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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Aronov's motorcade – another pair of boxy G-class SUVs flanking a slick, jet-black sedan – pulls onto Via de' Tornabuoni just before nine.

It's a narrow little street, one of those tile-laid affairs typically navigated on foot. Still, no one even blinks at the dark line of luxury vehicles parked dead in the center, nor at the stony-faced bruisers that exit and form a loose perimeter. Like in Vienna, Aronov's guards openly carry, too, sporting matte black MP5K subcompacts slung across their chests. And now that news of Andrey has gotten around, there's a certain frisson in their movements, a kind of jerky anticipation that has them sweeping our surroundings in a near-constant circuit.

Except for Masen, that is.

That one rolls out of the front SUV and casually shrugs on his jacket like it's any other day. When he swings by the tinted window to quietly inform his boss that he's splitting off to talk to the Polizia and claim the body, he might as well be discussing the weather.

"Eto ne dolzhno zanyat' slishkom mnogo vremeni," Masen says, squinting against the white-bright sunlight streaming down between the pale plaster buildings.

"Fine." Impatient, Aronov waves an elegant hand. "Just be back before the meeting with Jacques and Laurent."

Masen's eyes skip past Aronov and connect with mine for a split second. They betray nothing, just more of that flat, signature boredom he wears like a second skin, but a muscle in his cheek jumps. It's a tiny, tiny crack in the otherwise solid façade, but I can't tell if it's because he doesn't want me alone with Aronov or something else altogether.

A beat later, he looks back to Aronov with a sharp nod. "Understood. I'll be there."

With a pop of his palm on the roof of the car, Masen's gone. By the time Feliks approaches Rosalie's front passenger door, that trademark black-on-black silhouette has already disappeared into the slowly meandering morning crowd.

Exiting the vehicle before Dmitri can get to mine, I skirt around the back and wait for Rosalie. Like the gentleman he pretends to be, Aronov steps out to see us off. "Feliks," he says to the massive guard to my left. "Have whatever purchases they wish to make be put on my accounts."

Wearing a sultry little smile, Rosalie loops her arm through the crook of Aronov's elbow and whispers something in his ear. I don't catch it, but whatever she says makes his features darken in immediate, obvious arousal. She hums something else a second later and then ends it with a slow, languid, wet kiss on his lips. I swear I can see that man's heart rate double. A low, gravelly sound rumbles in his chest, and when she finally pulls away, he growls out something under his breath in Russian before giving himself a hard shake. I almost snort when he adjusts the knot of his tie and murmurs back, "Rest assured, I will look forward to it all day long."

Rosalie throws me a beaming grin. When I don't smile back and let out a long, slow sigh, she pouts. I halfway expect her to stomp her red-soled heel. Instead, she huffs out an aggravated, "Bella, come on. You're no fun," and without waiting for me to respond, she sashays past the front SUV to begin marking her targets.

Aronov watches me with obvious amusement. "What is wrong, dorogaya?"

I let out a soft laugh, both for show and at Aronov's term of endearment, and shake my head. "Oh, nothing."

"Please, I must insist," he says as he reaches over to thumb my bottom lip. I allow the caress, just like I allow his fingers to thread through my hair.

"No, no. It's nothing at all. I'm just…" I laugh again and then gesture to the blonde goddess a dozen feet away as she whips on her sunglasses like she's readying for war. "Mentally preparing myself for… shopping."

Aronov's cheeks crease. "It is not an activity you enjoy?"

"No." My face screws up in obvious distaste. "Not at all."

"Then what is it that interests you?"

I don't answer for a long moment, letting the silence do its eerie magic. When I finally drag my gaze away from Rosalie to the urbane, sophisticated man in fine Italian wool beside me, my lips curve into a small smile that offers just a hint of promise, a taste of recognition of what I know he wants from me. Not looking away when he stares back, I softly reply, "A lot of things interest me."

A tick rolls along Aronov's jaw. "It is so incredibly tempting to cancel my meetings. You cannot imagine."

"I don't know if that would be wise." One brow arches, but my small smile widens into a playful grin. "You're an important man. You have important people to see."

"When you are the boss, you can do such things." Flashing me his own row of pearly whites, he shrugs, but there's focus and something akin to hunger lurking in his expression. It tells me he's not kidding. "If you wish my companionship this morning, you need but to ask, and it will be yours."

Fuck, no wonder Koshmarin wants me dead.

