Epilogue

EPILOGUE

BELLA

T hree months later

"You didn't have to send them away for the night." I laugh as Gabriel walks out onto the deck, a platter held in both hands. "Did Agnes cook that?"

"No, I did." He sets a platter of elegantly arranged lamb chops, surrounded by roasted root vegetables and potatoes, down next to the basket of bread and dish of herbed olive oil that he brought out a few minutes before. "Although it did take some practice," he admits. "I watched the last couple of times Agnes made this."

"I wondered what you were doing in the kitchen."

"And I wanted us to have a romantic night alone," he adds, as he sits down next to me. "Just because we're all one big happy family doesn't mean that occasionally, I wouldn't like to have the whole villa to ourselves. Just you and me—and any room we feel like getting frisky in. Now that you're feeling better."

I can see the anticipation glimmering in his eyes. We've been intimate since the accident, but it's always been careful, hesitant, with Gabriel constantly worried about accidentally hurting me. But I went to the doctor yesterday, and came back fully cleared for any and all activities. All of my injuries are completely healed.

As a result, Gabriel had Agnes and Aldo take the kids for the night, to the small cottage that they're living in now. And, much to my surprise, he also cooked us dinner.

"I hope it's good." He hands me a plate, spooning food onto his before he reaches for the wine to fill both of our glasses. "And it's a perfect night for it."

It is the perfect night to eat outside. The air is cool with the slight nip of early fall, the air fresh and brisk. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of this," I say softly, looking out at the view of the estate in the twilight. "I'm so glad we decided to stay."

"I am, too." Gabriel taps his wine glass against mine. "To our future here, in our family home. Forever."

"Forever," I echo, taking a sip of the wine, a smile spreading across my face to match his.

The food is delicious, the wine perfect, and I'm startled to see that there's dessert, too. "Agnes did make this," Gabriel admits, as he brings out two slices of tiramisu. "I'm not this talented."

"No, but with how good dinner was, you might be well on your way—Gabriel?" My eyes widen as he goes down on one knee next to my chair, the moment he sets the plates down. "What are you doing?"

"Bella—" He reaches out, taking my hand in his…my left hand, the ring he gave me sparkling on my finger in the low light from the deck. "I love you. And I should have told you that the day I asked you to marry me, the first time. But I promise I'll make up for not telling you before for the rest of my life." He pauses, taking a slow breath. "Will you marry me, Bella? Not an arrangement, not for protection, but because I love you, and you love me, and I want to spend all of our lives together."

The answer to that question falls from my lips easily now—so easily that it's hard to believe that I ever couldn't say it before. "Yes," I whisper, my throat choked. "I'll marry you as many times as you want, Gabriel. And I love you too."

He stands up, his hands going to my waist as he picks me up from my seat, his mouth crushing against mine with the kind of passion that I haven't felt in months. I gasp, arching against him, and I can feel that he's already hard against my thigh.

"Forget dessert," he breathes against my lips. "The only thing I want to taste is you."

A flood of arousal washes over me, heating my blood until I feel like I'm on fire with it. "I have a surprise for you," I whisper, tugging back away from him. "Meet me in the library. Ten minutes."

"If it's a second longer, I'm coming to find you," Gabriel growls, every word a promise.

The instant he lets go of me, I hurry into the house, and up to the bedroom. The small bag with the nightgown that I bought months ago is tucked into a drawer, and I reach for the pearl-colored silk, quickly stripping out of my clothes and sliding on the delicate panties and fragile nightgown.

Letting my hair fall down around my shoulders, I slip out of the bedroom and out to the library. When I open the door, Gabriel is already standing by the fireplace, small flames starting to leap from the wood stacked there.

He turns, and when he sees me walking towards him, the look on his face is full of such absolute lust that it takes my breath away. I barely make it to the edge of the rug spread out in front of the fireplace before he reaches for me, pulling me into his arms and kissing me hard, hungrily, as if he wants to devour me from the mouth down.

"You look beautiful," he breathes, his hands sliding over my waist, my hips, fingers caressing the silk. "Like some kind of goddess."

He turns me towards one of the chairs next to the fireplace, his hands on my waist, urging me down into it. Before I can ask him what he's doing, he kneels down in front of me, his hands dropping to the edge of the nightgown as he pushes it up.

His eyes darken when he nudges my knees apart, and sees the thin panties beneath it.

"I like these," he murmurs, his fingers gliding along the already damp silk between my thighs. "But I want what's underneath them more."

I nod speechlessly, and his fingers curl around the silk, tugging them down my hips. He balls the silk up in his hand, shoving it into his pocket as he spreads my legs wider, his fingers delving between my folds.

"So wet for me," he groans, turning to press a kiss against my inner thigh. "I want to make you come, Bella. I want you to come all over my tongue."

His fingers slide lower, two of them pushing inside of me just as he leans in, flattening his tongue over my clit as he starts to lick. I gasp, my head falling back as I feel the hot stroke of his tongue, matching the hard thrust of his fingers as he devours me like he's starving.

It's been so long since it's been like this. Since he's touched me like this, with wild abandon, without worrying about whether he's going to hurt me. I cry out, one hand grabbing the side of the chair and the other tangling in his hair as he licks and sucks at my clit, fingers curling inside of me as he drives me to the edge. It feels so good, and I moan his name, my head falling back against the back of the chair as I feel my orgasm start to unravel, quick and hot and fast under the relentless onslaught of his tongue.

