Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Shit hits the fan two days later.

Right as I'm sticking a fork into a dainty stack of crispy potato and smoked sturgeon, topped with a generous pile of beluga, the door at the far end of Aronov's tasting room creaks open. A beat later, the familiar outline of his bodyguard appears and quietly slips around the doorframe.

Pausing just inside, Dmitri scans the room. Skipping over Rosalie and me like we're not even here, his survey falters at the head of the long, rough-hewn trestle table in the center, where Aronov's busy nosing the latest round of wine. What he sees in his boss's features, I don't know, but after no more than a second, Dmitri's gaze skims down the table and settles on Masen with a quick, succinct nod. Like always, Masen's the picture of quiet boredom, leaned back in his chair with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, sipping a couple hundred dollars' worth of Scotch as he thumbs through his phone.

Leather soles snap softly against the ancient, hand-laid brick floor as Dmitri walks along the row of aged oak barrels lining the walls. His tempo is off, though – urgent but careful – and between that, that little moment of hesitation when he stepped inside, and the stiffness of his shoulders as he bends down to whisper to Masen, I'm pretty sure that whatever that son of a bitch has to share isn't going to be good.

Completely ignoring the two men whispering at the other end, seated at my right, Aronov tips a bottle into a fresh glass and sets it in front of me. "Tell me, beautiful, what do you think?"

This round is a chilled, pale white, and when I lift the delicate glass to my lips, I scent light, crisp notes of citrus. It's perfect, of course, a bright, semi-sweet burst of fruit on my tongue that pairs exquisitely with the salinity of the caviar.

The man knows his food and wine; I'll give him that.

"The beluga, the wine, or…" I wave at the intricate brickwork arcing over our heads, the antique bronze chandeliers hanging from the rafters and casting their warm, soft glow, and the banks of decades-old – some centuries-old – bottles tilted in their racks. "Your winery?"

"All of it," Aronov says. Swirling his glass, he bites into another caviar-topped canapé and takes a long, slow sip of his wine. "I want to hear your thoughts on everything."

He eyes me over the rim of his glass until I finish, watching my throat as I swallow. As soon as I'm done, his hand slides across mine and lifts it to his cheek. This time, instead of my fingertips, he kisses the center of my palm and then runs his nose along the inside of my wrist in a lingering caress.

The shiver that races down my spine is about as far from arousal as you can get.

But he doesn't know that, and when I extract myself from his grip, giving him a chastising tsk, Aronov grins that slick, oily, and now triumphant grin and shrugs. "What can I say? You are a temptation too far, and I find you impossible to resist."

My shoulders shake, even as my eyes dart to the end of the table, right as Masen looks away. I flash Aronov my own row of pearly whites. "And you're a handful."

"Ty dazhe ne predstavlyayesh'," Aronov murmurs, and I want to laugh because I know exactly how much of a handful he is. His eyes darken as they travel up my bare arms to the deep, slinky neckline of my dress. It's another McCarty special, and the ridiculously expensive midnight silk pops against the paleness of my skin and clings in all the right places.

"I think you just like hearing me say it, don't you?" I say, teasing and ignoring the utter grossness in his expression. "But I don't mind telling you that like the rest of your home, I'm enjoying your winery, your food and wine, and, yes, your company… very much."

Damn, that's good.

Judging by the slight arch in her perfectly sculpted brows, even Rosalie's impressed.

Aronov sucks in a harsh breath. "You have no idea how that pleases me. None whatsoever."

I smile and take another drink of my wine. "Oh, I think I might."

He shoots me another toothy grin as he tops off our glasses before changing topics. "If you ladies have no objections or other plans, I would like to take you with me into Florence tomorrow." Without looking away, he wordlessly taps a finger. A second bottle appears instantly, delivered by yet another one of his staff in starched black and white and waiting against the wall. "Unfortunately, I do have meetings I must attend first, but I will arrange for your entertainment while I am indisposed. And then once I am finished, I will… see to it myself."

Rosalie purrs out a low, sultry sound of pleasure. "Misha, we would love to go. I've heard the architecture is breathtaking." She puts on a pout – one of those petulant yet somehow exceedingly sexy little moves that seem to drive powerful men like Aronov crazy. "Plus, I'm running out of clothes and need to do some… shopping." The flirty, suggestive wink she throws him says precisely what kind of clothes she wants to buy.