Spooky's going to have a field day with this shit.

I lean back against the car and tilt my head in study. "What if I just went with you instead?"

Aronov stills. "You would accompany me?"

"Why not?" Now it's my turn to shrug. "You know I don't care about running a business at all, not that I'd have any clue what you do anyway, but I am curious what your office looks like… where you run this vast empire of yours."

His eyes gleam with raw, unadulterated delight.

"Plus," I add, scowling. "I'd much rather kill a few hours waiting in your lobby instead of…" Motioning at the long row of boutiques and designer labels, I roll my eyes. "That."

"Feliks." This time, the guard's name comes out with the sharp bark of command. "Ms. Swan will remain with me. You will stay with Ms. Hale at all times." Aronov's voice drops in both pitch and volume. "Ubedis', chto nikto ne trogayet yeye. Ya ne zakonchil s ney."

There he is. There's that possessiveness.

But, in all honesty, good fucking luck to anyone who tries anything with that woman.

Including Feliks.

Rosalie will feed him his balls if he's not careful.

Of course, neither man knows that, and the guard's broad shoulders straighten in immediate deference and obedience. "Da, Aro." His chin ducks in a quick nod. "Konechno."

When I start to climb back into the car, I hear Rosalie whine from the front of the motorcade. "Oh, no, you don't! Bella!"

I give her a cheerful wave and call over the top of the car. "You know I can't keep up with you!" Watching Aronov in my periphery, I mouth out a silent, "Office," which she grasps instantly. A slow, cat-like grin lights her face, and then she shakes her blonde curls at me and spins on her heel, heading straight toward the most expensive store on the block.

"Fine!" she yells over her shoulder, laughing as Feliks scrambles to catch up. "He can carry a lot more bags than you anyway!"

Twenty minutes later, we stop in front of a massive, multi-story palazzo situated in the center of its own city block. It's an old structure, probably dating back to the Medicis, with pale limestone walls and rusticated stone pillars, topped with the region's signature terracotta roof tiles. And like his castle, it's been exquisitely restored and modernized. I count at least a half dozen cameras and sensors, and that's just near the entry.

"This is your office?" I ask as we exit the sedan and make our way across the hand-laid brick sidewalk toward the fancy, all-glass double doors positioned in the center. "You live in a castle and work in a palace."

Chuckling at my dry commentary, Aronov flattens his palm against the center of my back. It's a distinctively proprietary hold, and when he leans down, his fingertips glide down my spine over the thin, dark silk of my top to splay out over my hip. His lips whisper against my skin, repeating the same comment I gave him less than a half-hour ago. "And why not?"

My shoulders shake. "Of course… why not."

The doors swing wide the second we approach the entry, held by a trim, dark-haired, fifty-something bedecked in an expertly tailored black suit. Like the rest of Aronov's guards, judging by the subtle lines along his ribs, even this guy's packing.

"Signor Aronov," the doorman says, dropping his head in polite acknowledgment. The pleasant, rolling accent places him as a local, but his movements and bearing give him away. I'm guessing ex-Carabinieri, likely special forces. "Buongiorno to you and your… companion."

Aronov ignores the subtle question in the man's statement. He doesn't even slow down or bother to let him know who I am or why I'm here. No, Aronov just shoots the other man a jovial smile, throws up a hand, and keeps walking, bypassing the security check like he owns the place.

Which I guess he does.

But that little hesitation in the doorman's greeting is all I need to know that this is not Aronov's norm. The frozen, wide-eyed stares that follow us as we cross the intricately tiled floor of the towering main lobby and turn toward a bank of modern elevators just confirm it.

"Come, dorogaya," Aronov purrs, directing me to the open elevator.

"You know, I'm perfectly happy to wait down here," I say. Pausing, I gesture to the finely appointed marble walls with their embellished scrollwork and museum-quality paintings, the high, trayed ceiling overhead, and then to the waiting area across the way with its butter-soft leather couches and chairs. "This place is gorgeous. And I know you have… things to do. You don't need to entertain me, I promise."

"Nonsense," Aronov says, clasping my hand to pull me inside. "There is nothing I would like more than to have you with me."

Aronov's office occupies an entire corner of the top floor. Unsurprisingly, it's an objectively stunning room, with its complicated chevron-patterned wood flooring, inlaid plaster walls, and priceless antique furnishings and décor. But here, he's gone a step further. A single solid sheet of glass makes up the entire western wall, and beyond the private balcony on the other side, there's an entirely unobstructed view of the Duomo.

