HIS POV – After the party
I didn't sleep.
The mansion was too quiet. Every shadow felt like her. Every creak of the old floors whispered my name on her waist.
At 3 a.m., I gave up staring at the vaulted ceiling. Grabbed my phone. Scrolled to the one person who could match my chaos.
Nico Volkov. Don of the Russian bratva. My best friend since a blood oath at nineteen. The only man I'd trust with my life—and the only one ruthless enough to tell me the truth.
I typed: You awake?
The reply came in seven seconds.
Nico: For you? Always. What's wrong.
Me: Vivienne Moretti.
Nico: The girl you ghosted three years ago? The one who was too young?
Me: She's back. She has my name tattooed on her body.
A pause. Then:
Nico: I'm calling you.
The phone rang before I could respond.
"You're sure?" His voice was low, accented, the same voice that had ordered men buried in the Siberian frost. "She tattooed your name?"
"Above her hip. In red ink. She wore a backless dress just to show me."
Nico laughed—a dark, knowing sound. "That's not obsession, my friend. That's a declaration of war."
"I need to know what she's been doing. In Russia. The past three years. In school."
"You think I haven't been watching?" Papers rustled on his end. I imagined him in his St. Petersburg study, surrounded by icons and ledgers and weapons. "She arrived in Moscow at eighteen. Enrolled in the State University. Final year now. Top of her class. Fluent in Russian. No scandals. No boyfriends."
"No boyfriends?"
"None worth mentioning. A few dates. Nothing serious. She's been... focused."
"On what?"
A pause. "On you, apparently. The tattoo artist was vetted. She walked in alone. Drunk, they said. Crying your name."
My chest tightened. "Nico—"
"She asked the artist to make it permanent. 'So I can't take it back,' she said. Then she paid in cash and flew home the next morning."
I pressed my palm against my eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you asked me not to watch her. You said you wanted to move on." His voice softened, just a fraction. "You lied."
"I didn't know she—"
"You didn't want to know. Because if you knew, you'd have gone to her. And going to her would mean admitting you've been in love with her since she was eighteen and you were too much of a coward to do anything about it."
Silence.
"Tell me something I don't know," I muttered.
"Fine." Nico's tone shifted. Business. Cold. "Her father doesn't know about the tattoo. He thinks she's been a perfect student. But I also know she's been asking questions. Quiet ones. About you. About your enemies. About who might try to hurt you."
My blood went cold. "Why?"
"Because she's protecting you, Lorenzo. From three thousand miles away. While you were pretending she didn't exist, she was learning Russian, making connections, gathering information on anyone who might want you dead."
"Jesus Christ."
"She's not a girl anymore. She's a woman who tattooed your name on her body and spent three years becoming someone you couldn't ignore."
I stood up. Paced the dark hallway of the mansion.
"What do I do?"
"You know what to do." Nico's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You stop running. You invite her over. And you find out if she's worth the war she's clearly willing to fight for you."
"She's twenty-one, Nico."
"And you're thirty. Age doesn't matter when the woman has already bled ink for you." A beat. "I'll send you everything I have on her. Academic records. Social circles. Everyone she's met in Moscow. You'll see for yourself."
"I don't need her file. I need to know if I should stay away."
"You won't stay away." Nico almost sounded amused. "You called me at 3 a.m. You're already gone."
He was right.
"One more thing," Nico added. "If you hurt her, I'll have to kill you. She's become... something of a favorite in my city. The professors adore her. The shopkeepers protect her. Even my men respect her."
"She has no idea who you really are."
"Exactly. And she still managed to charm everyone. Imagine what she'll do when she actually has power."
I sat down on the edge of the grand staircase. Hard.
"Send me the file," I said.
"Already done. And Lorenzo?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't keep her waiting. A woman like that—she won't wait forever."
He hung up.
My phone buzzed. An encrypted file. Nico's seal.
I didn't open it.
Not because I didn't want to know.
But because I already knew enough.
She'd spent three years becoming someone who could stand beside me. Not behind me. Beside me.
