A Night in Florence
Gianna

The air smells of citrus and warm stone. A breeze stirs the sheer curtains by the open balcony doors, carrying in the distant hum of the Arno. I should be asleep, tangled in soft linen and the heat of my husband’s body, but my mind refuses to still.
Slipping from bed, I pull one of Alexey’s shirts from the chaise at the foot of the mattress, sliding it over my bare skin.
The silk is cool at first but quickly warms, swallowing me in his scent—smoke, cedar, and something darker, something uniquely him.
I pad silently down the hall, past gilded sconces casting golden light over centuries-old frescoes. Angels hover overhead, their faces frozen in bliss, their robes billowing in a painted storm of pinks and golds. I wonder what it must feel like—to exist forever in a single moment of rapture.
Stopping before the long windows, I run my fingers over the silk drapes, tracing the embroidered vines as my thoughts drift.
I have walked away from everything I’ve ever known.
And yet, I don’t feel lost.
I feel… suspended.
Caught between the life I had and the one waiting to be built.
Between the man I barely know and the one I can no longer imagine myself without.
Behind me, I feel him before I hear him. The quiet shift of air, the change in energy that always signals his presence. He moves like a shadow—controlled, effortless. A predator at ease.
I don’t turn. I don’t have to. Instead, I lift my hand, palm up, waiting. He takes it immediately.
His fingers slide against mine, warm and sure, before he presses his chest to my back, enveloping me. “You should be asleep, malyshka.”
“I can’t.”
He rests his chin atop my head, his other hand settling low on my stomach. His thumb traces slow circles just above my navel, absent but possessive. “Tell me why.”
A hundred answers sit on my tongue, but none feel right. Instead, I say, “Did you know these frescoes were commissioned by a noble family to impress their rivals?”
He hums, a sound of quiet indulgence. “It worked. I’m very impressed.”
I turn slightly, tipping my face up to him. “Not with me, you’re not.”
His lips quirk like he’s amused but won’t admit it. “I’m always impressed with you.”
Playful words, but his voice is soft. The voice—the one he seems to use when it’s just us.
I turn fully, placing my hands against his bare chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palms. Solid. Steady. A force to anchor myself to. “I was thinking about the whirlwind of changes.”
Something shifts in his eyes. He lifts his hand, pushing a loose curl behind my ear. “Are they happy changes?”
I exhale slowly. “I’m not sure since I’m afraid of waking up and realizing none of this is real. That I’ll be back in my father’s house, back to being a bargaining chip, and you’ll be just a stranger in a darkened ballroom.”
Alexey’s hands slide up my arms, wrapping fully around me, his breath warm at my temple. “It’s real, Gianna. Our marriage is unbreakable.”
I close my eyes against the sharp sting of emotion.
Then, before I can think better of it, I ask the question I haven’t dared to voice.
“Are you concerned?”
His hold tightens slightly. “Of what?”
I swallow. “About letting me in…and how that could make you vulnerable?
A long moment passes, then he exhales, slow and measured. “Yes.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “Thank you for being honest.”
His jaw flexes, as if fighting the words before he lets them escape. “But not anymore. Because I would burn the world to keep you.”
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on mine. Not urgent. Not rough. Just claiming.
I drink in the taste of him—whiskey and heat and something utterly intoxicating. His hands spread against my back, then lower, gripping my thighs and lifting me effortlessly.
I gasp into his mouth as my back presses against cool glass, the night air teasing the exposed skin beneath his shirt. His lips trail down my jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath my ear, his voice rasping against my pulse.
“Some women are dangerous.”
“Am I one of them?” I dig my nails into his shoulders and his breath catches.
“Yes.” He tips my chin. “You are a thief of hearts and will ruin anyone who tries to take your light away. A true warrior.”
No one has ever said anything like that. Is it possible that my husband is the first person to see me?
The realization steals the breath from my lungs because I never imagined it was possible.
His forehead presses to mine. “Inside.”
I nod, and he carries me effortlessly through the suite, the air thick with something deeper than lust, heavier than need.
We tumble onto the bed and I wonder if my life is truly about to begin.

