Chapter six: Forty-eight hours till ruin

“Good.” He stepped back. “Because the next time, I want you to admit you want it.”

The charged silence that followed his words stretched between us like a live wire. I glared at him and the moment our eyes met I instantly looked away.

The Geneva safehouse felt almost unnaturally still after the relentless chaos of the past few days. Nestled in the hills overlooking Lake Geneva, the modern building offered sweeping views of the water below, where faint ripples caught the last traces of afternoon sunlight.

I stood barefoot in the open kitchen area, the cool marble tiles grounding me as I nursed a cup of coffee that had long since gone lukewarm. The oversized black shirt Luciano had tossed my way earlier hung loosely on my frame, its soft fabric brushing against my skin with every small movement. It still carried his scent dark, mixed with something sharper, like aged leather and cold steel.

I hated how comforting it felt, how it made me hyper-aware of his presence even when he wasn’t in the room. My body ached from the bruises and scrapes of Milan, a dull reminder of how quickly peace could shatter.

Luciano had vanished into the study nearly an hour ago, his deep voice echoing faintly as he issued clipped orders over the phone about reinforced security protocols and alternate escape routes. When he finally emerged, his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms marked with faint scars from years of this brutal life.

The top buttons of his collar were undone, exposing the strong line of his collarbone and the edge of a tattoo I couldn’t quite make out. A fresh bruise shadowed his sharp jaw, turning the skin a mottled purple. He looked exhausted, his dark hair slightly tousled, but still dangerously composed, like a predator momentarily at rest.

He paused in the doorway when his cold blue eyes landed on me, his gaze dragging slowly over me, from the messy waves of my hair down to my bare feet..

“You’ll be staying here for a while,” he said, his voice rough and low, carrying that familiar edge of suspicion mixed with something heavier.

“Where else would I be?” I retorted, setting the mug down on the counter with more force than necessary. The ceramic clinked sharply against the stone. “Your men are stationed at every exit like I’m some high-value prisoner.”

He crossed the room with deliberate steps, his polished shoes clicking softly on the marble, and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he leaned against the opposite counter, putting just enough space between us to feel intentional. “Progress, at least. Yesterday you were trying to claw your way out of the car like a wild cat.”

“Don’t get used to it, Volkov,” I shot back, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. The hatred I’d carried for years still simmered low in my belly, a constant burn.

I studied him the way his shoulders tensed under the shirt, the subtle flex of his jaw as he took a slow sip. “This is temporary. We both know that.”

For a few long minutes, an uneasy silence settled between us, broken only by the distant call of birds near the lake. It was the closest thing to relaxation we’d had since the gala bloodbath.

I caught him glancing at the faint bruises circling my neck from the attacker’s chokehold in Milan, his expression darkening, jaw tightening with what looked like restrained fury. But he didn’t comment. Instead, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, staring out at the lake as if it held answers.

Then his phone rang, shattering the moment.

Luciano answered instantly, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert in a heartbeat. Without hesitation, he put the call on speaker.

“Boss,” Marco’s voice crackled through the line, tight with frustration. “We tracked down the second source. The one who was supposed to have solid dirt on Viktor Kane’s handler.”

Luciano’s fingers flexed around the whiskey glass, knuckles whitening. “And?”

“Dead, sir. Single shot to the back of the head, professional. No struggle. And they left their signature right on the body.”

A heavy pause. Luciano’s eyes met mine across the kitchen island, cold and unreadable. “Black feather.”

“Yeah. Fresh one. They’re cleaning up loose ends faster than we can chase them. No prints, no witnesses.”

I felt the words sink into me like ice water, a chill racing down my spine. Another dead end. Another body. The Swan wasn’t just powerful, they were embedded deep, anticipating our every move, turning our alliances into graveyards. My grip tightened on the edge of the counter until my nails bit into the marble.

Luciano ended the call and set the phone down.

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, messing it further, and exhaled sharply. “Damn!” he muttered, the single word laced with raw exhaustion. “Every lead we touch turns cold. Or bloody. At this rate, we’re next.”

I pushed away from the counter and began pacing the length of the open living area, my bare feet padding softly against the cool floor.

“We can’t keep running and reacting like this,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “That’s exactly what they want. They’re always one step ahead because they know how we operate, how both our families move. Predictable. Exposed.”

Luciano watched me intently, his whiskey forgotten on the counter. He crossed his arms, “Do you have a better idea, DeLorenzo? Because right now, we’re bleeding resources and bodies.”

I stopped pacing abruptly, turning to face him fully. Our eyes locked, the air between us thickening with that familiar charged tension of hate, frustration, and something dangerously unspoken. The lake wind picked up outside, rattling a loose shutter somewhere on the house. “I do. I have a source. Someone, back before the families expanded and the peace summits turned into public spectacles. He ran with my mother’s circle years ago. Owes her a personal debt. He might talk if I approach him right.”

Luciano straightened, his expression darkening like storm clouds rolling over the lake. “Where?”

I held his stare without flinching. “London. Back in the same city where this entire nightmare kicked off at the gala.”

His response was immediate, a low growl of disapproval. “Absolutely not. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you walk back into that hornet’s nest.”

“I’m not asking for your permission, Luciano,” I snapped, stepping closer despite the warning voice in my head. The scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey hit me, stirring unwanted heat low in my stomach. “This source doesn’t trust outsiders, especially not any one that has your name. If I show up with you or your men, he’ll disappear into the shadows. Or worse, he’ll assume I’ve sold out and feed me lies. This is my lead. My risk.”

He closed the distance in two strides, towering over me, his presence overwhelming in the quiet space. I could see the flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes, the way his bruised jaw clenched. His hand twitched at his side, as if fighting the urge to grab me and pin me in place like he had in the car.

“You want to go back to London alone? After the massacre at the gala? After they nearly put bullets in both our heads twice in twenty-four hours? You’re not that reckless, Seraphina. Or maybe you are, and that’s the problem.”

“Maybe I am,” I fired back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “But sitting here in this pretty cage, waiting for the next black feather to show up on a body or worse, on one of us isn’t working. My source only meets in person, face to face. No phones. No middlemen. No Volkov shadows lurking. I go alone, I get the information we need, and I come straight back. Forty-eight hours. That’s all I need.”

The tension crackled between us like electricity before a storm. Luciano’s breath was warm against my skin as he loomed closer, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before snapping back up. I could feel the solid heat radiating from his body, the same pull I’d felt in the rain-soaked car, the feeling I despised with every fiber of my being. Part of me wanted to shove him away. Another, darker part didn’t.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound heavy with reluctance. “Fine,” he said at last, though his tone made it clear this was far from settled. “You want to walk straight back into the lion’s den by yourself? Then go. But if you’re not back in forty-eight hours, Seraphina, I’m coming after you myself. And trust me you won’t like how that ends.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me. The Swan was still out there, invisible and deadly. And now, I was choosing to step back into the city where it all began. Alone.