"Gabriel, I—" I cry out, bucking against his mouth as the orgasm hits me, coming hard on his face. He groans as his tongue lashes over my clit, his lips sucking at my swollen flesh as the pleasure ripples through me in waves that don't seem to stop.

" Fuck ," he moans, and I hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric as he slips his cock free. " Fuck, Bella?—"

I look down, and see that he has the silk panties wrapped around his cock, stroking them along his length as he swirls his tongue around my clit. "Come for me again," he groans hoarsely, a third finger slipping into me as he flutters the tip of his tongue. "Come for me while I stroke my cock, and then I'll fuck you."

I want him inside of me so fucking badly. But the wet heat of his tongue is incredible, already urging me towards another climax, and the thought of him using my panties as he touches himself is so erotic that it only drives my pleasure higher. I arch into his mouth, fingers digging into the leather of the chair as I look down at his mouth between my legs, the rhythmic stroke of his hand over his cock, and the second climax almost takes me by surprise; it comes so hard and fast as he moans against me, sucking hard as I spill over the edge.

"Gabriel!" I almost scream his name, bucking and writhing as I come hard for the second time. He lunges up, discarding the panties on the rug as he shoves his jeans down to his hips and angles his cock between my legs. He reaches for me just as the tip nudges between my folds, wrapping his arms around me as he picks me up and takes us both down to the floor.

I sink down onto his cock, my hands tangling in his shirt as I yank it up and over his head, grinding down onto his length as I do. I drag my fingers down his bare chest, gasping with every stroke as he grabs my hips and thrusts up into me, both of us frantic for more.

"Oh god —" Gabriel moans, thrusting harder, his face taut with pleasure. "Oh Christ, your pussy feels so fucking good, fuck ?—"

He rolls me over in a flash, onto my back on the rug, never slipping out of me for even a second as he keeps thrusting, hips rolling as he drives into me as deeply as he can. "I'm going to come, oh god —" he moans, sinking into me all the way and grinding his hips against mine. "I'm going to fucking fill you up, you're going to make me come so hard, fuck ?—"

I feel him grinding against my clit, the sensation of sweat-slicked skin against mine combined with his moans, the feeling of his cock swollen and hard inside of me, throbbing as his back arches and I feel the first hot spurt of his cum, is enough to send me over the edge. I cry out, nails digging into his back as we come together, his heat filling me completely as I clench and ripple around him, moaning his name.

For a long moment, neither of us move. I can still feel him twitching inside of me, his hips nudging against mine in small movements as he chases the last of the pleasure. When we've both come down, he slumps to one side on the rug next to me, his hand on my hip against the soft silk as he presses a kiss to my shoulder.

"How long, do you think," he murmurs after a moment, "before you can go again?"

I laugh, rolling him onto his back as I straddle him, his already hardening cock trapped between my thighs. "I think that's the question I should be asking you," I whisper, as I lean down to kiss him again.

He's hard in an instant, his cock nudging against my drenched entrance as he slips into me for the second time. And I have no doubt that Gabriel told me the truth, when he said he could go as many times as I want him to.

I have every intention of keeping him here all night.

Six months later

The happiest moment of my life is when I look up at Gabriel, tired and exhausted, with our daughter in my arms. We picked out a name weeks ago—Celeste—but it didn't feel real until the moment that the nurse hands her to me, and I hold her in my arms, looking down at her small face and green eyes. Gabriel presses a kiss to her forehead and then to mine, his hand brushing away sweaty bits of hair from my temple as he leans his cheek against the side of my head.

"She's perfect," he murmurs, pride and happiness and love all mingled together in his voice, and despite my exhaustion, that's all I feel, too.

"She is perfect." I touch her tiny fingers, her button nose, amazed that she's real, that we created this together. "Our little Celeste."

The second happiest moment is when we bring her home. Nine months after the attack, the fear and dread of that time has faded into a distant memory, and the estate feels more like home than any place I've ever lived. We've found a good school for Cecelia and Danny, and Agnes and Aldo are happier and healthier than they've ever been, the fresh air and countryside living agreeing with them both in their golden years. I've spent my entire life feeling as if I didn't have any real family, and now I have more than I could have ever asked for. A husband, stepchildren, a daughter—and Agnes and Aldo feel like the grandparents I never had.

Clara comes out to visit once every month or two for a weekend, taking full advantage of Gabriel's offer of the private jet. She also seems to have struck up a casual relationship with the Italian man she met at our wedding, Elio, who is head over heels for her. She seems to like the distance, and I can't help but wonder if it will ever turn into more for them both.

We take Celeste up to her nursery, Gabriel helping me every step of the way, Cecelia and Danny crowding around the crib as they coo over their new baby sister. The nursery is on the third floor, next to a huge window that lets the sun come flooding in, and we painted it in soft pinks and yellows, a bright and happy room.

It reflects everything I feel at this moment, as Gabriel slides his arm around my waist and we look down at our daughter. Cecelia wraps her arms around me, too, Danny crowding in next to her, and my heart feels so full of love that I don't know how there could ever be more.

But I know there will be. There will be so many more days full of this much love, this much happiness, in a place where I never even dreamed I would find it.

In the place where Gabriel grew up, that for years he called home—that's now home for all of us.

I lay my head on his shoulder, and I breathe in the soft, woodsy scent of his cologne, orange and spice, as I stand there with my little family. I feel safe. Protected. Loved.

