The Paris job wasn’t supposed to leave a trail.
But it did.
Alina hadn’t meant to kill Émile Thassard’s right-hand man. Not in such a public place. Not with witnesses who would never speak—but still saw.
She hadn’t meant to walk out of that gallery blood-slicked and smiling.
But when she held the blade to his throat and he’d whispered, “You’ll always belong to someone,” she had to cut it out of him.
The lie. The audacity.
She left it bleeding on the marble floors of the Thassard estate.
Now there were consequences.
Nicholas found her on the rooftop of their Berlin penthouse. Silk robe, cigarette in hand, hair still wet from the shower.
He said nothing.
Just wrapped his arms around her from behind.
She leaned into him like gravity.
“They know it was me,” she said.
“I know.”
“T
