The Ivanov estate was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace in Valeria's suite. The dim light flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows across the room. Outside, the city stretched endlessly, its golden lights shimmering like distant stars against the night.
Valeria sat on the velvet chaise, her long legs crossed, a crystal glass of red wine dangling loosely between her fingers. She wasn't drinking, not really—just swirling the dark liquid, watching the way it clung to the glass. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in the stolen documents spread before her.
Across from her, Samantha perched on the edge of the couch, her posture deceptively relaxed. Her long brown hair tumbled in soft waves past her shoulders, framing a face that was both delicate and striking. Dark eyes, sharp with intelligence, flicked over Valeria with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
Dressed in an off-the-shoulder black sweater and tight leather pants, Samantha looked like she belonged in a high-end nightclub rather than an estate filled with deadly secrets. But that was the thing about her—Samantha was just as dangerous in a silk dress as she was with a gun strapped to her thigh.
She exhaled, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the stack of documents. "Tell me something, tesoro," she murmured, her Italian accent curling around the words. "How deep are you in?"
Valeria smirked but didn't look up. "Oh, please, don't start."
Samantha arched a brow, stretching her long legs out in front of her. "I mean it."
Valeria took a slow sip of her wine, her expression unreadable. "And what exactly do you think you know?"
Samantha tilted her head, studying her. "That you don't usually stare at stolen intel like it's a love letter."
Valeria let out a short laugh, low and smooth. "I was expecting something useful. A weakness. A vulnerability." Her fingers skimmed over the documents, irritation flickering in her dark eyes. "But this? It's surface-level. I need more."
Samantha leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. "So, what? You're going to keep getting closer to him? Risking more?"
Valeria finally looked up, her gaze locking onto Samantha's. "This isn't my first time seducing a man for information."
Samantha held her stare, a slow smirk curving her lips. "No," she agreed, "but it's the first time I think you might be enjoying it."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Valeria's eyes before she waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous."
Samantha studied her carefully, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. "You talk about him differently."
Valeria scoffed, reaching for another page. "I talk about him like a mark."
"You talk about him like he's already under your skin," Samantha corrected, voice softer now, edged with something dangerously close to concern.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Valeria finally sighed, running a hand through her hair. "This is business. Adrian DeLuca is nothing more than an assignment. A tool."
Samantha tilted her head. "Then why did you look disappointed when he left you last night?"
Valeria's lips parted slightly, but no words came. A sharp, unwanted pang twisted in her chest, and she quickly masked it with a smirk. "You're overthinking it."
Samantha didn't look convinced, but she let it go—at least for now.
She stood, walking toward the window, gazing at the city below. "What's next?" she asked, voice thoughtful.
Valeria exhaled slowly, standing as well, her fingers grazing over the papers one last time.
"I get closer," she murmured, a slow smirk curving her lips. "And this time, I don't let him leave first."
Samantha turned, watching her carefully, but didn't argue.
She didn't need to.
Valeria had already lost the battle she refused to admit was happening.
★★★
After Samantha left, Valeria lingered in her suite, standing by the window as the city pulsed beneath her. The cool glass pressed against her fingertips as she exhaled, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
She told herself she was thinking about the documents, about what she still needed to find. But the moment her mind quieted, another thought crept in.
A memory.
The way Adrian's hands had felt on her.
The possessive grip at her waist.
The slow, deliberate way he had traced his fingers down her spine.
The heat in his kiss.
Damn him.
She hadn't meant to crave it. Hadn't meant to still feel the ghost of his lips on her neck, the way his body had pressed into hers, the hunger in his touch.
Her hand drifted absentmindedly to her throat, fingertips brushing over the spot where his lips had lingered last.
He had left her wanting. And she wasn't used to that.
A small, humorless smirk curved her lips.
This was dangerous.
Not just because of who he was, but because of who she was.
She had spent years perfecting the art of control—controlling situations, controlling men, controlling herself.
But Adrian DeLuca was threatening to shatter that.
And the worst part?
She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to stop him.