However incredible it may be, the view isn't what grabs my attention.

No, that honor belongs to the large, three-dimensional topographical map sitting between the expanse of his desk and the adjacent sitting area to its right. It takes a lot of effort to school my expression and will my feet to target the window-wall instead of that map.

My heels pop against the wood floor as I slowly amble across his office, smiling and pretending like I'm taking it all in and simply enamored. I stop right at the glass and gaze out across the lovely red tile roofs and the massive dome beyond.

"Beautiful," I murmur.

"Yes," he says, softly enough that I barely hear him. "You are."

Hands in his pockets, Aronov walks over, stopping just behind me, and when I angle around, I find him staring down at me with that same kind of quiet fervor that has me looking away again, back toward the cathedral in the distance. When I don't reply, his fingers sneak beneath the curtain of my hair, lifting it off my shoulder. Inhaling, he runs his nose down the side of my neck, right behind my ear, and I just suppress the urge to beat him senseless. Instead, playing my part, I lean back until I feel the brush of wool with the steady rise and fall of his chest. Kissing my neck once, then twice, he whispers, "Tell me, what must I do to win you?"

I arch to give him better access, even as I play the defiant hand Masen gave me the other morning. "I'm not a prize to be won."

"Yet I covet you more than I have anything in years." Running his palms down my shoulders and arms, he cups my elbows and pulls my back tighter against him. "The things I could show you. The experiences I could give you," he says, tilting my chin up and to the left until we're staring eye to eye. "I could make your life a dream."

I don't answer for a long moment, letting him think I'm mulling his offer. When I do, my brows climb in expectation, and I put the tiniest amount of bite in my voice. "And Rosalie?"

Aronov chuckles, low and dark, even as he continues his assault on my throat. "It is true that she is a luscious, decadent creature. Impossible for a man to ignore. But you… you, I wish to treasure and keep."

I swallow. "I'm not sure I like the idea of being kept. What would I have to exchange for all that?"

"You would be mine. Only mine." He smiles down at me, but a predator hides behind his eyes. "Let me show you how good it would be. Let me convince you."

I twist in his embrace and walk my fingers up the fine fabric of his jacket to fiddle with the crimson silk of his tie. "Is that why you bought that Chagall?"

"Clever woman," he says, and I can see his intent a mile away. "Clever, willful, beautiful woman."

Steeling my nerves, I slide my arms around his neck. After Masen, everything about this feels like blasphemy, but I need intel, and I need this asshole to trust me before he decides to kill me. So, when Aronov tugs my head back, I allow it.

And then I let that son of a bitch kiss me.

This kiss is nothing like that night in the Schönbrunn, nothing like that night in Aronov's pool. Devoid of heat, devoid of need, it's one-hundred and eighty degrees away from just being in the same room with Masen, and it's a sheer test of will to stay where I'm standing. Instead of jerking away like I want to, I pretend to melt as he deepens the kiss and sweeps his tongue inside my mouth. He pulls me flush against his chest, and when I sigh and move against him, sliding against the hard line of muscle sandwiched against my stomach, the man groans like he's just found God.

Honestly, if I didn't know that this was just some kind of fucked up transferred obsession with the wayward wife he tortured and murdered with his own hands, I might have been flattered.

As it stands, I just want to vomit.

But like I said before, Spooky's going to have a field day when she finds out.

And I'm going to need some bleach.

The door snicks open, and in my periphery, I watch an elegant thirty-something brunette step in. Like all Aronov's women, this one might as well be a model – tall, leggy, and with a pale, heart-shaped face that could stop traffic. Said face blinks in surprise, and when we pull apart and her eyes dart from Aronov to me, that momentary surprise gives way to what I can only call a split-second of abject horror, followed by a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.

So, the lovely Gianna knows about Aronov's murderous proclivities.

His assistant, draped in head-to-toe Chanel tweed, clears her throat. "Signore, per favore perdonami… I was not aware that you were entertaining a guest."

Aronov chuffs in aggravation, and I use the opportunity to step away, moving toward the topography table a dozen feet to my right. "What is it? What do you need?"

Gianna clears her throat again and makes a nervous show of checking her tablet. "Mr. Retzos just called. He said he needs to speak with you at your earliest convenience."

Spitting out a low curse, Aronov straightens his jacket. "Fit him in after the call with Jacques and Laurent."