And I know I always will be.

Forever.

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Chapter One

Charlotte

The morning that everything fell apart, I woke up thinking it was going to be a perfect day.

To be fair—most of my days are good. Not that I don't have my moments like everyone else—a broken heel or a morning where I oversleep—but for the most part, my life has fallen into place exactly the way I wanted it to.

A comfy job working as an IT manager that lets me wear jeans to the office? Check.

A great group of friends who love getting brunch on the weekends? Check.

A condo apartment close enough to Lincoln Park that I have a good view from my balcony? Check.

A handsome boyfriend to share that apartment with, who also has a good job and shares a similar taste in what to watch on Netflix after a long day? Check, check, and check.

There have been times in my life, of course, when I've wondered if living a life according to a list like that is really making me happy. In college, I knew friends of my friends who did things like drive to the Grand Canyon on a whim, or book the next flight out of an airport without knowing where they'd end up. People who would take spontaneous weekend road trips and just pick a direction. People who didn't Google the menus of restaurants before they went there, so they'd already have some idea of what they wanted to order.

I've never been spontaneous, or impulsive, or exciting. And I've always consoled myself that even if I do lead a pretty routine existence—it's worked out for me so far. Those other acquaintances, the ones who do all of those impulsive things—they have maxed out credit cards and piles of student loan debt. They're complaining about being sick of dating apps and waxing nostalgic about the days when you could meet the love of your life over a loaf of sourdough at the farmer's market.

So maybe being boring isn't the worst thing in the world.

Jaz, one of my best friends, is waiting for me in the lobby when I step off the elevator, five minutes after five p.m.. She works for the same company that I do, in the HR department, and we usually catch a ride or walk home together, since she lives a block away from me.

"I have a stop to make," I tell her as I stow my badge in my purse, my designer mules clicking against the tile floor as I hurry towards the rotating glass door at the front of the building. "I need to pick up my dress for tonight from Velvet Luxe."

"Ooh, fancy." Jaz wiggles her eyebrows, catching up to me as we step out into the crisp Chicago fall air. "What's the occasion?"

"My anniversary with Nate." I can't keep the smile off of my face. "Five years. He got a reservation at Alinea for us. I've always wanted to go—I'm so excited."

Jaz whistles through her teeth as we stop and I check my Uber app—these shoes weren't made for walking. They're cute, but I swear I was getting blisters today just sitting at my desk. She shrugs on a black leather jacket, tugging her hair over her shoulder. "Man, I need to find a boyfriend who will make reservations like that for me. I can't remember the last time Jay and I went out on a date. He's always so busy. Remote work doesn't mean more time off, that's for sure. And these game developers always have him in crunch for one thing or another."

"Make a reservation for yourself." I grin at her. "Or all of us. We could have a girls' night out. Celebrate our friend-a-versary—the whole group of us."

"Technically, that passed back in August," Jaz says, laughing as a black Toyota pulls up to the curb. "We all met at Northwestern, freshman year."

"Okay, so a belated celebration." The driver comes around to open the door for us, and I slide inside, Jaz following right behind me. The interior of the car smells like clean leather and pine, and I breathe in, letting myself relax back against the seat. This is the beginning of what I'm sure is going to be an amazing weekend.

Tonight is the special dinner Nate planned, and then tomorrow I have a beer tasting booked at his favorite pub, followed by bar-hopping. Sunday, I even skipped my usual weekend brunch with Jaz and the rest of our friends, in favor of a lazy afternoon in. I'm hoping to order takeout, have lots of sleepy sex, and maybe take a long hot bath before I have to jump back into the week.

"Well, tell me what you think of it, and we'll discuss next weekend. Since you ditched us for this one," Jaz teases lightly.

"You'd do the same thing if it were you." I can tell from her tone that she's not actually upset, though. An anniversary is a big deal. And especially this one, when I'm pretty sure there's a chance that Nate is going to propose. Jaz and I and the others have been speculating for weeks now, ever since I saw a jewelry store catalog in the mail. Nate isn't really the present-buying type, unless it's a very specific occasion, and he's never gotten me jewelry. So for a jewelry store to have his address, he must have been doing some shopping.

"Hopefully he steps up his game this weekend, so you don't fall asleep mid-sex," Jaz retorts, and I shake my head.

"That was one time. Once . And I'd just worked an eighty hour week. I think Ryan Gosling himself could have been down there and I'd have fallen asleep."

"Not a chance." Jaz laughs. "I'm just saying, it doesn't sound like he's exactly rocking your world every night. Or even most nights. Any night?" She raises one perfectly threaded eyebrow, and I sigh, sinking back further into the seat.

"I mean—it's not that exciting," I admit. "I guess it's pretty standard, all things considered. But that's just how sex is. It's fun, and feels pretty good, but it's not like—I don't know." I shrug. "All the stuff you see in movies and read in books. All those crazy fantasies. No one actually does that."

Jaz gives me a smug look. "No one?"

"Oh, come on." I narrow my eyes at her. "You? Seriously? You're telling me you've had that kind of sex?"

I see the Uber driver glance back at us in his rear-view mirror as I say it, and I wince, my cheeks flushing. "Not that we need to talk about this right now," I mumble. "Actually, we're almost there." I lean forward, gesturing to the sign a half a block ahead of us—white-painted and scalloped with the boutique's name written in wine-red script.

