Merritt: So Syd and I roomed together on road trips because we're a couple.
Sydney: Roomies. Roomies slash lovers!
M: Y'all know how that goes, don't you?
S: Yeah.
M: Well played, you guys, well played.
Christen: Guilty. Guilty.
Tobin: Well played. Well played.
S: Yeah, just roommates.
M: We took a little note from your playbook and it works, actually. No one asked us shit.
S: Yeah, yeah.
M: So anyway, we're laying in bed together watching those...
S: Yeah.
S: Cuddling.
T: You always knew when the double bed, like one of them was, like, completely was made.
M: Yeah. When you're trying to hide everything, you’re like, let me just...
T: Mess up that other bed.
C: Untuck those sheets, now we're good!
M: Uh, move that pillow a little bit.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.
The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.
Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.
The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.
You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.
The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.
Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.
You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.
Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.
"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.
The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.
"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."
"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."
The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.
"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.
"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"
"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."
"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."
"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"
"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.
Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.
He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.
"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.
The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.
"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.
Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."
"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.
"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."
"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."
"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."
This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.
Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.
"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.
You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."
Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."
You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.
"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."
"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.
Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.
For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.
The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.
A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."
Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.
Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.
The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.
You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.
Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.
The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.
You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.
And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.
Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.
"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."
"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."
"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."
You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.
"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."
"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.
"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."
"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."
"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."
Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."
Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."
You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"
"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."
"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."
"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."
"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.
"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."
"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."
A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."
"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."
As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.
Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.
Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.
"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.
"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"
"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"
"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."
The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."
You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.
The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.
You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.
A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.
Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"
"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.
He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.
"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.
"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."
Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."
"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.
"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."
"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.
A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."
You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."
"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."
You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.
"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."
"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.
"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."
Honeymoon.
The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.
Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"
"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.
The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.
You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.
Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."
"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.
He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."
"Okay."
Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.
You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.
Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.
More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.
You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.
The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.
The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.
Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.
You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.
Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.
It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.
Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.
Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.
Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.
You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.
Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.
You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.
The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.
You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.
Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—
"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.
"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.
Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."
You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."
"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.
"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."
Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."
"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."
"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."
"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.
That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."
You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."
Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."
The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.
"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.
"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."
"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"
"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."
"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.
Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."
"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."
"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."
"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.
Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."
"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.
Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."
"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."
The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.
"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."
"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."
Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."
"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."
"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."
The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.
"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.
Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."
"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."
Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."
"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."
"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.
"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."
It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.
"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.
"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."
The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.
"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.
Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."
You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."
As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.
Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.
The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.
Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.
The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."
Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.
The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.
You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.
One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.
Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.
"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."
You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.
"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."
Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.
"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."
You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.
"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."
Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."
He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."
"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."
"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."
The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.
"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."
Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.
"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."
You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."
Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."
The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.
As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.
The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.
You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.
He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.
"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."
Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.
You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.
You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.
He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.
"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."
Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.
"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.
"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.
"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"
Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."
"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.
"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."
"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."
"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."
Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."
The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.
"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"
You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."
"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."
The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.
"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."
That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."
Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.
"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."
"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.
Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.
For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.
"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.
"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.
"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."
The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."
"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.
Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.
"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."
The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.
"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.
Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.
Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.
*************************************************
Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.
You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.
You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.
"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.
Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.
"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.
"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"
Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.
Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."
You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.
"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.
You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.
"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.
Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.
You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.
Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.
The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.
"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.
The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.
"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.
"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.
Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.
You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.
"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."
The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.
"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."
You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.
"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.
"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."
The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.
"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.
His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."
"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.
Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."
The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.
"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."
His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."
His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.
"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."
His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."
As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.
You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.
"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.
The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.
"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."
The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.
"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."
The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.
"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."
The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.
"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.
Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.
Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.
Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.
You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.
Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.
Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."
You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.
"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.
"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.
"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."
The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.
"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"
Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"
"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."
Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."
"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."
Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"
"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."
Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.
"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."
"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."
"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."
The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"
Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."
The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."
The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.
"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."
Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."
The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.
You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.
Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.
He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.
"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."
You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.
"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."
"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."
Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."
You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.
Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.
"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.
"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."
That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."
Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."
"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."
"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."
The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.
"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"
That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."
The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.
"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.
Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."
That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.
"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."
Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."
As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.
Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.
You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.
At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.
Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.
The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.
Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.
The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."
The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.
Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.
Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.
"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."
"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."
Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."
"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."
Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."
The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."
"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."
The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.
"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."
"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."
Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."
The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.
"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."
Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."
The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.
The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.
"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."
"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."
"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."
"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."
Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.
"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."
"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."
Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."
The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.
"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."
"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."
You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."
Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."
"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."
The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.
Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.
"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"
The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.
Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."
Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."
"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."
The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.
"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."
The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.
"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."
The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.
As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.
"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."
The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.
The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.
"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"
The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.
"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."
Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."
The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.
"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."
Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.
"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."
The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.
"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."
"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"
Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."
The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.
"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."
The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.
"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."
Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.
"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"
The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.
"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."
The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.
"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."
"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.
The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.
Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.
"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.
"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."
Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."
The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.
"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."
The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.
"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."
The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.
"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."
"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."
The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.
"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."
"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."
You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.
"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."
"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."
"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."
Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."
The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.
"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."
Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.
"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."
Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."
As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."
The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.
"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."
"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."
This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.
"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."
"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.
Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."
As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.
The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.
"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."
The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.
"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."
"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."
He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."
"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.
The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.
"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."
"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."
Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."
The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.
"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.
"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."
You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.
"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."
"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.
Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."
The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.
"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.
Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."
His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.
"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."
The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.
"I'm sorry," you said simply.
Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."
Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.
"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.
Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."
The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.
When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.
"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."
"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."
Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.
"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."
Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.
You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.
The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.
Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.
Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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Four days in Geneva had changed things in ways you hadn't anticipated. The pillow barrier that once divided the king-sized bed had been abandoned entirely, not just crossed in sleep but removed by mutual, unspoken agreement. Each morning for the past three days, you'd woken wrapped in Lewis's arms, your head tucked against his chest, legs tangled together in a physical intimacy that would have been unthinkable just a week ago.
More surprising than the position itself was how natural it had begun to feel.
Morning sunlight streamed through the half-open curtains as you gradually surfaced toward consciousness, aware of Lewis's steady heartbeat beneath your ear and the weight of his arm draped across your waist. The solid warmth of him had become familiar now, a presence your body sought even in sleep.
This was new territory for you. You'd never been particularly physically affectionate with previous partners—always maintaining a certain distance, a holdover from growing up in a world where vulnerability equaled weakness. Even during college relationships, you'd kept that careful space between yourself and others, never fully surrendering to the kind of unconscious trust that sleeping entwined required.
Yet here you were, practically clinging to Lewis Hamilton, international arms dealer and strategic husband, as if your body had decided to ignore all the cautions your mind had carefully constructed.
"You're thinking very loudly again," Lewis murmured, his voice morning-rough but unmistakably warm. His fingers traced lazy patterns against your spine, the touch sending pleasant shivers through your body.
"Sorry," you replied, making no move to extract yourself from the embrace despite your awareness of the boundary that had been crossed. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." His fingers continued their gentle exploration of your back, the motion less calculated than simply affectionate. "I've been awake for a while. Just didn't want to disturb you."
The admission held a tenderness that surprised you—Lewis, who approached every minute of his day with purpose, had chosen to remain in bed holding you rather than beginning his usual efficient morning routine.
"Any news from Jensen?" you asked, the question a gentle probe toward business matters without fully breaking the intimate moment.
Lewis's hand paused briefly at the small of your back before resuming its soothing movement. "Bianchi's organization is falling apart," he said, his voice softer than usual. "The power struggle is playing out just like we thought. We don't have to worry about them for a while."
"And Suarez?" The name carried darker implications now that you'd been the specific target of his attempted infiltration.
"Still in Miami," Lewis replied, pulling you a fraction closer to him, his protective instinct showing through. "But he's planning something. Naomi's team caught some messages about him moving resources around."
"Moving them where?" You shifted to look up at Lewis's face, finding his usual composed expression softened by something that looked like genuine concern for you.
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Lewis said, his thumb now gently stroking your cheek. "Not toward New York or your father's operations. Not directly toward London either. He's being indirect about it."
"Hiring outside help," you suggested, the strategy familiar from your father's playbook. "Keeping his distance from whatever he's planning."
Lewis nodded, his fingers now playing with a strand of your hair, twirling it gently around his finger. The casual intimacy of the gesture felt natural now, though it would have been unimaginable just days ago.