"Very well." Gianna turns on an elegant stiletto heel to exit but then hesitates. "Would you like for me to… escort your associate to your private lounge?"

Aronov just waves her off. "No, Ms. Swan will stay with me."

I'll give the woman credit. Like the consummate professional she is, she hides her shock and replies with a smooth, genteel, "Of course, sir. I shall have the staff bring refreshments at once."

As they finish, I wander over to the topographic table and study the terrain and the various symbols painted into the rambling lines and ridges. Marveling over the expertise and elaborate detail in the rendering, I feign delighted fascination, all the while a deep, sinking dread hits me square in the gut.

No more than five seconds pass before I know exactly what I'm looking at. I recognize it from the day Whitlock sent over this asshole's file.

"Do you know what this is?" Aronov asks as he strolls over to join me.

I glance up from the intricately modeled rivers, mountains, and valleys. "Sort of? Where is this?"

Aronov smiles at my curiosity. "Central Africa."

I trail a tentative finger along one of the tall brown and tan ridges before pausing on what looks like some kind of conical swirl. It starts wide at the surface and then steps down as it burrows deep into the rock. "What's this?"

"Surface mine," he murmurs. "It is one of mine, in fact, the largest in the country."

My nose crinkles. "I always thought mines were underground. This looks like a quarry or something."

That smile widens, and his shoulders shake in silent laughter. "Sometimes, yes, but the concept is similar. Both have their advantages and disadvantages."

"What do you extract?"

"In this location?" He shrugs. "Primarily lithium and tin, some cobalt and niobium, as well."

Nodding like I know what he's talking about, I point to other similar conical swirls. "These mines are yours too?"

His voice drops. "They will be very soon." When I lean back in question, he flicks his hand in dismissal. "They are currently owned by some of my competitors in China. That is what one of my meetings is about."

My eyes pop wide. "So, you're buying the mines? Or their companies?"

The grin he gives me is positively feral. "Neither."

"I don't understand."

His hand flies in another random dismissive motion, and when he speaks, the words come out haltingly, like he's deciding just how much he wants to share. "In certain parts of the world… business can be very, how to say it, messy. Sometimes even very dangerous." His eyes find mine once more. "Certain individuals in the government there have specific needs regarding challenges from the populace. I have wants. We are discussing these things."

Oh, shit.

If by discussing, he means perpetrating genocide… okay, then.

"So," I say, drawing it out like I'm trying to piece together a puzzle I have no hope of solving. "The government's just going to… give you someone else's mines if you help them with their problems? That's even possible?"

"It is not quite so simple as that." Humming, Aronov thinks for another moment before continuing. "But anything is possible with the right incentive, and there are individuals in Kinshasa who are highly, highly motivated." His hand slips around to the back of my neck and draws me closer and away from the table. "But such things are not for you to be concerned with. This is nothing special for me, just the usual."

I let him guide me back toward his desk. "So, how did you get into all this?"

One brow lifts. "You mean mining?"

I nod.

"You are familiar with the Soviet Union, correct?"

"Sort of," I say, hedging, giving him the expected answer. "I know what we learned in school."

He makes a tsking noise, likely at what he perceives to be my piss-poor American education, but when he looks away, his expression turns distant. "I was born in a small village a few hours east of Moscow. We were still the Soviet Union back then, and it was… challenging at times." The look he gives me says that I can't possibly understand what he means by that, and in all fairness, I likely can't. "My father died when I was very young. My mother was an engineer, which was a good profession, but under communism, it was not like in the West. The pay was low, and there was little work to be found, so she had to leave home to find employment."

"That's…"

"It was all right. I lived most of the time with babushka and dedushka – my grandparents – on their farm." Aronov's eyes crinkle in a rare show of genuine, affectionate amusement. "I grew up shoveling cow manure and harvesting potatoes."

I grin at that, and it's a real one. I can't imagine the smooth, well-heeled man beside me shoveling anything, let alone shit.

"But…" he goes on, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "While farming showed me the value of hard work, it also showed me that it would never be enough." His lips turn down. "So, I left for Moscow after secondary school."

"That's where you attended university?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Da. Understand, while the Soviet Union had its problems, we had very good education and excellent universities. I chose to study physics and chemistry. I was planning to go into research, perhaps at one of the national laboratories."

"Physics?" I sneak in a slight note of incredulity. "You're a physicist?"