For as long as I've had any reason to buy special-occasion dresses—graduation, friends' weddings, nights out—I've been coming to Velvet Luxe. Not being a very adventurous person in any facet of my life, I was more inclined to go to a designer store like Dior or Chanel for those kinds of clothes—but one of our friends at Northwestern who was a fashion student used her trust fund to open it five years ago, right after we graduated. And, being good friends, we all made sure to get our dresses exclusively from her.

"Zoe!" Jaz calls out as soon as we step into the shop. She and Zoe have always been super close—they bonded day one in our dorm over their three-letter names, and became inseparable shortly after, despite the vast difference in their career paths. She immediately goes behind the counter, giving Zoe a brisk hug, before turning back to look at me. "I hear you have a special order for Charlotte."

"I do." Zoe grins, tucking the pin between her teeth back into the cushion on the counter. "I'll go grab it."

A few minutes later, she emerges with my dress. It's absolutely stunning—a form-fitting, knee length creation of cranberry-red velvet, with thin straps and a slit up each side that goes to mid-thigh. The neck is cut into a low scoop that reaches an inch below my breasts, reinforced with inner corsetry so that they'll be supported, with just the sides and a little bit of the lower curve showing.

Jaz whistles. "If he wasn't already going to propose, he will when he sees you in that. Ring or no ring. Damn, Charlotte, that might be the sexiest thing you've ever bought." She looks pointedly at my outfit for work today, which is pretty similar to what I wear most days. A pair of dark slim-cut jeans, a button down shirt in varying colors and patterns, and sensible shoes. Today it was the leather mules with a heel just a little higher than usual. That turned out to be a mistake.

Getting out of my comfort zone usually does.

"I was surprised, too," Zoe says with a grin. "But if you're going to pick any night to go all out like this, this is the one. Five years together and Alinea? Girl." She zips the dress into a sleek black garment bag with Velvet Luxe printed on the top, and hands it to me. "He's going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor when he sees you." She twirls a dark ringlet that came loose from the messy bun atop her head. "Do some big curls tonight—old Hollywood style. Lipstick to match the dress—" She kisses the tips of her fingers dramatically. "Perfection."

That smile spreads across my face again, and I don't even bother trying to fight it. "I'll take a picture and send it to the group chat," I promise. "And now—" I wince, looking at my watch. "Shit, I have to go. I'm running five minutes behind."

Zoe rolls her eyes. "You and your schedules." She looks at Jaz. "You wanna hang for a minute? We could go get tapas. I don't have anywhere to be tonight."

"That sounds great." Jaz wiggles her fingers at me. "Have fun, Charlotte. Send pics. Of the dress and the ring," she adds with a wink.

I laugh, waving at them both as I call a second Uber, and hurry out to the curb.

I'm not actually sure that Nate is going to propose, for all that I've gossiped about the possibilities with my friends. We haven't talked about it much, outside of a few conversations where we discussed if it was ‘time,' based on how long we've been together. We've had all those talks about how we line up on various things, though—not directly saying the words do we want to get married, but discussing all the things that need to be talked through before promising to spend the rest of our lives with each other.

And we agree on those things. We both want to stay in Chicago, living downtown until our mid-thirties, when we'll look into buying a house in the suburbs. We agree on kids—we'd be okay if we didn't have them, but are open to the idea of one, no more than two. We both abhor debt and pay our credit cards in full every month. We agree on the places we want to travel to most—Spain, Japan, and England, in that order. Public schools over private, so our kids don't grow up to be snobs. We both value our alone time, and our time with our friends. And if he has any issues with our sex life, vanilla as it is, he's never said anything. He seems satisfied, and I?—

I have to admit, I'm curious about what Jaz was about to say in the car, on the ride over to Velvet Luxe. I can't believe that she's really ever experienced anything as crazy as the kinds of things that show up in fiction. I don't believe that's real—I've never known anyone who experienced it. If my friends' dating life is anything to go by, I'm lucky that Nate usually goes down on me just about every time—even if it's usually only for a few seconds and never does all that much for me. But I think that's on me, not him. I've never really been all that sensitive. Toys work well for me—but I've never found a man who really lights me on fire by touching me.

I just don't think that's reality.

Nate isn't home yet when I get up to our shared condo. I toss my keys in the porcelain bowl on the entry table, carrying the garment bag down the hall to our bedroom. It's neat as a pin, as always, decorated minimally, with the modern aesthetic we both like. A platform bed, two rosewood nightstands with black iron touches, and a matching rosewood dresser, a large television mounted on the wall above it. There's a dark grey ottoman at the foot of the bed that matches the dark grey bedding, and I lay the garment bag down on it, kicking my shoes off as I pad across the hardwood floor to the closet.

I have a pair of heels that will be perfect for this dress, but I never wear them. They're buried somewhere in the back of the closet, and I reach up to push a stack of Nate's weekend chinos aside to see if the box got shoved behind them, only to almost be hit in the head by something that comes tumbling off the shelf.

I catch it reflexively, feeling the velvet texture against my palm. My heart trips in my chest, and I look down at the small box in my hand.

He's actually going to propose . My pulse kicks up another notch. This is good, right? This is what I want.

I shouldn't open it, I know that. I should let it be a surprise. But I'm curious, and I nudge the seam of it with my thumb, opening the box a fraction before letting it close again.

What if it's not a ring? I reason, staring down at it. What if it's—earrings, or something? That would be a good reason to look—if I think it's one thing and it turns out to be something else, I might seem disappointed. I don't want Nate to think I'm unhappy with my gift, just because I thought it was a ring.