"Ah, my little Rose, you are such a treasure." Reaching over, Aronov plucks a shimmery curl off Rosalie's shoulder and tucks it behind her ear. He trails his fingertips along her jawline, laughing when she leans into his touch and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. "I do look forward to seeing the outcome of your shopping."

The two launch into another one of their playfully seductive, touchy-feely exchanges, and I use the distraction to stretch out my senses to the other end of the table, where Dmitri and Masen continue to converse in hushed tones.

"Gde?" Masen asks. That quiet boredom is gone, replaced by dark, predatory alertness.

Swiping a rough hand through short-cropped hair, Dmitri grimaces. "Vo Florentsii. Oni nashli yego v reke."

Masen's mouth pinches in a split-second reaction. It's so fast that I almost miss it. "Kogda?"

"Segodnya. Okolo shesti utra."

Well, someone was up early.

And fishing a body out of a river in the dead of winter isn't exactly a fun time.

Dmitri says something else, lighting off another long, drawn-out round of explanations and questions, but their voices are too low, and the words too rushed for me to catch. Whatever he's saying makes Masen's forehead wrinkle, and with each passing second, his fingers drum an increasingly hard, repeating rhythm against the side of his crystal tumbler. Shadows dance across the hollows of his cheeks as his jaw rolls, and when he looks up, his eyes are as dark as night.

Wow.

Masen is pissed.

"Blyad'…" Masen curses and then slugs back the contents of his glass. His tumbler clatters against the tabletop as he sets it down, and when the nearby attendant approaches, he waves her off. "Govorish', my nichego ne znayem?"

Shaking his head, Dmitri makes another face. His gaze trails Masen's, flitting down to where Aronov and Rosalie continue their oblivious flirtations, and there's no hiding the note of fear in his voice when he responds. "Net."

Blowing out a long, slow breath, Masen finally nods. "Ladno. Day mne chas."

Dmitri straightens and exits the room without another word, following the same path along the row of barrels. The guard's deference and obedience is a startling thing to watch, but it gives me all the confirmation I need, telling me exactly where Masen sits in Aronov's hierarchy.

I don't think I want to know what he had to do to get there.

The second the door snicks, Aronov's attention pivots away from Rosalie to Masen. As he stares at the younger man, his cheekbones sharpen, reminding me all too well that while he pretends otherwise, a hunter lurks beneath Aronov's skin.

"Is there a problem?"

Unlike Aronov's bodyguard, when Masen stares back, there's not a lick of fear. No, he eyes Aronov with a kind of quiet, self-assured arrogance that sparks the air and sets my teeth on edge. He dips his head once in a quick, pointed nod at Rosalie and then another at me and says, "Perhaps now is not the best time for this conversation."

"I disagree." Aronov leans back, studying Masen over steepled fingers before gifting me another one of those oily smiles. "Considering our recent understanding concerning… certain business transactions, I am sure my lovely companions would not begrudge us a few minutes to… talk shop?" He throws me a shallow grin that does absolutely nothing to disguise the distinct, hawk-like focus in his expression. "I believe that is the correct phrase, is it not?"

I give him my best dumb, placid, bored smile. "Perfect."

"Very well." Masen's eyes gleam and flash in the dim light – in annoyance, anger, or something else, I don't know – and his lips flatten into a hard, uncompromising line. "It's Andrey."

Aronov's brows climb. "He has been found?"

Masen's forefinger slowly traces the rim of his tumbler. "He has."

Taking a long, deliberate drink of his wine, Aronov waves an impatient hand. "And?"

"Dead."

When I look across the table, I catch Rosalie's momentary blink, which she immediately masks with the soft curtain of her hair when she goes to take another bite of her caviar.

I don't blame her, though. The fact that Aronov's having this conversation in English is, frankly, fucking unnerving. It says either he's already decided that we're his and that there's no longer a reason to dissemble, or that he's just fucking with us before he orders our deaths.

Either way, this shit ought to be good.

"How?" Aronov asks. Muted by the curved ceiling and brick, his voice carries softly, his tone deceptively light.

Masen motions to the attendant by the wall. When the twenty-something blonde goes to pour his Scotch, he shakes his head and has her leave the decanter. "Final cause of death has not yet been determined," he says, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into his glass. "There were ligature marks on his neck and wrists indicating he may have been restrained. Multiple small-caliber gunshot wounds. According to our contact inside the Polizia, there was… other damage as well."

