Damiano listened to her in silence, arms folded, the lines in his forehead deepening with every sentence she spoke. When she finished outlining her idea — direct entry, Nikolai's yacht, end it in one strike — he stared at her as if she had just suggested walking into the sea and asking the tide for mercy.

"You're crazy."

Camilla didn't even blink. "I get that a lot."

"We're not doing this," he said flatly. "That is certain death."

"It's not certain death," she corrected, lifting one shoulder. "It's maybe an eighty-percent chance of death. But it's the only real shot we have right now."

"I want to kill Nikolai," he replied, voice sharpening. "I do not want to die doing it."

"Yes," she said calmly. "That's why I gave you the plan."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, pacing once toward the window before turning back to her.

"We cannot storm an armored yacht, in open water, guarded by men who have nothing to lose," he said. "That is not strategy. That is suicide dressed as bravery."

She crossed her arms. "So what's your brilliant alternative?"

He studied her for a moment, then said, "There is something he protects with everything he has."

She watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to follow the direction of his thought.

"He isn't there," Damiano continued. "Because that would draw attention. But it is protected. Carefully. Quietly."

Understanding flickered behind her gaze.

"If we cannot capture him," he went on, "then we take something he cannot afford to lose."

Her mouth curved faintly. "You want more leverage."

"I do."

"You want to become a real enemy."

His jaw tightened. "I might. It is the only way to bring him to me."

She tilted her head, studying him.

"And you think you can do this without dying?"

"I know I can."

She gave a quiet huff. "Of course you do."

He stepped closer, placing both hands on the desk between them.

"That house," he said.

Her expression changed instantly.

"Oh no."

"Yes."

"You think we just walk in," she said, incredulous, "open the front door, and politely look around?"

"I wouldn't say the front door," he replied calmly. "Perhaps a window."

She stared at him.

"No. That is insane. Nikolai may not be there, but the security will be extraordinary. If he values whatever is inside, that house will be protected more than any vault."

"We won't know unless we try."

"If my plan has an eighty-percent chance of death," she shot back, "yours has ninety-nine point nine."

"You think too much."

"You're the one obsessed with calculations!"

He didn't answer immediately. He just watched her.

"You are underestimating him," she pressed. "We cannot do this."

"We will."

Silence.

Then he turned toward the door.

"Go eat something. Take whatever clothes you need. We leave in three hours. We catch a plane. We arrive in Moscow before dawn."

She stared at him as if he had just announced the end of gravity.

"You're absolutely insane," she said. "We cannot just break into his house."

He stopped at the doorway and looked back at her.

"Your house."

She frowned.

He held her gaze.

"We are not breaking in," he said. "We are walking through the front door."

Her breath caught.

"Don't you think," she said slowly, "that everyone in Moscow already knows I was kidnapped?"

"Yes," he replied. "But don't you know how to lie?"

She glared at him.

"You're a double agent," he added coolly. "I assume deception is one of your stronger skills."

"You're insane," she muttered.

He opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

"I get that a lot," he said, without turning back.

Camilla remained standing where he had left her, staring at the closed door as if she could burn a hole through it with sheer irritation. A slow, incredulous exhale left her lungs. He didn't ask. He decided. He didn't discuss. He declared. And then he walked away like the matter had been settled by divine decree.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, muttering under her breath.

"Unbelievable."

Not that they were partners — she refused to give him that title — but if they were going to risk their lives together, the least he could do was act like he understood the concept of collaboration.

Instead, he treated strategy like ownership.

It infuriated her.

It also worried her.

Because his plan felt fast. Ruthlessly fast. The kind of speed that left no room for mistakes — and mistakes were where people died.

She forced the thought away and turned toward the wardrobe.

If they were going to Moscow, she needed to be ready.

She pulled out a black suitcase from the bottom of the closet and set it on the bed, unzipping it with sharp, efficient movements. The wardrobe was filled with dresses — elegant, fitted, useless in a Russian winter — and she shoved them aside with growing annoyance.

"Of course," she muttered. "Silk and heels for subzero temperatures."

She dug deeper.

Pants. At last.

Dark wool trousers. A pair of thicker leggings. She added them to the suitcase.

Sweaters followed — two heavy ones, one oversized and soft, another tighter, practical. She opened drawers, searching for scarves, gloves, anything insulated. The drawers offered silk scarves more suited to fashion than survival, but one thick wool wrap lay folded at the bottom. She grabbed it immediately.

If Moscow was what she remembered, the cold would not forgive mistakes.

She added socks. Boots. Anything layered.

Downstairs, distant movement echoed through the house — footsteps, doors opening and closing, muffled orders being given. The quiet urgency told her everything she needed to know.

He was preparing.

He wasn't bluffing.

The reality of it settled in her chest: they were leaving.

She zipped the suitcase and paused, hands resting on the handle, listening to the low rumble of activity below.

Then she carried it toward the bathroom.

She knelt beside the toilet and reached behind the tank, fingers searching the narrow space where she had hidden the knife the night before. Cold metal met her skin. She pulled it free, checking the blade by habit.

A presence filled the doorway.

She felt it before she saw it.

She glanced up.

Damiano stood there, leaning one shoulder against the frame, watching her with quiet focus — not suspicious, not angry, just observing.

His eyes dropped to the knife in her hand.

Then back to her.

"What?" she asked.

She slid the knife into the waistband of her pants at her hip.

His gaze lingered on the movement.

"You could have killed me," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"You had the opportunity," he continued, voice even. "More than once."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the hiding place behind the toilet.

"You could have done it long ago."

She leaned back on her heels.

"Well," she said dryly, "you're not exactly the type who sleeps deeply. I didn't have many windows of opportunity."

He considered that.

Then nodded once.

"That's very comforting."

"It's not meant to comfort you," she replied, rising to her feet. "It's meant to make you aware. You underestimated me. Maybe you should stop doing that."

She reached into her boot and pulled out the second knife — the one he had once held to her throat.

She stepped closer.

Without warning, she pressed the flat of the blade lightly against his chest, just over his heart.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't step back.

Didn't even look down.

He watched her instead.

Her hand was steady.

Her eyes unwavering.

"See?" she said quietly. "You really shouldn't."

For a long second, neither of them moved.

The air between them tightened — not quite threat, not quite trust, something far more dangerous than either.

Then she lowered the blade, turned it in her hand, and offered it back to him handle-first.

His fingers closed around it slowly.

Their hands brushed.

Neither acknowledged it.

He slid the knife away without breaking eye contact.

"We need to leave," he said.

She lifted her suitcase.

"I am ready."