He's also going to be home any second, so I have to make up my mind. Actually, he should have been home already—but he works late fairly often. Today of all days, though, I thought he would be on time.

Taking a deep breath, I flip open the top of the box, and my eyes go wide.

It is an engagement ring. An absolutely stunning one. The center diamond is pear-shaped and an exquisite quality, sparkling brilliantly even in just the light of our bedroom. There's three small round diamonds on either side of it, and it's set in yellow gold. Classic, with a unique twist. Exactly the style I showed him the one time that we did talk about rings, a little over a year ago.

It's perfect. My breathe catches in my throat, and I feel my heart racing in my chest, nervousness prickling over my skin.

Nervous—excitement. Yes. Excitement. It's a big step forward, one of the biggest we'll make, so of course I feel some apprehension too, but?—

The sound of the front door closing almost makes me jump out of my skin. I close the box hurriedly, shoving it back behind the stack of chinos as I grab the shoebox out of the closet—at the very back, where I thought it might be—and close the closet door just in time to hear Nate's footsteps stop outside the bedroom.

He walks in a moment later. He looks as handsome as always—the picture of the clean-cut, all-American lawyer. Perfect charcoal grey suit, swept back dark brown hair, clean-shaven jaw. He sets down his messenger bag by the dresser, and smiles at me. "How long before you're ready to go?"

"Forty-five minutes? Plenty of time before our reservation."

"I'd expect nothing less." He chuckles, walking past me to drop a kiss on my cheek as he shrugs out of his jacket. "I'll change once you're done, it won't take me long. I might go fix myself a pre-dinner drink."

"I'll save myself for the wine pairings." I grin at him, carrying the garment bag into the bathroom. I can hear Nate just outside the door, getting out of his work clothes. "Don't forget, I have something special planned for you tomorrow, too."

"That's right, your anniversary surprise." He pauses. "I might have other plans on Sunday, though. I'll let you know. An old friend is in town for the weekend, and I don't want to miss the chance to grab a beer with him."

"Oh?" I try to keep my tone neutral, even as my heart drops a little. I tell myself I'm being unreasonable. Asking to have him to myself for a whole weekend is a lot. Especially if it means missing out on seeing a friend.

"No one you know," he says breezily. "Oh—shit. Work's calling. I'll be out in the living room, Char."

"Okay." I hate that nickname, but he started calling me that early on in our relationship, and it stuck. It's not that bad, and after all, one of the cornerstones of a healthy relationship is picking your battles. A silly nickname isn't a battle worth fighting.

I know for a fact what Jaz is going to say when she finds out Nate is ditching me on Sunday. But that means I'll be able to meet them for brunch, so it won't be that bad?—

I reach for the seamless underwear I bought to go under the dress, only to realize that in my hurry to hide the ring and act natural before Nate came into the bedroom, I didn't grab it. I check the time, reassured that I still have plenty to spare, and hurry back into the bedroom naked to find where I put it.

What if Nate walked back in? The thought flickers into my head as I dig through my top drawer for the Nordstrom bag, and I feel that small, disappointed swoop in my stomach that I sometimes do when I think about our love life. I'd like to think that we'd be late for dinner, if he walked into our bedroom to find me standing naked in the middle of the room, that he'd grab my hair and bend me over the dresser, unzip his suit trousers and take me just like that. That he'd whisper in my ear that if I'm going to come, I should do it quickly, so we still have a chance of making our reservation.

I feel a throb of heat between my thighs at the thought, a tingle there, and I squeeze them together briefly, grabbing the bag out of the drawer as I try to shake the thought loose.

Because, the fact is, if Nate walked in right now, nothing would happen. He'd comment that I wasn't dressed yet, and then move on with whatever he came to the bedroom to do.

And that's fine, I tell myself as I head back to the bathroom. Men don't actually behave like that. Maybe , in some relationships, at the very beginning—but definitely not after five years. Having a stable, loyal, companionable relationship is much better than one that would just fizzle out anyway?—

Something catches my eye, as I walk past the bed. Nate's phone—his personal phone, not his work cell—is on the nightstand. He doesn't usually leave it out—he tends to be picky about his things being put away—but I don't think anything of it, until it lights up a second time, and I glance over at the screen.

I don't mean to snoop. I've never felt that I have a reason to. I've never worried for a second about Nate's fidelity. But his phone is unlocked, the text bubbles popping up on the screen, and I see a woman's name.

Valerie.

Valerie.

Valerie.

It pops up a fourth time.

Someone from work, I tell myself. A friend. A cousin he never told me about.

But my gut tells me there's something off.

A fifth message.

Before I can stop myself, I dart forward, sweeping the phone off of the nightstand as I duck back into the bathroom and close the door, leaning back against it. I tell myself that I'm not going to find anything. That this is all perfectly innocuous. That I'm going to feel foolish and guilty as soon as I read the messages.

But if I don't, I'm going to wonder all night. And I don't want to spoil our anniversary by my own silly anxieties.

I slide my thumb up the screen, opening the texts. And despite all of my arguments with myself otherwise, I have a very bad feeling about what I'm going to see.

Chapter Two

Ivan

"You need to come with me, brat ."

"Good afternoon to you, too, brother." I don't look up from the padded leather seat where I'm sitting with my cheek against the headrest. Behind me, I can hear the soothing buzz of a tattoo gun, feel the sting of the needles as they pierce the skin of my shoulder repetitively.

