Roman looked tired.

“Matteo knows almost everything.”

“About tonight?”

“About me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No.”

Roman unlocked the house.

Inside smelled faintly of pine, old books, and coffee.

Not Roman.

Or not the Roman she knew.

The furniture was comfortable instead of expensive. A wool blanket lay across the couch. There were actual photographs on a shelf.

Vivien stopped at the first one.

Roman at perhaps twenty.

Younger.

Thinner.

Standing beside another man near a fishing boat.

His brother, Luca.

Both laughing.

Vivien had never seen Roman laugh like that.

Roman noticed where she was looking.

“That was six months before he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

She turned.

“Why have you never brought anyone here?”

“I have.”

Her chest tightened despite herself.

Roman saw.

“Matteo.”

Vivien looked away.

“Right.”

“And a contractor.”

“Of course.”

Roman took off his jacket.

“Vivien.”

“What?”

“Nobody else.”

She hated the relief that moved through her.

Hated it.

Roman walked into the kitchen and opened a cabinet.

Tea.

Peppermint.

Her brand.

Vivien stared.

Roman stopped.

The silence became unbearable.

“How long?”

He closed the cabinet.

“Two years.”

“You stocked my tea in a house I’ve never visited.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He leaned both hands against the counter.

“Because I am apparently less sane than either of us believed.”

Despite everything, she laughed.

A real laugh.

One breath.

Roman looked at her like the sound had physically struck him.

Then his face softened.

Dangerously.

Vivien looked away first.

“What happens now?”

“We wait for Matteo.”

“And then?”

“We find the person who accessed the print archive.”

“And kill them?”

Roman was silent.

Vivien looked back.

“That’s still your answer to everything.”

“No.”

“It used to be.”

“Yes.”

“What changed?”

His eyes held hers.

“You did.”

She shut her eyes.

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m still angry.”

“You’re allowed.”

“And because part of me wants to believe you.”

“That part is also allowed.”

“Roman.”

He moved away from the counter.

“I have not killed anyone in fourteen months.”

Vivien froze.

She searched his face.

“That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

“What about Petrov?”

“Matteo handled him.”

“Keller?”

“Alive in Nevada.”

“The warehouse in March?”

“Empty.”

Vivien stared.

Roman opened a drawer.

Removed a black folder.

Set it on the table.

“Sit.”

“No.”

A faint shadow of amusement crossed his face.

“Fair.”

He opened the folder.

Financial statements.

Property transfers.

Shell corporations.

Legal restructuring.

Names Vivien recognized.

Names she didn’t.

She picked up the first page.

Then the second.

Her stomach tightened.

“You’re liquidating.”

“Yes.”

“Roman.”

“Keep reading.”

She did.

Asset sales.

Closed routes.

Severed partnerships.

Companies moved into legitimate trusts.

A cooperation agreement with the Department of Justice.

Vivien stopped.

Looked up.

“No.”

Roman said nothing.

“You made a deal with the federal government?”

“Parts of it.”

“You’ll be dead before the paperwork clears.”

“Possibly.”

“This is insanity.”

“Probably.”

“Stop saying probably.”

“All right.”

She turned pages faster.

“This started eighteen months ago.”

“Yes.”

“Eighteen months.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

“Why?”

Roman looked toward the dark windows.

“Because one morning you came into my office at six-thirty with blood on your sleeve.”

Vivien remembered.

A meeting had gone wrong.

A man had overturned a table.

A broken glass had opened her forearm.

Seven stitches.

She had returned to work the same afternoon.

“You told me it was nothing,” Roman said.

“It was.”

“No.”

His voice changed.

“It wasn’t.”

He came closer.

“I watched you wash blood off your arm in my bathroom because you didn’t want the men outside to know you were hurt.”

He swallowed.

“And I realized I had done exactly what I promised myself I would never do.”

“What?”

“Made you part of this.”

Vivien looked at the federal agreement.

“You dismantled your organization because I cut my arm?”

“No.”

He smiled without humor.

“I started because you cut your arm.”

His eyes darkened.

“I continued because I finally admitted I wanted a life in which you were never standing beside me while someone reached for a weapon.”

The house fell silent.

Vivien set the papers down carefully.

“What life?”

Roman hesitated.

Then reached into his pocket.

A key.

He placed it beside the folder.

She looked at it.

“What’s that?”

“Front door.”

“Of this house?”

“Yes.”

She laughed softly.

“What, you bought me a safehouse?”

“I bought us one.”

Vivien stopped.

Roman’s voice dropped.

“Two years ago.”

The rain whispered against the windows.

“I didn’t know whether I would ever give you that key.”

“Then why buy it?”

“Because I needed to know there was one place in the world where I could imagine you without armed guards outside the door.”

Vivien’s eyes filled.

“Roman…”

“I know how this sounds.”

“Do you?”

“Obsessive.”

“Yes.”

“Possibly deranged.”

“Yes.”

“Deeply impractical.”

“Very.”

“But true.”

She covered her mouth.

Roman remained still.

He did not reach for her.

Vivien hated him for that.

Loved him for it.

Maybe both.

“You could have told me.”

“I wasn’t free.”

“Neither was I.”

“I know that now.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t get to make that sentence easy. You had information I didn’t have. You knew what you felt.”

“I knew it was dangerous.”

“That isn’t the same.”

She stepped closer.

“You let me think I was invisible.”

Roman’s face changed.

“You were never invisible.”

“Then say it.”

His breathing slowed.

“Say what?”

“Everything you refused to say.”

Roman looked at her for a long time.

Then something tired and human entered his face.

No boss.

No strategist.

Just a man who had spent half his life believing restraint could substitute for courage.

“I love you.”

Vivien’s lips parted.

Roman continued before fear could stop him.

“I love you when you’re furious. I love you when you correct my grammar in front of people who are terrified of me. I love the way you pretend not to care when someone brings a child into the building and then somehow there are cookies in the conference room ten minutes later.”

A tear slipped down Vivien’s cheek.

“I love that you are the only person in four years who has ever walked into my office and said, ‘That is a stupid idea,’ without lowering your voice.”

She laughed through tears.

“It usually was.”

“Usually.”

He moved one step closer.

“I love you enough that I tried very hard not to.”

Vivien looked at him.

Four years.

Every silence.

Every almost-touch.

Every midnight conversation interrupted before it became personal.

Every moment she had mistaken restraint for absence.

Her hand rose before she decided to move it.

She touched his face.

Roman closed his eyes.

The reaction was small.

Devastating.

Like a starving man being given something warm.

When he opened them again, Vivien saw fear.

Actual fear.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Roman.”

“If you want me to stop, say it.”

“I don’t.”

That was all.

He kissed her.

Not violently.

Not like a man taking something.

Like a man terrified it would disappear if he moved too fast.

Vivien gripped his shirt.

Four years collapsed between them.