"The Mueller accounts are almost ready," Lewis continued, his tone warming as he spoke. "The verification went through yesterday while you were talking with your sisters."
The mention of your sisters triggered a pang of emotion. Your conversation with them had been difficult—trying to explain the continuing delay in their London visit without revealing the danger, balancing their frustration against the very real threats that remained.
"I still haven't given them a definite answer," you admitted, guilt coloring your tone. "Sophia wasn't happy."
"Sophia strikes me as someone who knows exactly what she wants," Lewis observed with a small smile that softened his entire face. "And isn't afraid to go after it."
"You have no idea," you agreed, finding yourself smiling despite your worries. "She's already sent three different links to that handbag I promised her, with color preferences ranked in order."
Lewis's chest vibrated with quiet laughter beneath your cheek, the sound warming something deep inside you. "She reminds me of someone else I know," he said, his eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.
"She's going to be a nightmare when she actually enters the family business," you said, affection evident despite the assessment. "My father has no idea what's coming."
"Your father doesn't see how capable the women in his life really are," Lewis replied, his voice gentle but firm. "He's missing out on the strongest assets he has."
The simple acknowledgment felt unexpectedly validating. Lewis had consistently seen you as an equal partner from the beginning, a perspective that stood in stark contrast to your experiences with powerful men throughout your life.
"Speaking of assets," you said, reluctantly shifting toward business matters despite how comfortable you felt in his arms. "Mueller mentioned something about Singapore banks that might help with our digital currency plans."
"Already on it," Lewis confirmed, his hand now stroking slowly up and down your arm. "Claire's team is working on it. I thought you might want to lead the development when we get back to London."
The casual offering of significant responsibility felt remarkably normal now. Lewis had seamlessly integrated you into business discussions, seeking your input on strategic decisions and actually implementing your suggestions. The partnership aspects of your arrangement were developing beyond what either of you had expected.
Much like the personal connection that had you currently wrapped in his arms instead of maintaining careful distance across a divided bed.
"I should check in with Claire today then," you said, finally making the reluctant move to extract yourself from his embrace. "And we have the dinner with Mueller's associate tonight."
Lewis's arms tightened around you for a moment before releasing you, his reluctance visible in his eyes. "Seven o'clock at Domaine de Châteauvieux," he said, his gaze following you as you moved. "Jensen's team has already secured everything."
The casual mention of security measures was another constant in your shared existence—danger never entirely absent despite the momentary comfort of intimate mornings. Suarez remained a threat, his intentions unclear but undoubtedly hostile. The betrayal within Lewis's organization still hadn't been identified, though the suspect list had narrowed considerably.
You slipped from the bed, heading toward the bathroom to prepare for the day. As you reached the doorway, you glanced back to find Lewis watching you with an expression that made your heart skip.
"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious despite the days of increasing physical closeness.
"You've changed," he said simply, his voice soft. "Since we arrived in Geneva."
The statement carried layers of meaning, prompting you to lean against the doorframe. "In what way?"
Lewis took a moment to respond, his dark eyes warm as they held yours. "You're more relaxed. Less guarded." His lips curved into a soft smile that transformed his usually serious face. "It suits you."
The compliment felt genuine, personal rather than strategic. Another small shift in your evolving relationship.
"The circumstances are different here," you offered, not quite ready to examine how quickly you'd adjusted to physical and emotional closeness with someone who'd been a strategic stranger mere weeks ago. "Away from both our usual territories."
"Neutral ground," Lewis agreed, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by your explanation. "Freedom to discover new things."
The neutral territory of Geneva had certainly provided space for new discoveries, but that didn't fully explain the startling ease with which you'd begun seeking physical connection with Lewis. The morning cuddles, the casual touches throughout the day, the way you found yourself drifting closer to him even in spaces that allowed for greater distance.
"I should get ready," you said, retreating toward the bathroom rather than examining these unsettling realizations too closely. "Claire's expecting my call by nine."
Lewis nodded, already reaching for his phone on the nightstand, but his eyes lingered on you with unmistakable warmth. "I'll order breakfast while you shower."