I've been looking forward to this appointment for weeks. A little self-care, after a month that has, quite frankly, felt like a year. And now one of my brothers is here to interrupt it.

Lev, from the sound of it. My least favorite of my siblings. Not that I get along with any of them.

"We don't have time for this. You're needed down at the warehouse."

"Get Grigori to do it."

"Grigori is busy."

I grit my teeth, tilting my head up just enough to see the stocky, white-blond man standing a foot from the chair with his arms crossed over his hard-muscled chest. He's dressed to the nines as always, wearing a tailored dark suit and glossy dress shoes, tattoos climbing out of the sleeves and collar to wind over his hands and up his neck. His ice-blue eyes are flat and humorless.

I think I got my sense of humor from my mother. God knows neither my father, nor my three siblings' mother ever had one.

"There are plenty of men who can do what you need me to do." I'm staying vague, because Alice, my tattoo artist, doesn't need to know exactly what I often get my hands dirty doing. I think she suspects, given what she knows of my background, but I don't need to make it crystal clear for her. She might stop tattooing me, and she's the best artist I've ever met.

She's also good at a lot of other things, although we quit fooling around a few years ago.

"And I'm telling you that I need you to come with me." Lev's face doesn't so much as twitch. "Or should I tell your father that spending time with your tattoo artist took precedence over family business?"

The way he emphasizes Alice in the sentence, the way his gaze flicks to her with just a hint of the icy threat that I know all too well, is what gets me to give in. I'll fight my brother on his bullshit all day, but I'm not going to let someone innocent get caught up in the violent mess that is my family.

"Fine." I twist my head around to look at Alice. "I need to call a raincheck on this. Can you cover me up and we finish tomorrow, maybe?"

"I'm booked until next week." The buzzing stops, and she sits back. "But I'll figure out where I can pencil you in."

"Thanks, dorogoy. " I say it quietly, and she shoots me a look as she pumps green soap onto a paper towel and wipes it over my half-outlined tattoo. The sting makes me suck in a breath, but it's welcome.

"One day, I'm going to put that in a translator." She pats a bandage gently over the tattoo.

"You'd like it." I wink at her, and she rolls her eyes. There's a casual, friendly intimacy between us, the kind that only comes from knowing every inch of each other's bodies over the course of a few months spent rolling in the sheets together, until we mutually decided it was better if we call it quits. Now, we're good buddies.

Sometimes I do think she digs the needle in a little harder than she has to, though.

"You know the drill." She nods at the tattoo. "I'll text you with the next time you can come in."

"Sounds good." I glare at my brother. "Well? Let's fucking go, then."

He leads me out to the blacked-out Escalade waiting at the curb, sliding inside without a word. I follow, leaning my head back against the cool leather as I try to get my head in the right place for what I know is about to happen.

There's only one reason for us to be going to the warehouse, and it's going to end with me washing blood out of the crevices of my fingers later tonight.

It's not unusual for me to be called on for something like this. I'm one of my father's enforcers, but I'm not a grunt. Which means if Lev is demanding I go with him to take care of whoever it is that they have down there, there's only two possibilities.

It's someone who requires a certain special touch, someone they want good information from—or Lev wants to watch me, and see my reaction to whatever this man has to say.

There's not a lot of trust in my family, and no love. Loyalty, though, is expected. I'm not supposed to have the side jobs that pad my bank account. I should be entirely reliant on my family, even if my father only tolerates me and my brothers hate me.

Fuck that. I'm not going to allow my life to be ruled by people who want to see me fall. I've always relied on myself whenever I can, and I intend to keep it that way.

Regardless, this world that I live in is cutthroat—survival of the fittest at its finest. I can guess all fucking day at the reasons for Lev's demands, but when it comes down to it, the only thing that really matters is that I don't let him see me flinch.

No matter what.

The SUV pulls up near the warehouse. It's a shabby-looking structure, one that no one would think twice about looking at. The kind of place that is just assumed to be barely standing, owned for the value of the land underneath it and nothing else. Which makes it a perfect spot for ‘questioning' anyone who gets on the wrong side of my family.

Unlike a lot of the Bratva enforcers and soldiers, I don't get a lot of pleasure out of violence. There's a certain satisfaction to torture well done, to keeping someone alive long enough to get the information desired, making sure they spill their guts in exactly the way that I need them to. But I don't like hurting others in this way. I'm not a sadist.

At least—not this kind.

"You want to fill me in?" I ask as Lev and I get out of the car. He grunts, and for a moment, I think he's going to let me go in blind. But then he nods.

"Lower-level guy. I don't even know his fucking name, honestly. He was supposed to help run interference for the last shipment of women. Keep a lookout for any feds or anyone else coming in. He didn't do a very good fucking job, since that shipment got busted. Three of our best guys pinched, and a bunch of pissed-off clients that aren't going to get their girls. We think he tipped someone off."

"You think he's stupid enough to do that?"

Lev shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe someone got to him and scared him. At any rate, he probably sang before, and he's gonna sing to you now. Let us know what happened, so we can dig out any other traitors and get this show back on the road."

I nod grimly, following Lev to the warehouse, keeping one step behind him so I can sort out my thoughts before I get in there.

The fact is, I know exactly what happened. That poor fucker who is about to end up in pieces didn't tip off the feds—or at least, if he did, he wasn't the only one.

