Page 102 of Fire and Silk
She lifts the next page in her folder and flips it over.
“Well then,” she says, bright. “Let’s carry on.”
I watch her fingers press to the corners of the page. The blood on her knuckles is starting to dry.
I made the right call.
****
The engine hums beneath the cabin. The seats are cooled, upholstered in matte black leather. Matteo drives with one hand, his eyes fixed ahead, his body stiff from everything he didn’t say during the meeting.
Lira and I are seated in the rear. The center console’s untouched. Her folder rests closed on her lap, but her fingers still tap along its spine. The blood’s been wiped off, though a faint shadow lingers around her knuckles.
I shift, turning slightly toward her. My palm finds her thigh. It’s still tense, but steady.
“You did well,” I say.
She looks at me, then smiles, small and satisfied.
“You taught me well,” she answers.
Her voice is lower than usual—measured. Not soft.
She leans closer, the scent of her skin fresh from the wipe-down in the council’s washroom. There’s no perfume on her. Just the steel of resolve.
“Do I get a reward?” she murmurs.
I reach for her face. My thumb finds the edge of her chin, bone under skin. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
“Of course, my dear wife.”
The space between us narrows. Her hand slides to my collar as I bend in. My mouth finds hers— not rushed. Her breath is warm. Our rhythm begins to sync, her fingers curling behind my neck, my hand sliding to her jaw.
Then the car jerks to a hard stop.
Lira’s body jolts. I brace her with one arm.
Matteo’s voice cuts from the front. “Boss—”
I look up.
Through the tinted windshield, I see the gates of the estate. And parked in front of them, leaning on the hood of a grey sedan, is Salvatri.
His arms are crossed.
He’s waiting.
Matteo’s hand shifts toward the door latch.
“Want me to handle it?”
Before I answer, Lira speaks from beside me.
“No,” she says. “I’ll talk to him.”
Her fingers brush mine as she reaches for the door.
I open mine without a word and step out just behind her. Gravel presses beneath my shoes. The breeze has picked up—the iron gate creaks faintly against its weight.