And tomorrow night, at 8 p.m., she'd walk through my door.
This time, I wasn't letting her leave.
THE NEXT DAY – THE MANSION
7:45 p.m.
I changed three times.
First, the full suit—armor. Too much. Second, something casual—too vulnerable. Third, back to the suit but no tie, collar open. Compromise. Control with a crack in it.
Enzo knocked. "She's at the gate, sir."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Let her in. Tell everyone to stay out of the foyer."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't question. He'd worked for me long enough.
I walked to the front door myself.
Marco gave me a look from across the hall. "You're opening it? Personally?"
"She's not a business associate."
"She's a Moretti."
"She's mine."
He said nothing after that.
---
The gates opened. Her car crept up the long driveway, past the guards, past the floodlights, past the ancient oaks lining the estate.
I watched through the window. Hands in my pockets. Heart in my throat.
She stepped out. Black dress. Hair loose. Alone.
She didn't look at the guards. Didn't hesitate. She walked toward the massive oak doors like she'd been walking toward me her whole life.
I opened the door before she could knock.
And there she was.
No red dress. Black. Simple. Long sleeves. High neck. Covered from collarbone to ankle.
Somehow that was worse. Because I knew what was underneath. And so did she.
"Mr. De Luca." She tilted her head. "You answered the door yourself. I'm flattered."
"I wanted to be the first thing you saw."
Her lips curved. "You always were."
She stepped past me into the foyer. Heels clicking on marble. Servants melting into shadows. Guards standing like statues.
She looked around—chandelier, sweeping staircase, old portraits—then back at me.
"You live like a king."
"I live like a man who needs walls."
"Walls don't keep out what's already inside."
She brushed past me toward the study, her arm grazing mine. I nodded at Marco. He closed the doors behind us.
We were alone.
---
She turned to face me. The chandelier caught her face—young, yes, but not naive. Never naive.
"You asked me to be sensible," she said quietly. "You said I was too young. Too innocent. That I'd thank you someday for walking away."
"I remember."
"I'm not thanking you."
"No," I said, stepping closer. Then another. The mansion's silence swallowed every footfall. "I don't think you are."
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just watched me close the distance.
"I want to see it," I said.
"See what?"
"Don't."
"Don't what, Lorenzo?" Her voice dropped. "Don't make you say it out loud?"
I stopped inches from her. Close enough to feel her breath. Close enough to count her heartbeats if I reached for her wrist.
I wanted to reach for her wrist.
"The tattoo," I said. "I want to see it. Up close."
She held my gaze for a long, burning moment.
Then she gathered the hem of her black dress and lifted it slowly.
Just enough.
Just exactly enough.
My name. Looped in elegant script. Permanent. Right there above her hip bone, below the curve of her waist. On skin I'd never touched but had imagined touching a thousand times.
I reached out. Stopped an inch from her skin.
"May I?"
Her answer was barely a whisper.
"I've been waiting three years for you to ask."
My fingers touched the ink.
She shivered.
And somewhere behind my ribs, something that had been locked away for eight years cracked open.
---
HER POV
His fingers were cold.
Or maybe I was just burning.
He traced the letters of his own name like he was reading a language he'd forgotten. Slow. Reverent. Torturous.
"Lorenzo—"
"When did you get this?"
"Eight months ago. In Moscow. I was drunk and lonely and thinking about you."
"Drunk." He almost smiled. "You got a permanent tattoo of my name while drunk."
"I got brave while drunk. I'd been wanting it for two years."
His thumb pressed gently against the last letter. A. For Alessandro. His middle name. The one only I knew.
"You're insane," he said.
"You're just now realizing?"
He looked up. Met my eyes.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Fear.
Not of me. Of himself. Of what he wanted to do and couldn't take back.
"Tell me to stop," he said. "Tell me to walk away, and I will. I'll leave you alone. I'll pretend this never happened."
I put my hand over his. Pressed his palm flat against my waist. Against his name.
"I've been pretending I don't want you for three years," I said. "I'm done pretending."
Something broke behind his eyes.
And then his mouth was on mine.