My fake-dead ex-girlfriend slowly stepped towards me, pinning me between her and my previous fling—who also happened to be her ex-girlfriend—who had also arrested her six months prior for art theft, money laundering, and conspiracy to murder among other things.

Pretty sure there's a Drake line about something like this.

"Artie," I choked a little on her name. My eyes darted over the red ruched satin of her dress, looking for any weapons hidden in its seductive folds. God, I had forgotten how good she looked in red. That deep, dark frappato wine colored red of love gone wrong. "I uh, wasn't expecting to see you tonight. Well, outside of your paintings, that is—in the flesh, I mean. Here in Sicily."

And free, I almost added.

A coy smile made the dimple in her cheek pop. "And miss my own opening?"

She was supposed to be in a jail cell, five thousand miles away with an ocean and a couple seas in between us. But instead, I could smell the floral notes of Chanel on her neck just inches away.

As Artemisia took another step forward, I tried to back up, but Desirae's firm hand found my lower back. I had almost forgotten she was behind me. She was never one to back away from a challenge, but I sure as shit was. With Artemisia blocking the doorway ahead and Desirae blocking the balcony behind, the sweeping gallery walls of the palazzo suddenly felt tight and claustrophobic. Every portrait on the wall seemed to leer down at us.

At me.

Again, Artemisia stepped closer, this time clasping my wrist. Her thumb slid up my forearm to stroke the wonky prison tattoo of a birdcage I had given myself years ago. She used to call me 'little bird' in Sicilian. As her blue eyes met mine, my mind blanked on the word and I didn't dare try to fly away.

"A cicchitedda told me you settled near Pozzallo," she said almost knowingly. "I wanted to find out for myself."

The way her voice still sent a rush of heat through me made me feel betrayed by my own body.

I tried to ignore her touch.

And Desirae's fingertips on my bare back.

In any other situation, the three of us could have had a wild night together. Artemisia's lips rubbed together like she knew exactly what I was thinking. Of course she knew what I was thinking.

Her red fingernails cut into my skin. "I want my money, Kirby."

I swallowed hard. "Right..."

$750,000.

Which wasn't all that much when it came to Artemisia and her family who were worth hundreds of millions. I didn't think she'd even notice that I had cleaned out our account after everything we went through six months ago back in Bay City. Her faking her death to escape her abusive husband who she ultimately had her father knock off. Her ex-girlfriend—not Desirae—using the dead bodies of her painting models to lure her out of hiding. Me and her almost becoming the final deadly composition until I smashed a junky sculpture into the ex-girlfriend's skull—again, not Desirae.

It was a lot. A lot I was still trying to process. Or more accurately, not process.

And I had assumed Artie would be processing or not-processing it all locked up in a cell without bail.

But apparently she finally agreed to testify against her mafioso father, a deal I was sure Desirae had something to do with since Artie knew where her family had discarded her husband's body—Desirae's husband's body, that is.

Again, it was a lot. If you need a better recap, there was a whole-ass book written before this one about it.

"We uh, should talk," I suggested. "Let's get some air."

Artemisia's nails dug deeper into my skin as her eyes flicked between me and Desirae. Her lips pursed. "Amuni." Letting go of my arm, she slipped between us and made her way to the balcony.

I shot a glance towards Desirae and she nodded slightly. I just hoped that meant she still had my back. And that maybe she was strapped. Her deep blue dress had a generous slit up the thigh where she normally kept her gun for events like this. Dark locs twisted neatly into a bun on top of her head with just a few framing her face. She looked as gorgeous as the night I met her at the Bay City Art Museum back in the States. As I opened my mouth to tell her, she cut me off.

"Don't be stupid, Kirby."

I sighed and followed Artemisia out to the balcony while Desirae hung back inside the gallery.

The streets of Pozzallo were quiet below for a Friday night. The crowd at the gallery had gone and went hours ago. Amber lights barely lit the cobbled stone road that ran along the sea. Lingering smells of Sicily's best street food caught on the cool breeze. Artemisia shivered as she stared out over the balcony.

"Six months, amuri."

Cautiously, I took a step closer to her. "Six months?"

"You got me locked up for six months."

"Well, I did six years for you."

"Yes, you did." She paused, seeming to consider that minor detail. I could only see her profile from here. The sharp line of her jaw, the gentle bump in her nose she inherited from her mother's Tunisian ancestors, her blue eyes avoiding me to search for something in the night air. "But the difference is I got you out, and you put me in."

"I took the fall for you and your fam—"

She turned sharply to me. "And I never asked you to." She held my gaze longer than what was comfortable, but I couldn't look away. Her arms crossed in front of her, fingers subconsciously rubbing at the fresh scar down her forearm from when her ex tried to slit my throat six months ago.

I pretended not to notice.

"The money, Kirby."

"Right..." I took a chance and stepped an inch closer. "Listen, Artie, I've got most of it still. But I had to use some to live, you know? I also made some investments recently and—"

"I understand. Most is fine. How much?"

I swallowed hard again. "I can probably get you $300k."

Her eyebrows knotted. "Bedda matri, Kirby. That is not most. That is not even half." Sicilian curses spilled from her mouth. Something about buying whores. Or maybe I was the whore. Something about the Madonna. Lots of hand gestures. "Probably $300k, you say. What does that even mean?"

"It means... I need to talk to Georgiy."

"Georgiy." The frustration in her face twisted to pure anger. "Georgiy Petroff. You gave my money to Georgiy Petroff—"

"Artie—"

"You betray me, now you betray your ancestors? This island?"

