Ethan's POV
Mike was standing in the hallway the next morning, one arm stiff in a sling, the other holding a tablet lit with encrypted messages.
"Meeting is arranged for Sunday," he said.
"Neutral ground. Warehouse district. Fewer men. More authority."
My ribs burned when I breathed, but I nodded.
"Confirm."
He typed one-handed, jaw clenched with pain.
Behind the hidden steel door, Raina was curled in the panic room, still trembling from last night's nightmare...the whisper at the wall, the memory of the Russian voice she thought she'd never hear again.
The kiss between us had only made everything more fragile.
Every step I took toward her, she stepped back.
Every breath I tried to steady, she avoided.
We were two broken edges slicing each other without meaning to.
FRIDAY — BREAKFAST
She sat across from me at the table, wrapped in a sweater too big for her.
No makeup.
Hair loose.
Hands shaking around a mug of untouched coffee.
Mike stood at the corner of the room like a guardrail holding up the house.
Neither of us spoke.
Her eyes stayed glued to her plate.
Mine stayed glued to her hands...
the way she kept pulling her sleeves down to hide the tremor.
"Eat something," I said quietly.
She flinched as if my voice had touched a bruise inside her.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since last night."
She swallowed.
"So haven't you."
The truth hung between us like smoke.
FRIDAY — LUNCH
She sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a blanket over her legs, scrolling headlines she shouldn't be reading.
I stood near the window pretending to assess the perimeter.
We weren't fooling each other.
She finally spoke.
"When did you become friends with him?"
Her voice was flat, brittle.
"My husband. When did you know him?"
I turned toward her.
"College."
Her eyes flickered.
"And you never told me?"
"It wasn't the truth that would save you."
She set the tablet down.
"And what do you think all this is doing to me?"
Mike entered the room quietly with two bowls of soup.
He placed one in front of each of us like a referee stepping into a fight neither boxer wanted.
Neither of us touched the food.
The silence stretched, tight, heavy.
She didn't ask again.
But she carried the question with her everywhere.
FRIDAY — DINNER
Mike forced us both to sit.
"You're both depleted," he said sternly.
"Eat. You need energy."
We listened.
Barely.
She picked at her food.
I watched her push carrots around her plate like she was steering ships across a map.
Finally, she spoke.
"When you kissed me…"
her voice trembled,
"was it guilt?"
"No."
"Pity?"
"No."
"Then what?"
I forced myself to meet her eyes.
"It was the truth."
Her breath hitched.
Pain flashed across her face like lightning.
She stood abruptly and left the room without a word.
The echo of her footsteps carved a bruise inside me deeper than any physical wound.
SATURDAY — SILENCE
She didn't speak.
Not one word.
She walked from room to room like a ghost wearing her own skin.
If I entered a space, she left it.
If I sat, she found a reason to stand.
The kiss hung between us like an open wound.
By nightfall, neither of us had slept.
Saturday again the same things repeated but this we both ate the food ...
SUNDAY — THE MEETING
The bruises on my ribs still throbbed as Mike and I approached the warehouse.
He walked one step behind me, arm in a sling, pale but steady.
Raina was locked in the panic room at the farmhouse..
Betty watching the feed
Yes i planted Betty in her life so that I can have some access of hers....
two guards stationed outside
and a personal security drone monitoring movement.
She hadn't wanted to stay.
She didn't trust the room.
She didn't trust the house.
She didn't trust me.
But she stayed.
That was something.
Luciano Maretti awaited us inside...
underboss of the Moretti crime family,
nephew to Don Aldo Moretti,
the man who ran the Italian mafia like a kingdom.
Luciano's eyes scanned me...
the bruises on my jaw
the stiffness in my breathing
the bandage on Mike's shoulder.
"You look better," he said, tone neutral.
"Your men hit weak," I replied.
He smirked.
"I hit weaker. Consider it respect."
We walked deeper into the warehouse, passing four men guarding the walls.
Luciano's right hand, Matteo, nodded once when our eyes met.
This wasn't a trap.
This was business.
Luciano started first.
"Let's speak plainly," he said.
"The Russians want the necklace. My boss wants to know how a psychiatrist from Beverly Hills has it."
I didn't react.
Luciano continued:
"And more importantly…
why you are willing to wage war for her."
My jaw tightened.
"She's my wife."
Luciano's eyebrows rose.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
"The media announcement wasn't a stunt?"
"No."
He leaned back slightly, assessing the weight of those words.
"That complicates things," he murmured.
"Touching another man's wife…
especially a man like you…"
He let the sentence trail off.
"But Aldo needs proof," he said.
"He wants to know why we should stand down."
I stepped closer...
so close his men tensed.
And I whispered a single sentence into Luciano's ear.
Something that drained every ounce of color from his face.
He stepped back like he had been slapped.
His breath hitched.
His pupils constricted.
"That's not possible," he whispered.
"You're lying."
"Call him," I said calmly.
"Call your boss."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Then, with trembling fingers, he dialed a number no one in his organization had the courage to misdial.
The line clicked instantly.
A low voice answered without hesitation:
"Chi è?"
Who is this?
Luciano's face broke.
"Zio…" he whispered.
"È vero? Quello che lui dice?"
Uncle… is it true? What he says?
A pause.
Then that cold, measured voice replied:
"Da."
The Italian Don
answered
in Russian.
Luciano lowered the phone slowly, every bit of swagger drained out of him.
He looked at me differently now...
not as an adversary
not as a negotiator
but as someone tethered to a power he could not touch or test.
"We stand down," Luciano said softly.
"Aldo agrees."
Mike exhaled in relief.
But I knew better.
Luciano wasn't done.
"But we still need the necklace," he said.
"The Russians want the truth inside it. We want our share of the leverage."
I didn't respond.
He continued:
"Aldo wants a meeting next weekend. Neutral ground. No weapons...if you agree."
"I agree."
Luciano nodded once.
He looked at my bruised jaw, my stiff posture.
"Get patched up," he said quietly.
"You'll need strength for what's coming."
We walked back to the car.
Mike opened the door.
Just as I slid inside, my phone buzzed.
A message.
From Raina.
Four words.
"Ethan… we need to talk."
A different kind of war was waiting at home.