Prequel
Stitched In Gold

The bell above the door chimes as I step into the dry cleaners, the scent of starch and detergent thick in the air. The place is small, quiet—one of the few places in the city where no one watches me too closely.
I walk to the counter, adjusting the cuff of my coat. My usual order should be ready. It always is.
The woman behind the register sees me and straightens, her hands going still where they were counting out change. Her son, Marc, is working the press in the back, but it’s the seamstress, Lina, who usually handles my clothes.
She isn’t here today.
A flash of irritation moves through me, sharp and unexpected. I shouldn’t care. It’s not like we ever say much beyond the usual good evening and thank you. But she’s the only one I trust to handle my suits. Not because she’s the best—though she is—but because she understands.
I’ve brought her ruined suits before. Torn seams, bloodstains that shouldn’t be possible to remove. And yet, each time, they come back to me as if nothing ever happened. Like she’s erased the past with a few quiet stitches.
The woman clears her throat. “Ah, Mr. Novikov. Let me get your order.” She turns and disappears behind a curtain, leaving me alone at the counter.
A moment later, she returns with a carefully wrapped set of hangers, each one encased in plastic. She sets them on the counter and hesitates, her eyes darting toward me, then away.
“She—uh—made some adjustments,” she says. “Hope that’s alright.”
Adjustments?
I flick the plastic aside and lift the sleeve of the first shirt. Something new stares back at me.
My initials are still there, embroidered at the cuff as always, but they are no longer alone.
Two guns, stitched in muted gold thread, intertwine with the letters. The design is small. Elegant. Perfectly aligned with the fabric. It looks like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to be part of the shirt.
My chest tightens.
She did this on her own.
I brush my thumb over the embroidery, feeling the delicate texture of the thread. The work is impeccable, precise. It would’ve taken time—hours of careful stitching. A ridiculous, unnecessary detail for a man who never asked for it. And yet…she did it anyway.
The woman shifts nervously. “If you don’t like it, I can have her—”
“No.” My voice is too sharp. I clear my throat, force my fingers to relax where they’ve tightened around the fabric. “No. It’s good.”
She nods quickly. “Lina—uh—she said every man deserves something that’s just his.”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know how to answer. I pull out my wallet, pay, and take the garments without another word. The woman doesn’t press, just nods once before I step out into the cold.
The wind whips against me, but I don’t move. I stand there, gripping the plastic-covered hangers a little too tightly, my thumb still brushing over the embroidered detail.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
It’s nothing.
Just thread. Just fabric.
But deep in my chest, something shifts.
I exhale slowly, shove the thought away, and walk toward my car.
But as I drive away, I already know—every shirt from now on will have her touch.

LOST BET

Abby

“I hate you.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the smuggest man alive, lounging in his chair like a king surveying his kingdom. His emerald eyes gleam with victory, his lips tilting just enough to be infuriating.
“You hate losing, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, amusement dripping from every syllable. He taps the deck of cards against the table, casual, lazy—like this was inevitable.
I shift in my seat, refusing to let my irritation show. I should have won. I was winning. But then he started watching me—leaning in just enough, murmuring things in the low, knowing voice that sends heat curling down my spine, distracting me until I made a mistake.
“I won fair and square.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked onto mine like he’s daring me to argue. “And I always collect, Abby.”
I lift my chin, feigning confidence. “Fine. What do you want?”
His grin is slow. Calculated. A trap I’m about to walk straight into.
He stands, stretching lazily, then moves behind my chair. I shouldn’t react, but my pulse betrays me, drumming against my skin as he drags his fingers over my shoulders, featherlight. He dips low, his breath teasing the side of my neck.
“I could ask for anything.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I refuse to acknowledge it. “You could,” I say, forcing nonchalance into my tone. “But will you?”
He hums, considering. I should not be holding my breath. Then, he shifts closer, his lips almost touching my ear. “Take off your dress.”
My breath catches. Heat flushes my skin. I snap my gaze to his, finally catching his smirk—full of dark amusement, of challenge.
“No,” I say automatically.
Enzo just watches me, his head tilting slightly. “No?”
I cross my arms tighter, pressing back into my chair, anything to create space between us. “That wasn’t the bet.”
He tsks, circling the table, his fingers grazing its edge. “A shame. Would’ve been a winning strategy.”
My skin burns. My lips part, words failing me. He wanted me to say no. He knew I would. And now, the air is thick with something that wasn’t there a second ago.
Something dangerous.
I swallow. “So what is the bet, then?”
Enzo leans against the table, arms crossed, pretending to consider. “Something simple.”
I arch a brow. “Simple.”
He nods. “For the next…” He glances at the clock. “Two hours, you do everything I say.”
My stomach drops. “You’re insane.”
“I’m opportunistic.”
“That’s the same thing.”
His mouth curves. “And yet you’re still sitting here.”
I should walk away. I should call his bluff. But the way he’s looking at me—calm, collected, knowing—makes it clear he already knows my answer.
And that’s why I say, “Fine.”
His grin sharpens. “Good girl.”
Damn him.