That original tip came from me.

For months now, I've been working under an alias, feeding tips to the police and FBI about my father's criminal activity—at least, the activity pertaining directly to the human trafficking he's involved in. I'm not trying to cripple his empire entirely—honestly, I don't give a shit if he sells weapons to the Irish or deals drugs. I could care less about any of that. But I do draw the line at selling women.

Once he got into that business, I decided to make it mine to shut it down.

My chest tightens as I step into the warehouse. Despite the chill outside, it's hot and stuffy inside the metal structure, and it smells strongly of blood and piss. One look at the man hanging in front of me, and the dark stain down the leg of his trousers, and I know why.

I also feel like shit for what's about to happen to him. But I don't have any choice.

For the greater good, and all of that. For my good, because if anyone finds out what I've been doing, it's going to be me hanging up there instead of him.

That's not something I can allow.

I'm not a self-sacrificing man. I take no pleasure in the fact that this man is about to die, but I'm not the type to give my life for his—or for anyone. And that's what it would be, if my family found out the truth about what I've been doing.

Truthfully, I'll probably give him a better death than they would give me.

He's not squeaky-clean, anyway. No one who works for my family is. And likely, if I dug enough, I'd find something on him that would be worth stringing him up.

The man twists in the manacles holding him as I approach, his eyes widening with fear. "I—I don't know anything," he splutters, his bare toes scrambling for purchase on the concrete as he tries to push himself reflexively away from me. As if there's any getting away. As if there's anything at all he can do to escape his fate.

There's only three human reactions to a situation like this, though. Fight, flee, or fawn. He can't do either of the first two, and it's only a matter of time before he goes for the third.

They all do, eventually. And it never, ever works.

I ignore him for now, walking to the table at one side of the warehouse. "Get a tarp laid out," I call over to one of the grunts standing around, watching the scene unfold in front of them, and I hear the heavy clunk of boots on concrete as they jump to obey. I can feel Lev's eyes on my back. Now that I know the situation, I know he's watching me for hesitation. Watching for some sign that this is personal.

The tricky thing about being an informant is that sometimes, there's information that no one outside of the family would know. Sometimes, information gets disseminated among the family for exactly that reason—so my father knows if someone is leaking it. And it's a sensitive thing, to slip information to the feds that will help, without ever leaking anything that would mean my family knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there's a rat among us.

Thing is, I'm the kind of rat that's hard to trap.

I hear the low moan that the man behind me lets out, as I heft a metal toolbox onto the table and open the lid. I could do everything that I'm about to just fine with the knife on my belt and a pair of pliers that's already sitting on the table, but getting someone to talk is as much about showmanship as anything else. The sight of me opening up this toolbox, sorting through the implements inside, is making the man behind me think about what's possibly coming next. Warming him up to sing sooner rather than later.

The truth is, I won't use half of what's in here. Maybe not any of it. Not on this guy, anyway. But he doesn't know that.

I pick up the pair of pliers on the table, and stride towards him, grabbing a metal folding chair by the back on the way over. I set it down next to him, looking up at his pale face and bloodshot, wide eyes.

I set the pliers down on the chair with a heavy thunk , and he jerks, rattling the chains he's hanging from. His toes scramble against the concrete floor again.

"Now, now. Those toes are going to be plenty abused by the time I'm done with them. No need to rush things." I reach for the hunting knife in my belt, drawing it slowly out of the oiled leather sheath, and I see his eyes flick down, widening until it looks like they might pop out of his skull.

" Please —" he moans. "Please, please?—"

I chuckle, running one fingertip over the serrated edge of the blade. "It's funny, you know," I murmur, raising the knife to rest the tip of it at the hollow of his throat. "There's really only two situations in life where I hear someone beg like that. One is a situation like this. Man trussed up in front of me, about to be asked all kinds of questions." I drag the knife down, catching the blade in the front of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, as I begin to cut it free. "The other is a pretty woman in my bed, all wet and waiting for me to give her all the things she's pleading for. Funny thing, too, is–"

I jerk the knife down sharply, ripping the front of his shirt open to reveal a skinny, pale white, chest. He's hairless as a fish's belly, right down to the single stripe of dark hair that runs into his filthy pants. "Both times, more often than not, involve chains."

A grin spreads across my face as I dig the point of the knife into the man's belly, just above his navel. "Now, we're going to have a little talk. You're not gonna like a lot of what I do to you, but there will be less of it, the faster you answer my questions. But I want you to think about something else, too."

"What—what's that?" the man pants, looking down at the knife. That acrid scent of piss fills the air again, and I hear a drip on the concrete, between where he's hanging and I'm standing. I wrinkle my nose.

"Well, for one thing—and this wasn't what I was about to say—but you might wanna consider not pissing yourself for the rest of this interview. I don't like the smell, and I might just think about taking something off before it's time. If you know what I mean." I raise an eyebrow, and the man jerks backwards, flailing in the chains. It makes him buck forward into my knife without meaning to, and the point digs into his fishbelly skin, sending a thick rivulet of blood dripping down his stomach.

He cries out, whimpering, and I laugh coldly.

I don't actually find any of this funny. I'm already thinking ten steps ahead of what happens next, because Lev is still watching me. My ass is on the line right now. Which is exactly why I'm putting on such a good show.

Award-winning. Oscar-worthy. If I were auditioning for tough Russian guy who takes fingernails right now, I'd have the part before another five minutes goes by.

