“Kak moya.”

The lights flicked back on.

It should have broken the moment, but now, I could see the intensity in his eyes I hadn’t been able to in the dark. A possessive heat sizzling in blue flame.

We stared at each other.

My heart raced. My blood burned.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop.

Leaning in, I brought my mouth to his, pausing close enough to taste his breath. I was shaking in anticipation yet he remained still as I took a sweet pull on his lips. He didn’t kiss me back, but heat still pulsed and spread through me like fire, tightening in my breasts before descending to my toes.

He licked his lips, drawing a lazy gaze from my mouth to my eyes, as though he’d found the kiss slightly bothersome to his person. It should have been discouraging, but I was too far in to stop now.

I drew my tongue across his top lip and then nipped at the bottom. A low groan rumbled up his throat. The sound hummed between my legs, making me clutch both of my hands in his hair.

And then I licked his lips like an ice cream cone. It had no finesse, just pure, unadulterated want.

He made a noise of anger, grabbed the back of my neck, parted my lips with his, and slipped his tongue inside.

Lust exploded behind my eyes, blurring my vision.

“Is this what you wanted, malyshka?” His tone was heated, coated in a rough accent.

God, yes.

I could only nod.

He leaned back into the couch like he was settling in for the kiss. I went with him, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt, mouth pressed to his. The man really didn’t kiss—I felt it in the lazy, blasé manner his lips moved against mine. But when he was all in on a kiss, it was the deep kind I had to pull back from to take a breath.

My pulse thrummed between my legs as he tasted my mouth, sucked on my tongue, and nipped me when I kissed him softer and sweeter than he liked. He could have it his way. Kissing had always got me so hot I’d do anything after a while, and just kissing Christian was better than sex with anyone else.

My hips rolled, mocking every thrust and glide of our tongues. I moaned, pressing tighter against him, running my nails down his biceps. I’d never admit it to the man, but I was obsessed with his arms.

My breathing grew ragged as my breasts rubbed against his chest every time I swayed into a kiss. Hot pressure built inside me as I grinded against his erection. The lust inside me was burning out of control, growing more frantic with every press of our lips.

He let out a rough breath and pulled away from me, his voice harsh. “Enough, Gianna. You have to stop.”

“Why?” I nibbled at his jawline and down his neck. He grabbed my wrist before my hand could reach his belt.

“Because another moment of this, and I’m not going to be able to.”

I looked at him, confused. “But I don’t want you to.”

He made a frustrated noise in his throat. “This wasn’t what this was about, Gianna.”

I blinked, and then the heat inside me dimmed and went cold. The man’s hands weren’t even on me—hadn’t been on me the entire time I’d practically mauled him. It seemed like I was always touching him. What’s wrong with me? He’d listened to my sob story and I’d reacted like a clingy virgin falling for her first lover. Humiliation settled inside me.

And then I remembered Aleksandra. The man had a girlfriend and I was throwing myself at him. No wonder he wanted me to stop.

I swallowed. “I must have lost my head there, Officer. I’m sure, with that face, things like this happen to you all the time.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“No?” My voice was hesitant.

“No,” he snapped.

Oh.

I climbed off him, got to my feet, and headed to leave.

“Gianna, wait.”

His door lay wide open, and I walked through it into the hall.

“Gianna.” The word was harsh and vehement. Christian Allister was not happy. But there was something else in his voice. Something soft and nauseating. Something that sounded suspiciously like pity. The day I stuck around to see that on his face was the day I’d willingly roll around in my own self-loathing.

I slammed my door behind me.

MY SECOND HUSBAND’S FUNERAL CAME on a mid-September day.

Sunlight splayed through the trees onto the cemetery floor, silhouetting each shade of black. Black hearts, black suits, black dresses. Polished shoes and Glocks. The Cosa Nostra had come to pay their respects in a sea of black.

A light breeze tousled the mantilla veil around my face. As gruesome as it seemed, this was a day I’d been waiting for since the moment I’d been married. I thought I would feel different. Free. But now that it was here, I felt nothing. Numbness had spread through my body, filling every vessel and vein.

Elena squeezed my hand before drifting with Ace and the rest of the crowd toward the line of shiny cars.

“You ready to go?” Lorenzo asked.

“I’ll find another ride home. I have something I need to do.”

“All right. But stay out of trouble.”

Slipping my hands into my dress pockets, I headed through the cemetery. The headstone was small and simple. It was the first time I’d ever visited it. The first time I’d had the will.

Sydney Brown, it read. Beloved Daughter and Friend.

I stared at the word friend for the longest time, searching for the right words.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you ever met me, that I ever introduced you to this world. To Antonio.” My voice cracked, and I wiped a stray tear from my cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

I’d forgiven her a long time ago, but the guilt I felt for dragging her into my twisted life was still a heavy weight in my chest.

My gaze caught on movement to my side.

The procession had left but Christian remained. He stood by his car, hands in his pockets and his gaze on me. It was thoughtful and warm enough to touch my skin like a ray of sun.

It’d been only sheer luck I hadn’t seen him since the night I went to his apartment. I’d bared my deepest, darkest secret with him, naively believed it meant something, and been turned down, hard. The cutting ache of rejection still burned whenever I thought of him. And, to my bemusement, that happened to be more frequently every day.

He watched me as I walked over to him.

“Did someone blackmail you to take me home?” I asked.

“Can’t I do something nice for someone?”

“For me?” I raised a brow, forcing amusement. “Please.”

His jaw ticked. He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. When it came back up to me, it was so heavy and humorless it pinned me to my spot.

“I had every intention of coming back for you three years ago, Gianna.”

My small smile fell. Shock rocked me at my center. He could sometimes be so blunt when least expected, it stole my breath.

“I was in Moscow those two weeks. But if I had known, I would’ve stopped it. Your marriage.” He looked around the cemetery, at the tent where my husband’s casket lay. “All of this.”

My lungs felt tight. “It wasn’t your responsibility to save me.”

His gaze was steady. “Nonetheless, I would have.”

“Savior complex?” I joked to lighten the mood.