Ari’s Sauce

The kitchen is too quiet.
I should be used to silence by now. It’s been a constant in my life—the kind that lingers after a door slams, the hush of a house too big for the people in it. But this silence is different. It’s not cold, not empty. Just… waiting.
I roll my shoulders and turn back to the stove, stirring the simmering pot of sauce with slow, methodical movements. The rich scent of tomatoes and garlic fills the space, clinging to the air, making the house feel warmer than it did an hour ago.
I don’t know why I’m doing this.
Maybe because it’s better than pacing the halls. Better than letting my thoughts run in circles, trying to figure out where I fit in this new life. Maybe because it’s something I can control—something I can create with my own hands instead of waiting for decisions to be made around me.
Or maybe because, for the first time in weeks, I don’t want this place to feel so foreign.
I add a pinch of salt and lower the heat, watching as the sauce thickens, darkens. Nonna always said that a good sauce needs time. Patience. Attention. “It will tell you when it’s ready,” she used to say, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot. “You just have to listen.”
I never had patience.
But right now, I find myself listening anyway.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. A steady, familiar rhythm—heels against tile, deliberate but unhurried. I don’t turn as Mila steps into the kitchen, but I can feel her assessing the room, her sharp eyes taking in the cutting board, the simmering pot, the bottle of red wine left uncorked beside the stove.
“You’re cooking.” It’s not a question, just an observation.
I shrug. “Apparently.”
She steps closer, her hands folding neatly in front of her apron. “I didn’t know you could.”
I smirk, finally glancing at her. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mila.”
A low hum of amusement leaves her lips, but she doesn’t argue. Mila is sharp, no-nonsense, the kind of woman who runs a house like a well-oiled machine. She’s been here since Maxsim bought this place—long enough to know its routines, its quiet. Long enough to see that neither of us has figured out what home is supposed to look like.
She moves to the counter, running her fingers lightly over the edge as if testing its sturdiness. “I’ve been with him for years,” she says, voice thoughtful. “Different houses, different cities. Always temporary. Always something to be left behind when the job was done.”
Her gaze flicks to me, assessing. “This place… it’s different. He’s never had a house like this. Never had someone in it.”
I swallow, my fingers tightening around the wooden spoon.
Because I know what she’s saying. This isn’t just another house. This isn’t just another deal. This thing between us—it’s not something he can walk away from.
And neither can I.
Mila leans against the counter, watching me with quiet curiosity. “You know,” she muses, “I’ve never seen him eat a full meal in his own home.”
I blink. “What?”
She nods. “Business meetings, travel, late nights—he eats, of course. But never like this. Never at a table. Always standing. Always moving.” Her eyes drop to the set table, the empty plates waiting. “Maybe he just needs something worth coming home to.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
I look at the table and how I set a plate alongside my own. I don’t even remember making that choice. It was instinctive. Natural.
Something worth coming home to.
I clear my throat, forcing a casual tone. “I’m not trying to lure my husband home with pasta, Mila.”
She smirks. “No? Pity. It might work.”
A small laugh escapes before I can stop it, but I shake my head, turning back to the stove. The sauce is done now—deep, rich, the kind that tastes better the longer it sits.
The kind that lingers.
Mila watches for another moment before pushing off the counter. “I’ll let you finish,” she says lightly, moving toward the door. But before she steps out, she pauses. “He likes spice,” she adds over her shoulder.
I glance at her. “What?”
“The sauce,” she says with a knowing look. “He’ll never admit it, but he likes when it burns a little.”
I arch a brow. “Is that your way of telling me to add more chili flakes?”
Mila shrugs. “It’s your sauce, signora. Do what you like.”
She disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with the simmering pot, the quiet kitchen, the set table.
I grab the jar of chili flakes and add a pinch—just a little extra heat. Not because I need to. But because I choose to.
Because trust isn’t built in grand gestures. It’s built in the smallest of things.
In the meals shared. In the spaces claimed.
In the quiet decisions no one else sees.