The Assassins Kiss

Chapter 11

Ezra's POV

It's been two days since that moment with Luca—two days of me pretending it didn't happen.

But every time our eyes meet, there's something unspoken hanging in the air. Heavy. Magnetic.

Now, I'm standing in front of the mirror, trying to pick out a dress for the Russians.

Aurora, being her over-prepared, slightly terrifying self, gave me what might actually qualify as an entire wardrobe.

Dresses, heels, makeup, and—bless her—food. Lots of food.

I finally settle on a white dress. It's elegant, simple... and holy shit, it has pockets.

I smile to myself as I swipe on some makeup, nothing dramatic—just enough to feel like I'm not totally going into a diplomatic death trap looking like a raccoon.

When I head downstairs, the scent of something warm and spiced hits me first. Then I see him.

Of course, Luca's the only one in the kitchen.

He glances up—and lingers. His eyes scan the dress, then meet mine, like he's trying to figure something out.

"You look like a bride," he says, his voice low and a little too amused. "A white dress doesn't just mean marriage, you know. It symbolizes innocence. Purity."

I blink at him, then give the most exaggeratedly innocent smile I can muster. "

He tilts his head, still watching me. "So why are you wearing it?"

"You're not either of those things." He chuckles, the sound soft and warm.

"Yeah, but the Russians don't know that." I lift my eyebrows.

I shift slightly, letting my hands slide into the pockets of the dress. "This dress has pockets," I announce, as if it's the most revolutionary thing in the world.

He actually laughs—and it makes something in my chest flutter in a way I definitely don't want to examine too closely.

"That's cute, princess," he says, the nickname rolling off his tongue like silk.

And for a second, I don't have a witty comeback. Just heat rising to my cheeks and this electric silence stretching between us.

Aurora sweeps into the room, grinning like she already knows something we don't, and Roman follows behind her, smirking like the devil himself.

Whatever this thing is between me and Luca—it's not going unnoticed. Not anymore.

"Never thought I'd see the day a psycho gets excited over pockets in her dress," Roman says with a laugh, shaking his head.

I shoot him a mock glare. "Excuse you—these pockets are a revolution."

We head toward our usual seats, a silent agreement between us as natural as breathing.

Roman and I have always claimed the end of the table—prime location for judging, mocking, and occasionally conspiring.

But just as I'm about to sit, an arm wraps firmly around my waist and pulls me back like I'm a ragdoll.

"Hey!" I protest, twisting around.

Luca.

Of course it's Luca.

"No, Luca," Roman groans dramatically. "We always sit next to each other. It's tradition."

"Yeah, I want to sit with Roman," I say, struggling against Luca's grip. "He's the only one here with taste."