I blushed. "I might have overdone it."
He handed me coffee, our fingers brushing. The brief contact sent electricity racing up my arm, and from his slight pause, I knew he felt it too.
"We should talk about what happened," I said, setting down my mug. "About Prometheus."
His expression shuttered instantly, a visible tremor running through his hand as he set down his coffee cup forcefully. For a split second, something haunted flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly. "Nothing to talk about.”
I let it go for now. Pushing too hard would only strengthen his defenses.
On the fifth day, Luka paced our apartment like a caged animal, restless energy radiating from him despite his still-healing wounds.
"We need to get out of here," he announced. "I'm going stir-crazy."
I hesitated. "You're still recovering."
"I'll recover better with some fresh air. There's a café in the central plaza. Stavros makes the best gelato this side of Naples."
Limited movement would probably help his recovery. "Fine. But only a short trip. And you tell me if anything starts hurting."
His grin was boyish, almost innocent. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"No, but I killed one once." At my horrified expression, he barked out a laugh. "Kidding! Jesus, Vincent, your face."
Twenty minutes later, we walked through the marble corridors of the Acropolis. Luka moved slower than usual, careful of his wounds, but the tension in his shoulders had already eased just by being outside our quarters.
I stayed close, hyperaware of the eyes that followed us. Other assassins watched from shadowed alcoves, conversations pausing as we passed.
"Ignore them," Luka murmured. "They're just curious."
"About what?"
"The therapist who broke Prometheus's favorite toy." His voice was light, but something darker lurked beneath the words.
We reached Stavros' Gelato, a small plaza with tables scattered around a central fountain.
"Due caffè, per favore!" Luka called to Stavros, a burly man behind the counter.
"You speak Italian?" I asked.
Luka shrugged. "Six languages fluently, another four conversationally. Part of the job requirements."
Our coffees arrived, rich and aromatic. We fell into conversation, discussing favorite foods, music preferences, books. It felt normal. Dangerously, deceptively normal.
That's when the commotion started.
The café exploded into motion. Patrons dove under tables and weapons appeared from nowhere. Luka flipped our table onto its side and pulled me behind it in one fluid motion, shielding me with his body.
"Stay down," he ordered, eyes scanning the chaos.
A gunshot cracked through the air, silencing the screams. Then another. The room froze.
I peered around our overturned table. In the center of the café stood a man in a black Stetson, leather vest, actual fucking spurs on his boots. A pearl-handled revolver still smoked in his hand.
At his feet, a body leaked blood across the pristine floor.
My eyes stayed locked on the blood spreading across the floor, and when I licked my lips nervously, I caught the way Luka's gaze tracked the movement.
