If I died tonight what would become of Vincent? The Pantheon never left loose ends. Without my protection, how long before some other ferryman decided to complete the contract Prometheus had originally assigned to me? How many more Michaels would die before they finally got to him?
The thought of never seeing him again made something twist painfully in my chest. Never hearing his laugh, never feeling his hands on my skin, never watching him sleep in that completely unguarded way that made my heart ache. For a moment, the weight of what I might lose threatened to crush me entirely.
But the alternative was worse. If I did nothing, we'd spend our lives running. Vincent would always be a target, always one step away from a bullet with his name on it. And Ana would remain trapped in her gilded cage, a prisoner who didn't even know she was captive.
No, one way or another, I'd end this tonight. Blood would spill. Either his or mine.
But first, I needed to get back to Vincent before he woke and found me missing. I needed one more taste of him, one more moment when his eyes darkened at my touch, one more chance to feel something other than the coldness that had lived inside me for twenty-six years.
The clock was ticking. By this time tomorrow, I'd be eithervictorious or dead.
I opened my eyesto find Luka watching me, his blue eyes intense in the growing light.
"Hey," I murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long.” His fingers traced my jawline, the touch whisper-soft. "I have dinner reservations."
"Dinner?"
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Seven o'clock. There's a place in the East Quarter I want to show you." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Wear something nice. I’ll leave directions."
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll meet you there,” he promised and kissed my forehead.
Before I could ask more questions, he slipped from the bed, muscles rippling beneath scarred skin as he headed for the shower. I watched him go, unable to shake the feeling that something significant was happening, something beyond a simple dinner invitation.
An hour later, I stood in front of our bedroom mirror, adjusting the dark blue suit Lo had insisted I needed. I'd paired it with a crisp white shirt. No tie. The Acropolis favored a more relaxed Mediterranean aesthetic. As I straightened my collar, I caught sight of my reflection and paused, struck by the changes.
Physically, I looked much the same, if perhaps a bit leaner. But there was something different in my eyes, a new awareness that hadn't been there before. I'd seen things now. Death. Violence. The underground world that existed parallel to ordinary life. I'd fallen in love.
I wasn't just Dr. Vincent Matthews anymore. I wasn't sure who I was becoming.
At precisely 6:50, I left our sanctuary and headed toward the East Quarter, following the winding paths through sections of the Acropolis I'd rarely explored. The address led me to a narrow side street tucked between two larger thoroughfares, easily missed if you weren't specifically looking for it.
There, at the end of the street, stood a small building with a simple wooden sign hanging above the door: SARAJEVO.
I pushed the door open and stepped into a warm, softly lit space that couldn't have been more different from the sleek, modern aesthetic that dominated most of the Acropolis. The room held only five or six tables, each covered with embroidered cloths in vibrant red and white patterns. The walls displayed hand-painted plates, dried herbs hanging in bundles, and faded photographs of rural landscapes. The air was thick with the smell of slow-cooked food, herbs, and woodsmoke.
A woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair pulled into a neat bun looked up from behind a small wooden counter. Her weathered face broke into a broad smile when she saw me.
"Ah, you must be the doctor," she said, her accent thick but her English precise. "Luka's Vincent. I am Amina." She studied me openly, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Yes, I see why he looks at you that way. Come, come. He waits."
She gestured toward the back of the restaurant, where a curtained alcove created a private dining area. As I followed her through the restaurant, I noticed that while every other table sat empty, each bore a small "Reserved" sign. It seemed Luka had arranged for us to have the entire place to ourselves.
Amina pulled back the curtain with a flourish, revealing Luka standing by a table set for two. He wore a charcoal gray suit I'd never seen before, perfectly tailored to his lean frame. Against the rustic backdrop, he looked like something from a Renaissance painting—beautiful and dangerous.
He smiled when he saw me, making my pulse flutter. "Vincent," he said, my name a caress on his lips.
"What is this place?" I asked as Luka pulled out my chair.
"A piece of home." His voice carried an emotion I rarely heard from him, something like wistfulness mixed with pride. "Or what might have been home, if things had been different."
Amina reappeared with two small glasses of a clear liquid, placing them beside us before nodding to Luka knowingly.
"I leave you now," she said. "Food comes when it comes. You know what to do."
Once she had disappeared behind the curtain, Luka reached for his glass. "A toast," he said, raising it slightly. "To memories. The ones we've lost, and the ones we're making."