"But what I was going to say—" I dig the tip of the knife into the small wound I've created, opening it further. "---is that you shouldn't just be thinking short-term. I know this all hurts right now. And it's gonna hurt for a while. I'm not going to lie to you about that. But think about your end, too."

"My—end?" The man lets out another shallow whimper, and I see tears starting to track down his face.

It makes me hate Lev a little more for this. My whole family, really. Because this guy is no operative. He's not tough or smart enough to actually have leaked anything, and I'd know that even if I wasn't the one who had actually done it. This man is a grunt. He's never going to be anything more than a low-level runner who is probably working for my family because he needs to pay off gambling debts or an overpriced car payment or some slumlord on the South side.

And he's going to die, painfully, because my father is too goddamn greedy to stick to just making money on guns and drugs. He had to involve human flesh in it—the unwilling kind. And some sacrifices have to be made, so that I can keep throwing wrenches in that operation.

"You're going to die today." I feel a shudder vibrate through the man at that flat declaration, and he lets out a sobbing moan.

"Please—"

"Don't waste your breath. You'll need it. And no amount of pleading changes that outcome. It wasn't even my decision, honestly. But how you die, is." I twist the knife again in the shallow wound, pushing it deeper, and the man cries out.

"It—hurts?—"

"It does," I agree. "And what hurts even more is me opening up your stomach the rest of the way, and letting you stare at your own guts baking on the concrete while I leave you here to die at the end of this. It'll take a while for you to go, like that. In this hot warehouse, all alone, with no water. Nothing but looking at your own insides while the clock ticks away. Or?—"

I step back, pulling the knife free. He's still hurting, but there's no new pain right now. After we go for long enough, that lack of fresh pain will start to feel good. Like a gift. A reward.

"Or, I can end you with a bullet. Fast, clean. All the pain will stop. Right now, I know you still want to live. You can't imagine bargaining for how you die instead of a chance to live. But we'll get there. Right now, I'm just telling you to think about it."

"Think about—" The man pants, looking down at me. Sweat drips off of the shaggy hair plastered to his face. He looks horrified. Frightened. I can't help but wonder who he's thinking about right now—who it is that he's never going to see again.

Or maybe there isn't anyone.

I know if it was me, hanging there right now, I wouldn't have anyone to miss. But honestly, it's better that way.

If there were someone for me to miss, then that would mean that there was someone that I'd be about to hurt by dying, who I wouldn't want to.

And I'm too good at hurting people to let that happen.

—-

Thirty minutes later, the muffled sound of a silenced gunshot mingles with the whimpering moans of a dying man. The moans go silent, instantly, and the body slumps in the chains, hanging heavily over the gory tarp.

I let the hand holding the gun fall to my side, letting out a heavy sigh as I crack my neck in one direction and then the other. "Clean it up," I order the crew waiting on the other side of the warehouse, striding towards where Lev is waiting next to that damned toolbox.

I didn't actually use anything in it. But I wipe the pliers down, dropping them inside before I look at my still-glowering brother.

"Why did you kill him?" he demands sharply. "He didn't give you enough."

"He gave as much as he was going to." I close the lid of the toolbox. "That's why otets wants me to do these jobs, and not you. Because I know when they have nothing else to give."

Lev chuckles grimly. "So what? You should have kept going until he was dead. Maybe something else would have slipped."

Exactly what I wanted to avoid. I don't think this man—Bobby was his name, slipped out during one particularly fervent plea as I took off a toenail—knew jack shit about what I'm doing, or any of our operations, actually. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, working for the wrong fucking family. But there's always a chance that he did. That he heard something. That some fed was stupid enough to offer him a shot at getting out for information. Normally, they wouldn't work with someone as weak as Bobby, but sometimes the cops can be pretty fucking dumb, too. Especially the city police force, when they decide to start sticking their noses into things, hoping to find something that will let them show up the feds.

"Again, that's why I do this work." I stride towards the warehouse door, desperate for a breath of fresh air, even down here. The smell of blood and human waste is giving me a headache. "You do that—eventually they start to realize that your promise of an easy death is bullshit. And then they get pissed. Rebellious. They'll endure all sorts of pain just to not give you anything else, since you lied to them." I step outside into the cool air, sucking in a deep lungful of it. "The promise of an end to pain is a great motivator. If you take that away, they have nothing to strive for. Nothing to bargain with."

Lev makes an irritated face. "Regardless, otets will be unhappy. All he gave were two names. Other low-level men. No real information."

"That's because he didn't actually have anything." I pull my phone out of my pocket, searching for a rideshare app. I'm not riding back with my fucking brother. "And now he's dead. We move on to the next one." And I make sure my tracks are covered twice.

"What the fuck are you doing? We're having dinner with family tonight." Lev tries to snatch my phone out of my hand, but I'm leaner and faster than he is. I move out of the way, hitting the next available ride.

"Maybe you are. I'm going to go get my fucking tattoo finshed. And then—who knows?" I shrug, grinning. "Maybe a stiff drink and some pussy."

Lev is still glowering at me as I walk away. He hates everything about me, I know that. My attitude. My lack of giving a shit what he, and the rest of my family, think about me and where I came from. My popularity with women. The fact that I manage to not need our father, and to hell with whatever consequences that brings.

But I don't give a shit how he feels about it. I'm not going to change my life for anyone. And eventually, I'll find a new one.

One where I get to be only the man I want to be, and no one else.

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