He laughs at my disbelief. "Chemist mostly. But it was a unique time in history. We were in the middle of perestroika, and then the country I was born and raised in collapsed." He walks back toward the table, eying it, seeing things I don't see. "It was like the Wild West in those first years. Everyone was scrambling to grab their part of this… brave new world we found ourselves in. There was no money for research, so my plans had to change."

"That sounds… stressful."

He flashes me a quick smile. "Instead of research, I started to trade and broker commodities – aluminum, copper, nickel, others. With my scientific training, I was… very good at it, and within a short time, I raised sufficient funds to purchase a smelter in Chelyabinsk. I bought a second shortly after that. And then a third and a fourth and so on."

Moving away from the topography table to a set of broad, floor-to-ceiling shelves, he reaches up to pluck a fist-sized chunk of shiny silvery-gray ore off the middle shelf. "And then, like any good Western businessman, I decided to backward integrate and bought my first mines," he says as he holds the misshapen chunk up toward a pendant lamp, tipping it back and forth, watching the way the light reflects and refracts. He glances over to me and replaces the rock. "The other businesses – construction, machinery, agriculture, defense – those all came much later."

Slowly, I follow him over to examine the contents of his shelves. His collection is eclectic, with semi-precious stones and stacks of multi-colored, metallic bars tucked between priceless marble statuettes and ancient pottery.

"Things were fluid in the first decade," he explains, handing me a surprisingly heavy silver bar. "That was the first ingot of aluminum produced from my first smelter…" Aronov shakes his head, and I detect the faintest hint of a smirk. "It was a violent time, as well. I slept at my factories some nights because we did not know if we would be physically taken over by one of my rivals."

I eye him askance. "You're kidding."

"Not at all." Abruptly, he belts out a laugh. "There were no rules back then. None whatsoever... It was, how do you say it… kill or be killed."

"Well," I tell him, carefully replacing his silvery bar before stepping into him, close enough that when I breathe in, I taste the subtle scent of his cologne. "You obviously survived."

"Because I was ruthless, more than all my rivals."

"Are you still that man?" I ask.

When I pick an imaginary piece of lint off his lapel, Aronov grabs my hand, brings it to his lips, and with a low growl, presses a wet, sucking, open-mouth kiss on the inside of my wrist. "Oh, yes, only much, much worse."

As Aronov runs his nose down the bare skin of my inner forearm, kissing a path toward my elbow, the door clicks behind us. Thinking it's Gianna or his staff, I don't bother pulling away.

I glance over my shoulder and freeze, just in time to catch the flash of icy, knife-sharp fury that licks across Masen's features.

Quiet and oh-so-cold, he asks, "Am I interrupting?"

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Eto ne dolzhno zanyat' slishkom mnogo vremeni: This shouldn't take long

Dorogaya: term of endearment, roughly darling or sweetheart

Ubedis', chto nikto ne trogayet yeye. Ya ne zakonchil s ney: Make sure no one touches her. I'm not done with her.

Da, Aro. Konechno: Yes, Aro. Of course.

Babushka and dedushka: grandmother and grandfather

Italian:

Signor Aronov. Buongiorno: Mr. Aronov. Good morning.

Signore, per favore perdonami: Sir, please forgive me

Glossary:

Carabinieri: formally, Arma dei Carabinieri, is the national gendarmerie of Italy who primarily carry out domestic policing duties. It is one of Italy's main law enforcement agencies, alongside the Polizia di Stato and the Guardia di Finanza. Unlike the Polizia, the Carabinieri are part of Italy's military.

Duomo: refers to Florence's main cathedral, which stands tall over the city. Its magnificent Renaissance dome was designed by Filippo Brunelleschi and its construction dates back to the 13th century.

Medicis: The Medici family first attained wealth and political power in Florence in the 13th century through commerce and banking. They wielded tremendous influence and power over the centuries, producing popes and having married into many of Europe's royal families

Perestroika: refers to the reformation within the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) during the late 1980s widely associated with Mikhail Gorbachev and his glasnost (meaning "openness") policy reform. Literally, perestroika means "reconstruction," referring to the restructuring of the Soviet political and economic system. It opened up markets and allowed more independence. It's widely associated with the collapse of the Soviet Union and the formation of the current Russian Federation.

Via de' Tornabuoni: a street in Florence's city center that runs along the west side of Palazzo Strozzi. It's home to several high-end shops and boutiques, including Prada, Balenciaga, Gucci, etc.