Author's POV
She looked too soft for the kind of world that had made them both.
Golden strands tangled across her cheek as she slept on his couch, curled beneath one of his jackets like she'd always belonged there. Her chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, completely unaware of the war still storming behind his eyes.
Arthur sat across from her, jaw tight, eyes refusing to leave her face.
She didn't know it yet—but she was the one piece of the past he hadn't managed to kill.
And the worst part?
He wasn't sure he wanted to anymore.
He leaned back, breath steady, but memory didn't ask for permission.
⸻
Three years ago. Milan.
He was sixteen. Young, sharp, already hardened, already expected to become his father's shadow.
The meeting was quiet. A Bratva dinner. No threats. No guns. Just clean-cut lies dressed in wine and silence.
Arthur had been bored—until she walked in.
She wasn't introduced. Wasn't meant to be seen, he assumed. Just slipped in behind one of the older men. Maybe a granddaughter. Maybe a guest.
But she caught his eye the moment she entered.
She wasn't wearing diamonds or silk like the others. She had a soft beige coat on, her cheeks a little red from the cold. Her blonde hair had come loose, a little messy. Untouched.
She looked… alive.
And Arthur couldn't look away.
Something in his chest shifted—unfamiliar and heavy. It was the first time in years he felt something that wasn't calculated.
He didn't know her name.
Didn't speak to her.
Didn't need to.
His eyes stayed on her longer than they should've.
And a week later, in the cold stillness of their study, his father said it like it was nothing:
"If she returns, she'll be your mark one day. For the family's protection."
Arthur had blinked. Stiff. Silent.
"Isla Durova."
The name landed like a crack to his ribs.
The girl he'd watched in quiet awe. The one who looked like she'd never known blood or fire.
Was her.
The last Durova daughter.
A threat, they said. A ghost from a broken family.
His future mission.
The girl he'd one day be ordered to kill.
Now.
Arthur leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
She was still here.
Still very much alive.
Sleeping in the one place he never let anyone close to.
She murmured something in her sleep and shifted under the blanket, her features soft and young again—nothing like the girl who'd thrown venom at him in school halls and outsmarted half their class like it was a game.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair and scoffed to himself.
He should've stayed away.
Should've left her drunk and spiraling at that damn club.
But the second he saw her falter… the second her knees nearly buckled…
He moved before thinking.
Just like three years ago.
Just like always.
He stood up slowly, walked to the kitchen counter, and stared at his own reflection in the darkened window.
"She's not supposed to matter," he said under his breath.
But she did.
More than he could admit.
And for once, in this godforsaken life, Arthur Gray wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to do.