It takes a lot of effort not to laugh.

Because it sounds like McCarty got creative.

Or, more likely, Spooky.

Rosalie mimics my appropriately wide-eyed surprise. Shaking just a little, she makes a show of nervously gripping her wineglass and flinches when Aronov lets out a quiet, angry growl.

"What else?" he asks.

Masen doesn't answer at first. Instead, he throws back his Scotch, and as he swallows another couple hundred dollars, those sharp, piercing eyes of his jump over to me, just for a second. When Aronov lets out another impatient growl, Masen rolls his shoulders in a lazy, feline stretch. "Andrey's accounts show unexpected activity... There were some substantial financial exchanges."

Fury whips across Aronov's features and that spark in the air starts to sing. "Just what are you implying?"

Quiet, smooth, and utterly calm, Masen replies, "Two sums, each somewhere around two-hundred and fifty thousand, were deposited into his accounts. The first came in last week. The second was three days ago. There may be more when we look further back."

Aronov's chair rattles as he bolts up to pace the length of the room. "Do you know who?"

Masen shakes his head. "Both deposits were wired from an anonymous account out of Zurich."

"Best guess." Aronov's command punches the air.

"Your accountants believe the account is of US origin."

Hot shit.

Whitlock's a fucking genius.

This is even better than what we'd discussed, and my nerves flutter in anticipation.

"Americans?" Aronov's voice drops a register, and its sound reminds me of razor blades. He halts his pacing, spinning to glare daggers at the man still coolly lounging at the table. "Are you telling me Americans paid off one of my men? After those fucking operatives, they still dare to come at me?"

"Maybe." Not breaking eye contact, Masen nods. "Maybe not."

"And they orchestrated his death?"

Masen shrugs, and despite the ease and looseness of the casual motion, I pick up the slight flex beneath the starched black fabric of his button-up. "The authorities are saying it looks like one of the Families."

"Nu pizdets!" A vein on Aronov's forehead pulses. "Impossible. They are not so stupid."

"Agreed." Slowly, Masen stands. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he circles the room, mirroring his boss's pacing. Where Aronov's movements are stiff and jerky, Masen prowls like a panther, fluid and meandering, yet poised to strike at a heartbeat's notice. "This is… something else."

"Is it Platt?"

Masen stills. It's a subtle, minute pause before he resumes his ambling stroll. "Indeterminate."

When Masen opens his mouth to say something else, Aronov cuts him an angry glare. "You think that bitch turned my own fucking soldier?"

I watch as Masen's gaze slowly laps the room. Those wheels of his are racing, and at this point, I'd pay a small fortune to know what's going on in that man's head. "Until I see the body and what the accountants come up with, I have no proof either way."

Aronov spits out a response. "But you suspect."

Masen stares across the room before slowly angling his chin in quiet agreement. "It's a possibility."

Glass shatters against the wall, sending out a blast of iridescent shards and sweet-smelling wine. "I want that woman's head!"

Masen doesn't even flinch, which tells me Aronov blowing his top isn't exactly new. The two are a fascinating dichotomy – fire and ice, emotion and logic. Irrespective of Masen's kill count, I get why Aronov keeps him around.

"You know she's untouchable," Masen says after a second, smooth and icily calm. "She's too high up, and her connections are too good. You'll bring down the entire agency on you, and we can't afford that kind of attention right now, not with the activities in Kinshasa."

"I do not care," Aronov bites out. "I think it is time to send her a… souvenir."

Every cell in my body jolts to life, and it takes everything I have not to react and pull the Glock sitting against my inner thigh. When I look over to Rosalie, she's staring back at me through her lashes, and I have no doubt her fingers are itching for her Sig and just waiting for my signal. She steals a lightning-fast glimpse over to the men locked in silent debate. She mouths, "Cullen?"

I disguise my probably in a shaky sip of my wine.

"Not yet," Masen says, slowly, still in that maddeningly calm voice of his. "I'll talk to the Polizia tomorrow when we claim the body. I'll know more then."

Seething, Aronov tugs at his neckline, loosening the collar of his oxford as he blows out a lungful of heated air. His chest expands and contracts like he's just gotten off a treadmill, and there's a faint gleam of sweat along his brow. "Fine," he finally replies as he grabs the closest bottle of wine and pours a fresh glass. "You will find out, and you will report to me directly. My patience is at its end."

