The beauty parlor sat tucked between two higher-end storefronts, a place which catered to people who had more money than sense.Soft lighting spilled out onto the street, the scent of florals hitting me the moment I pushed the door open.
She looked up immediately, and recognition flooded her face.Followed by a warmth that never diminished, no matter what she went through.
“Archie.”
I stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind me before crossing the space between us.I leaned in, brushing a light kiss against her cheek out of habit more than anything else.
“Andrea.It’s been a while,” I said, my eyes scanning the room.
“Too long,” she replied, her smile easy, eyes sharp.
I took a step back, taking her in properly.
She’d done well for herself.Better than I’d expected.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” I added.
Her brow lifted slightly.
“That’s not a good thing?”
“It depends,” I said evenly, cautious.
On whether you were calling to help me—or sell me out.
Her gaze held mine for a second longer than necessary.
Then she exhaled softly, shaking her head.
“You never change,” she said, her voice low, almost thoughtful.“Still looking at everything like it’s about to turn on you.”
I let out a quiet breath through my nose, not quite a laugh.“That’s because it usually does.”
Her gaze lingered, searching, like she was trying to decide if anything about me had changed.Nothing had.
Caution wasn’t something I picked up along the way.It was carved in early and left there.You didn’t grow up where I did and learn to relax.You learned to watch.To listen.To read the shift in a room before it turned ugly.
Brutal Russian winters had a way of teaching you that nothing was given.Not warmth or safety.Even time was a borrowed luxury.Everything had to be earned, and even then, it could be taken back without warning.
By the time I left, it wasn’t the cold that followed me—it was the instinct.
Italy hadn’t changed that.The streets were different, the language foreign, but it was the same rules underneath it all.Men still lied.Deals still went bad.A handshake still meant nothing if you didn’t know who was dealing it.
I glanced back at her, taking in the way she stood there like she belonged to a world that didn’t operate like that.
“Must get exhausting,” she said.
Her mouth curved slightly, but there was no real amusement in it.
“Not as exhausting as the clean up after a mistake,” I replied.
A beat passed.Then she gestured toward the back.
“Come on.”
I followed her through, my senses still on edge, cataloguing exits, angles, movement.They were old habits, but necessary ones.
The back room was quiet, private.She closed the door behind us, leaning against it for a moment before speaking.