Page 52 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“That’s for atmosphere too.”

A faint, almost-smile touches his mouth. “That sounds like criticism.”

“It is criticism.”

“Good.” He studies the plans again. “The symmetry was Elena.”

That catches me off guard.

I search his face for a reaction. “She designed this place with you?”

Aleksander’s attention stays on the plans for a moment before he nods once. “We chose it together.”

Something about the way he says it lands somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

Not longing. Memory. The kind that still lives in a room years later.

“She liked order?”

“She liked balance.” His gaze remains on the screens instead of me. “I liked control. Those are different things, apparently.”

He admits it without defending himself. I focus on the plans again. “I’m not trying to erase her,” I say after a moment.

“I know.”

I am not prepared for how quickly he says it.

Aleksander studies the redesign boards, like he’s trying to imagine people actually living here again.

Then he reaches past me, one hand braced lightly against the desk as he adjusts the angle of a material board I’d left crooked. He adjusts it not to correct me, I realize, but because it was bothering him.

The movement places him suddenly very close. Not touching. Still enough to feel aware of him everywhere.

His sleeve brushes lightly against mine.

My pulse stutters once. Ridiculous. We’re standing over fabric samples.

“You hate the marble,” he says.

“It’s too cold.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was right yesterday too.”

A breath that might almost be laughter leaves him. When I look up, he’s studying me, fully present.

“What was she like?” The question hangs between us.

Aleksander doesn’t answer immediately. Then, “Loud,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve heard it. “Stubborn. Impossible when she thought she was right.” He studies the redesign renderings again. “What would you keep?” he asks.

The question feels larger than the apartment.

I slowly shift my attention back to the screen. “The structure,” I say after a moment. “Some of the art. The openness.” My fingers brush lightly across the edge of the desk. “The things that still feel alive.”

He is quiet long enough that I look up. His focus is not on the plans anymore.

“Make it ours,” he says, and for once, he looks as surprised by the words as I feel.