Masen gives him a curt affirmative, and with a quick sweep of his hand, Aronov dismisses the younger man.

After a long, quiet moment, Aronov sinks into his chair. He swipes a hand over his face, rubbing the hollows of his eyes, and the effect is almost instantaneous. The fury bleeds out as quickly as it ignited, and the second his hand drops, he's all charm and urbane sophistication. "Ladies, I must apologize," he coos, smiling and swaying for all he's worth. "I was not expecting such unsettling news, and I reacted poorly. I was… not myself."

Yeah, right.

That was exactly who you are, fucker.

Aronov sends Rosalie an apologetic smile, but those dark eyes of his pin on me when he continues and adds, "If it is not obvious, we have recently experienced some concerning interference from certain factions."

"Who would do such a thing?" I ask carefully, allowing just the right amount of horrified curiosity to leak into my voice.

His cheeks crease, and that smile morphs into something in between condescension and amused indulgence. "I have accumulated many enemies over the years," he says, and his shoulders roll in a languid shrug. "Such is a normal course of business, but it would seem this particular enemy wishes to escalate their attacks."

He's the one who firebombed the village.

And he's the one who sells weapons, drugs, people, and whatever else the depraved underbelly of the world wishes to buy.

But okay, we're the bad guys.

Got it.

When he reaches over and runs his thumb along my lower lip, I don't pull away. Instead, being the good little actress I am, I run my nails along the top of Aronov's forearm in a slow, sensual path that makes his mouth go slack.

Never one to be outdone – thank God – Rosalie slides out of her chair, moves in behind him, and slowly kneads his shoulders. Over his head, she rolls her eyes before she leans down to trail her lips along the shell of his ear as she purrs, "You are such a passionate man." She presses her mouth to his neck in a wet, suckling kiss that earns her a low, raspy noise in the back of his throat. "And I find that so very… exciting."

It's somewhere past ten by the time dinner concludes and we finally make it back to our suite.

The second we cross the threshold, Rosalie throws her heels into the corner and, abandoning any sense of decorum, immediately slumps onto the couch next to the fireplace in a relaxed, lazy sprawl. Following her lead, I plop down on the opposite sofa and tilt my head back against the plush, overstuffed cushion.

Like every other night, a large, well-tended fire roars in the hearth, and hot, luxurious warmth rolls out into the room in soothing waves. After the last couple of days, it's tempting to close my eyes and just stay here all night.

As much as I want to, I don't, however, and after a few moments of soaking my muscles in glorious heat, I pull my phone out of my dress's pocket, locate the hidden app, and tap in my code. When I spot the pair of messages already waiting, I jump over to Rosalie's couch.

"Take a look at this shit."

MaryAlice999: that Chagall's amazing. You know that's his wife in the painting, right? Chagall's wife… Bella. So very romantic *squee*

TheTravelingCowboy: you must have made quite an impression. Saw a similar one once that went for over $25M

I roll my eyes and type a response.

Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know

TheTravelingCowboy: I think the last owner of that one was a guy from Greece. Owns a shipping conglomerate or something

I laugh because either Aronov leaned on Retzos just for fun, or like all wealthy criminal pieces of shit, he's found alternate means of payment for services rendered.

Good to know

MaryAlice999: It's a subtle but decisive statement. I bet he'll start a full-court press soon. Do I hear wedding bells?

Great. I can't wait

MaryAlice999: Go, girl! Scramble that stud's brains ;)

Rosalie snorts and then scrubs her face. "I'm assuming she's referring to that little bottle of unmarked yellow pills that made their way into the gear?" She twists to face me, tucking her ankle under her knee. "They what I think they are?"

Stealing a glance up to the ledge near the ceiling, I nod. "Sounds like it."

Letting out a low whistle, Rosalie leans back and sighs with something akin to relief. "Thank God. Let's hope they are very, very effective."

As I type out my response, I shoot her a wide, beaming grin because we are one hundred percent on the same page there.

So excited that we're heading into Florence tomorrow. Rosalie wants to go shopping near Palazzo Strozzi

MaryAlice999: Yes, that is THE place to go! Last time I was there, I spent a fortune at McQueen

I'll let Rose know. I'm sure she'll be in heaven

Did have a little scare with one of the guys here, though

TheTravelingCowboy: Really? What happened?

