Chapter 2

Before burning the bridge entirely, I had a final tie to sever.

I dialed Nikolai’s private line.

"What? Not even twenty-four hours and you’re already calling to beg for a truce?" His voice was thick with greasy confidence.

"I have something that belongs to you." Between my fingers sat a small velvet case holding the mangled hollow-point slug dug out of Nikolai’s ribs when he jumped in front of a gun for me at age twelve. He’d kept it like a talisman, proof that my life belonged to him. "Give me your location."

"Fifth Ave boutique. Make it quick, I’m not waiting around for you." The line went dead.

When I pushed through the glass doors of the luxury showroom, Nikolai was sprawled deep into an Italian leather armchair.

Gia stood in front of the triptych mirrors, smoothing down a tailored Chanel suit fresh off the Paris runway.

"Nikolai, what do you think? Matteo mentioned I might start shadowing him at the firm next week. Does this scream boardroom?"

"Looks stunning. Like you were born into the elite," Nikolai murmured, his tone nauseatingly gentle. But the second his gaze flicked to me, his features curdled into stone. "Where’s the package? What was so damn urgent you had to disrupt us?"

I extended the velvet box.

He didn't bother to glance inside. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed it behind him to an armed bodyguard. "Whatever. Since you crawled all the way out here, give Gia a hand picking evening wear."

"Can’t. I have packing to finish," I replied, deadpan.

Nikolai let out a mocking bark of laughter, his eyes dragging over my tailored combat slacks. "Packing? Still running that pathetic tough-girl routine? Not like you know shit about dresses anyway. You haven't touched silk since we were kids. Always stomping around like an armed thug. No grace, no femininity. Your street taste would just ruin Gia’s look."

He whipped out a black Amex from his coat and dropped it into Gia’s manicured palm. "Get whatever catches your eye. Put the whole store on my tab."

Gia beamed, leaning in close. "Thank you, Nikolai. You take such good care of me."

A cold, dull ache settled deep into my ribs.

When I was twelve, shrapnel from a car bomb shredded my right calf, carving a jagged, hideous scar that ruined the skin. I swore off dresses out of humiliation.

Back then, a bruised and hysterical Nikolai had emptied out half of Manhattan’s designer floors, dumping piles of custom-tailored slacks onto my hospital mattress.

What had the boy said to me through his tears?

"You look like a goddamn queen no matter what you wear, Sienna. If anyone opens their mouth about your legs, I’ll put a hollow-point through their teeth."

Memories were just rusted shrapnel. They only bled you if you kept digging at them.

I turned on my heel and walked out the door.

That night, the electronic lock on my penthouse buzzed.

Matteo walked inside carrying paper grocery bags, rolling up his cuffs and making himself at home in my kitchen as if the past twenty-four hours hadn't happened.

Half an hour later, two cuts of prime ribeye sat on the counter. Seared black, medium-rare inside, cracked peppercorn crust. Just the way I liked it.

"Sit and eat," he murmured, pulling out my chair with a soft look in his eyes, acting as though yesterday's venom had never existed. "I was out of line yesterday. We only push you because Gia took the brunt of the gutter for eighteen years. We feel responsible for her, that's all."

He leaned across the wood, pressing his warm palm over the back of my cold hand. "I gave you my word. This last month before you head out, I’m yours. A real boyfriend."

I stared down at our overlapping fingers, a hollow twitch pulling at my muscle.

For one pathetic, fleeting second, I almost thought there was a thread of real remorse in him. I almost opened my mouth to tell him my jet took off in two days.

Then he cleared his throat.

"One more thing... pass me the keycard to the Park Avenue penthouse."

My steak knife stopped scraping the porcelain. "That’s our fallback safehouse. Ours."

"I know," Matteo said, casual as hell, like he was asking to borrow a lighter. "It sits two blocks from the firm. Gia starts Monday. It’s safer for her, and she won't have to fight traffic."

The last tiny, microscopic ember in my chest went completely black.

The steak, the soft voice, the fake apology. A staged performance.

All of it just to clear a room for Gia.

I didn't yell. I didn't shatter the wine glass.

I reached into my pocket, slid the sleek black keycard out, and laid it quietly next to his steak knife.

Matteo blinked, clearly thrown off. He had anticipated a shouting match, not absolute compliance.

He scooped the card up, slipping it into his pocket with a smug, satisfied grin. "Look at you. Glad to see you're finally acting your age, Sienna."

I watched his silhouette disappear down the private elevator. The second the heavy steel doors latched shut, I picked up my phone and dialed my asset manager.

"The penthouse on Park. Dump it. Twenty percent under market value, cash only. I want the title out of my name by tomorrow afternoon."

The deed was stamped with my name alone. The down payment had come from the bounty of my very first syndicate hit.

I wouldn't leave them a single square inch of dirt.