The shower stopped.

The house returned to its quiet rhythm — oil warming in the pan, the faint hum of his laptop, wind brushing the shutters.

Then her voice came from down the hall.

"Damiano?"

He paused mid-movement, knife hovering over the cutting board.

"Yes?"

"I left my suitcase in the car. The small one. Could you get it?"

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

"...Yes."

Outside, the air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of earth and grapes. The suitcase sat exactly where she'd said, small and dark, practical. He lifted it and returned inside.

He stopped at the hallway.

Steam curled faintly beneath the bathroom door.

He stared at the suitcase handle in his hand.

Just knock. Leave it. Walk away.

He knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

He didn't have time to look away.

She stood there wrapped in a towel, another twisted around her damp hair. Droplets slid down the curve of her neck and disappeared beneath the cloth. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the shower, her lashes still wet.

She looked like herself.

Not Katia. Not the woman in diamonds and danger.

Just her.

For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

She didn't seem to notice.

"Thank you," she said, reaching for the suitcase.

Her fingers brushed the handle he still held.

He released it too late.

Their hands almost touched.

He stepped back as if correcting a mistake.

She waited a beat, studying his face, then nodded once.

"Okay."

The door closed softly.

He stood there, unmoving, staring at the wood panel as if it might explain something to him.

Silence settled again.

He dragged a hand down his face.

"What is wrong with me," he muttered under his breath.

Then, quieter:

"I need sleep."

He turned and walked back to the kitchen.

The garlic had begun to brown too much.

He lowered the heat, forcing his attention back to the pan, to the knife, to the ordinary act of cooking — anything that required focus.

He forced his attention back to the kitchen.

Oil simmered. Garlic softened. The small domestic sounds grounded him — the scrape of the knife, the low hiss of the pan, the quiet hum of the computer behind him.

He focused on rhythm.

Chop. Stir. Breathe.

Normal things.

Not the image burned into his mind.

The bathroom door opened behind him.

He did not turn.

He lowered his gaze to the cutting board as if the tomatoes required the full extent of his attention.

He heard the soft drag of suitcase wheels crossing the old tile floor, the faint rasp echoing through the hallway. Fabric shifted. Bare feet against stone. The muted thud of a drawer opening.

He allowed himself one glance only after several seconds.

She stood at the far end of the kitchen now, fully dressed, towel wrapped loosely around her damp hair. Comfortable clothes. Clean. Grounded. Real.

She moved with quiet efficiency, unpacking what she needed, folding the towel, pushing the suitcase aside.

She did not look at him.

She did not seem to notice anything had happened.

He turned back to the pan.

Good.

Better.

This was normal.

This was distance.

This was how it needed to be.

He stirred the sauce harder than necessary.

He did not like the way his focus slipped when she was near. He did not like the way his thoughts fractured into directions that had nothing to do with survival, strategy, or vengeance. He did not like the quiet domestic stillness that crept between them, dangerous in its own way.

He was supposed to be hunting a man.

Not learning the sound of her footsteps.

Not noticing how silence changed when she entered a room.

This — whatever this was — disrupted him.

And he hated disruption.

He wiped his hands and turned toward the counter, opening the secure interface on his laptop. Lines of encrypted trade channels flickered across the screen: coded exchanges, buyer signals, auction markers.

Movement.

Noise in the underworld.

His attention sharpened.

A new listing was dominating several high-tier channels.

He leaned closer.

"...interesting," he murmured.

Encrypted brokers discussed a major auction nearby. High clearance. Closed attendance. Religious artifact.

He scrolled.

The Cross of Saint Peter.

A relic believed lost for centuries. Byzantine workmanship. Gold and garnet inlay. Provenance disputed. Authenticity contested. Value: incalculable.

He read portions aloud under his breath, translating fragments as he went.

"...crafted between the ninth and tenth century... recovered from a private monastic archive... rumored Vatican interest... unofficial bidders already confirmed..."

He leaned back slightly.

"This would draw everyone," he muttered in Italian. "Tutti."

Behind him, her voice:

"What would draw everyone?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

She had understood.

Of course she had.

He rotated the laptop toward her.

She stepped closer, leaning over the counter to read.

"A cross?" she said.

He shrugged.

"This one is... special. Too special. People will come just to be seen near it."

She scanned the details, eyes sharpening with professional focus.

"We could give it a shot," she said. "If Volkov wants to prove power, he'll be there."

"Yes," he replied quietly. "That was my thought."

She nodded once.

"Then we plan it. If we do this right, in a few days we might end this pursuit."

Silence lingered for a moment — not heavy, not tense, but purposeful.

Then her gaze drifted to the stove.

"...what is that?"

He glanced at the pan.

"Food."

She squinted.

"That is a very loose definition."

He exhaled slowly.

"It is a traditional dish. I learned it from my grandmother. It is good. So you can stop making that face."

"I am not making a face."

"You are."

She tilted her head.

"I just don't know if food is supposed to look like that."

He looked at her, unimpressed.

"For someone who survived espionage, kidnapping, and illegal arms deals, you are remarkably picky."

"It's not picky," she replied. "I hate eating things when I don't know what they are."

He studied her for a beat.

"Another trauma?"

She gave a dry, ironic laugh.

"Ha. Very funny."

"I wasn't being funny," he said, turning back to the stove.

He plated the food with quiet precision.

She reached for two plates and set them on the counter between them while he took some glasses and filled them with wine.

"I don't drink alchol" she said

He paused mid-pour, the dark red stream hovering at the lip of the bottle.

He looked at her slowly, one eyebrow lifting in clear disbelief — the kind of look that said he knew exactly the circles she had moved in, the deals sealed over crystal glasses, the smoky rooms where refusal was more suspicious than acceptance.

She held his gaze without flinching.

"We should stay alert," she said. "Alcohol ruins that a bit."

His eyes lingered on her another second, weighing the argument, then he rolled his eyes and finished pouring anyway.

"One glass won't kill you," he replied.

She gave a small, reluctant nod.

"Yes. But it makes it harder to pay attention."

"Just drink the wine," he said, closing the subject with quiet finality.

He served the food onto the plates, setting them down with the calm precision he seemed to apply to everything.

She leaned closer and inhaled the aroma.

Garlic. Olive oil. Basil. Slow-cooked tomato.

She tried not to show it, but she couldn't deny it — it smelled good.

A soft snort escaped her.

He frowned immediately, suspicion flashing across his face as if she had just insulted generations of Italian ancestors.

She lifted her eyes.

"If someone told me a few days ago that you would be cooking for me," she said, "I would have laughed in that person's face."

"Well," he replied flatly, sitting down, "I didn't cook for you. I cooked for me. You just happen to be eating my food."

She rolled her eyes.

"You really know how to ruin things, don't you?"

He didn't answer. He simply reached for his fork, glanced once at the computer screen still glowing beside him, and began to eat.

She watched him for a moment before taking a cautious bite.

Her expression didn't change.

But she took another.

Silence settled between them — not awkward, not strained, just... present.

He glanced at her plate.

"You're eating."

"It would be rude not to," she said.

He almost smirked.

They ate for a few minutes, the quiet filled by the distant wind moving through the vineyard and the faint ticking of cooling metal from the stove.