I don't know, but one of the staff went missing and turned up in Florence. It looks like he was attacked or something

I didn't realize Florence was so dangerous!

TheTravelingCowboy: That's terrifying. I hope they catch whoever did it

I let out a soft snicker because I can hear Whitlock's dry sarcasm as clear as day.

Let's hope. Apparently, it happened that night when the weather was so awful. The police think it was a mob hit but the guys here think it was something else, like maybe even someone overseas

TheTravelingCowboy: Wow, sounds like a real puzzle. Like a movie! I bet it's going to be hard to track what happened

Maybe. How scary. I'll let you know if we hear more!

MaryAlice999: You two be careful! *kisses*

Rosalie peeks over my shoulder, belting out a loud laugh that echoes off the stone walls, and it's probably the first real laugh I've heard all day. "Jesus," she says, smacking me with a pillow. "You guys are fucking ridiculous."

I can't argue with her there, especially when I catch the emo-looking bobblehead avatar Alice has tacked to her ID. The thing has matching violet streaks in its hair.

After another few texts back and forth, I chuck my phone on the table and pad across the rugs to the window. Pulling back the drapes, I stare at the dark, twinkling, starlit sky above before shifting my attention to the wide, rolling lawn that sits between the main house and the dozen or so matching buildings inside the compound's walls. With temperatures hovering right at freezing, the thin layer of ice from two days ago still coats the grounds, and with the moonlight shining down, it looks like a field of diamonds.

Which is why my gaze instantly latches onto the lone, all-too-familiar shape in head-to-toe black-on-black briskly walking along the perimeter of the lawn, right where the shadows from the walls meet the border of open grass.

I quickly motion for Rosalie to kill the lights and let the drapes swing back into place. Even with the lights down, I'm careful to hide my silhouette as I peer through the inch-wide strip between the panels of thick silk fabric.

"What is it?" Rosalie asks.

"I don't know."

Whatever it is, judging by his attire and the purposefully camouflaged positioning, it's not something Masen wants Aronov to know about.

Halfway across, hearing something, Masen stills, and with a predator's focus, he scans the yard like he's out on patrol in the middle of the White Mountains instead of inside a fucking castle in the heart of Tuscany. Silent and unmoving, sticking right at the edge of the shadows, where he'd be almost invisible to anyone at grade, his eyes lap the complex, touching the tops of the walls, the gate up ahead, and then finally, the main structure behind him.

He stays there for a long moment before finally starting to move again, and when he does, it's toward the warm, yellow light glowing from the windows of the guard shack up ahead. His legs eat up the distance, and before I can blink, he's two-thirds of the way there.

When he takes a hard left fifty yards away, my lips part in mute surprise.

And when I watch him creep up to the now-vacant, pitch-black darkness of Aronov's winery at the end of the compound, a wide, wide grin stretches across my entire face.

"Gotcha."

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Ty dazhe ne predstavlyayesh': You can't even imagine

Gde: Where

Vo Florentsii. Oni nashli yego v reke: In Florence. They found him in the river

Kogda: When

Segodnya. Okolo shesti utra: Today. Around six in the morning

My znayem, kto eto byl: Do we know who it was?

Net: No

Blyad'… Govorish', my nichego ne znayem: Fuck… you're saying we know nothing?

Nu pizdets: common way to express disappointment or surprise. Means roughly: well, fuck or this is fucked up

Glossary:

Sig: or Sig Sauer, an originally German brand name used by multiple sister companies involved in the design and manufacture of firearms. The P226/228 and P239 are chambered 9mm and are carried by various US Special Ops units. Sig and Glock 9mm variants are similar weapons in terms of design with comparable performance characteristics and price.

Palazzo Strozzi: or Strozzi Palace is a palace in the city center of Florence dating back to the late 1400s. It remained in the Strozzi family until 1937. Nowadays, it's a cultural center and is used for art expositions, fashion shows, etc. Several high-end fashion boutiques (e.g. Prada, LV, etc.) are in the immediate vicinity.

White Mountains: or Spīn Ghar (Pashto) or Safēd Kōh (Dari Persian) are a range of mountains in eastern Afghanistan. Tora Bora is a cave complex in the White Mountains and was a stronghold for the Taliban and al-Qaeda and a suspected hiding place for Bin Laden. Many battles were fought in the White Mountains during the post-9/11 offensive against al-Qaeda and the Taliban.