead in my tracks, all my senses going on alert.
He stood by the windowsill, half-swallowed by the city lights beyond the glass, dressed in the same black suit he had worn at the restaurant. The hat was gone now. As if he had always been there, waiting.
My breath caught so sharply it hurt.
"Alex—" I stopped myself too late.
The name slipped out before I could contain it.
Memories crashed into me all at once. The way he turned at the sound of his name. Those dark green eyes finding mine, steady and unflinching, carrying a weight that sent a tremors through my spine.
Alive. Undeniably alive.
Just him.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt charged, yet fragile with all the things unsaid, like one wrong breath might shatter it.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said softly.