"Artie, it's not what you think," I started to calm her like I was so accustomed to doing, but her hypocrisy sunk in. "You're one to talk about betraying this island. Look at what your father has done to the people here, living in fear. They know he was behind the fires last summer."

Her hand slipped into the neckline of her red dress and pulled out the smallest handgun I'd ever seen, barrel pointed straight at my chest. "I am nothing like him."

In an instant, Desirae was in the doorway with her 9mm sighted on Artemisia. "So you are working for the Russians now?" Desirae said over to me. I had been trying to avoid that conversation with her, not wanting to get tangled up in her little CIA operation. "Artie, if you kill her, you won't get your money."

"No." She shrugged a little. "But it will make me feel better."

She wasn't bluffing.

I backed up against the balcony's marble balusters to try to get away from both of them and their guns, but three stories was a long way to jump. Especially in my favorite Prada pumps.

"Des, Artie, look..." I was gearing up to sweet-talk my ass out of the situation, maybe turn them on each other, when movement below caught my peripheral. A white van crept slowly down the narrow empty street. No plates. The glint of long black metal out the passenger's window made my heart stop.

Without thinking, I leaped to grab at Artemisia's waist, dodging her gun to yank her down just as an eruption of rapid gunfire exploded above us. Chunks of marble from the balcony columns burst all around, pelting my skin and body—my skin and body that was now flush with Artemisia. I was sure I could feel her heartbeat pounding against my own, pounding as fast as the spray of bullets above. Her eyes found mine with desperation.

The fear in them softened as I felt her breathe beneath me. Time seemed to all of a sudden stop in that moment. The gunfire ceased. I glanced over my shoulder to see Desirae tucked back safely inside the gallery behind a column, her pistol still drawn. Artemisia's gun had skidded across the balcony floor.

I moved a wild strand of hair away from her face so I could see her better. We hadn't been close like this in so long. "We're okay," I assured her.

Or I thought we were.

Her eyes sharpened on me. She pushed me up hard. As my head raised inches above the balcony rail, another spray of bullets whizzed past my ears, ricocheting around us once more.

I tried to tuck myself back down and pull away from her, but her fingers gripped my shoulders, shoving me up.

"Artie, stop!"

She spat another Sicilian curse at me, something about her hoping they shoot off my horns.

"Who are they shooting at?" Desirae yelled over the gunfire.

"HER!" Artemisia and I both shouted in unison.

The glare on her face likely matched my own. I tore away from her grip and started to crawl towards Desirae, but Artie remained in the corner of the balcony, now with her hands over her head.

"Artemisia, do not be stubborn," Desirae shouted at her. "I can hear them reloading. Follow Kirby."

"This is vintage Gucci. You do not crawl in vintage Gucci."

"Would you rather be buried in it?"

"Christ, Artie," I groaned, turning back to her.

As tight as the dress was down her legs, she couldn't crawl if she wanted to. Gripping her leg, I was ready to drag her ass out, but she started kicking at me in her stupid Gucci heels. The little gold plate across the bottom almost became permanently embedded in my forehead as her stiletto just missed my eye. I caught her ankle instead and yanked her towards me until our bodies were nearly flush again. Grabbing the hem of her dress, I ripped up the seam.

With the scream she let out, you would've thought it was her skin.

And I quickly regretted giving her more mobility.

In a second, she was straddled on top of me, wrestling with all her might to lift me up to her, not caring she was exposing herself in the process.

"You're going to get yourself shot!" I tried to warn her.

"It will be worth it to drag you to hell with me."

I gripped her hips and rolled her swiftly to her back, pinning her wrists to the balcony floor.

"I will get you your money, every last fucking cent," I said through heavy breaths as the gunfire continued above us. "I will leave the island—the continent and—"

"And I will chase you to the end of the world and push you over the edge."

"Whatever makes you happy, amuri," I mockingly spat back. "I will get you your money and you will never have to see me again. Ever."

Her wrists went slack. Her eyes strangely softened once more. "Cicchitedda..."

"I promise."

Red spread over her chest.

Had she been hit with a ricochet?

A shard of marble?

Fear filled her blue eyes again. Just as I went to wipe at the blood on her skin to see how bad it was, I heard Desirae's voice.

"Kirby, you were hit!"

I sat up straighter, looking down at myself. Desirae left her safety behind the columns to start crawling over to me. My hands rubbed at my black dress, making their way up.

Up.

Up to where I started to feel a prick of heat. A trickle of wet warmth slipped between my tits. As I traced over my collar bone, my fingertips turned red. Deep, frappato wine colored red of love gone wrong. That same dark red I had spilled from Cora's head six months ago.

But this time, it was my blood.

Artemisia grabbed my arm. "Amuri—"

I ripped away from her and stood up. Bullets continued to fly past my head. I dared a look out into the road, but there were only shadows behind the guns. Movement beneath a light caught my eye. A man's silhouette waved and the gunfire abruptly stopped. I couldn't see his face, but knew he could see mine by the balcony lights.

Desirae tried to pull down at me, but I slipped free from her. Blood continued to pour from the hole in my shoulder the more I moved. Clenching my teeth, I shoved my thumb against the wound.

Artemisia sat upright, pressed into the corner of the balcony. My blood streaked down her chest still as red as her Gucci dress. Her lips tightened with a smug smile, but her eyes showed no satisfaction.

As I turned my back to her, bullets whizzed around me again. Desirae's voice rose through the cacophony, yelling for me to stop, to get down, to come to her, but I took off back through the halls of the gallery.

Past the guards rushing up the stairs.

Down through the gardens.

And into the night.