The easy domesticity of the exchange struck you as you closed the bathroom door—the casual certainty about shared morning routines that had developed over just a few days together. Like everything between you and Lewis, it had evolved naturally rather than being formally negotiated.
Under the rainfall shower's warm cascade, you allowed yourself to consider what was happening between you more directly. The deepening connection wasn't one-sided—Lewis had been equally participant in the diminishing physical boundaries. His hand finding yours during car rides, his arm around your waist as you entered restaurants, his body curving protectively around yours during sleep.
More tellingly, he'd begun sharing personal thoughts beyond strict business necessity—observations about his childhood in London, memories of his days in the British Army, stories about Roscoe's early training difficulties, even occasional references to his parents that revealed genuine emotion beneath his usual controlled exterior. Small confidences that collectively created a more complete picture of the man behind the strategic façade.
You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes to find breakfast already arranged on the suite's terrace—fresh pastries, fruit, coffee prepared exactly how you preferred it. Lewis had moved to the outdoor space, phone pressed to his ear as he conducted business.
He glanced up as you approached, his expression immediately softening despite the obviously serious nature of his call. "We'll proceed with the alternative approach then," he said to whoever was on the line. "Keep me updated."
As he ended the call, his attention shifted fully to you—that complete focus that always made you feel like the only person in the world. "Breakfast just arrived. The croissants are still warm."
"Everything okay?" you asked, gesturing toward the phone he'd just set aside.
"Just a small adjustment," he replied with a reassuring smile. "Nothing we need to worry about right now."
You settled into the chair across from him, helping yourself to coffee from the silver pot. "That's refreshingly rare these days."
Lewis's mouth curved into that half-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "We've had quite an eventful honeymoon, haven't we?"
The reference to your cover story carried different weight now than when you'd first arrived in Geneva. The performance for Mueller had begun bleeding into reality in ways neither of you had fully anticipated—shared meals, inside jokes, casual touches that had no strategic audience to justify them.
"Speaking of honeymoons," you said, selecting a perfectly flaky croissant from the basket, "Mueller seemed pretty convinced by our act, considering how quickly the accounts were approved."
"I'm not sure how much of it was an act," Lewis said quietly, his eyes holding yours over the rim of his coffee cup.
The careful phrasing acknowledged both the authentic professional partnership and the more complicated personal connection still evolving between you.
"The real thing is always more convincing," you agreed, matching his careful navigation of increasingly nuanced territory. "People can tell the difference, even if they can't explain why."
Lewis studied you with that focused intensity that had become so familiar. "Geneva has shown me things I didn't expect," he observed, his voice gentle. "Both in business and... personally."
The deliberate acknowledgment of personal development alongside business progress invited a response you weren't entirely prepared to articulate yet. Your heightened awareness of Lewis was undeniable—the morning cuddles only the most obvious manifestation of attraction that had been developing since your first meeting in your father's study.
Your phone buzzed on the table, providing temporary reprieve from navigating increasingly complex emotions. Sophia's name flashed on the screen, accompanied by what you assumed would be another handbag link based on the preview text.
"Your sister has impressive persistence," Lewis observed, nodding toward the notification, a genuine smile warming his face. "Runs in the family, I've noticed."
"Ricci women don't take no for an answer," you confirmed, picking up the phone to scan the message. "We just find alternative approaches to yes."
To your surprise, this wasn't another handbag link but actual substance—a screenshot of social media activity from one of Suarez's Miami associates, showing a check-in at a private airfield with Geneva tagged as destination. The message accompanying it was typically blunt Sophia: Is this the asshole causing your "extended honeymoon"? Papa's security guy Vinny left his phone unlocked at dinner. Thought you should know.
You passed the phone to Lewis without comment, watching his expression shift from casual interest to intense focus as he processed the information and its implications.
"When was this posted?" he asked, already reaching for his own phone, though his free hand moved to rest reassuringly on yours.
"According to the timestamp, eight hours ago," you replied, mentally calculating time differences and flight durations. "If he left then, he could be arriving in Geneva within the next two hours."
Lewis was already dialing, his entire demeanor transformed from relaxed breakfast companion to protective husband in seconds. "Jensen, we have potential Suarez movement toward Geneva. I'm forwarding data to your secure channel. Have Naomi verify it and implement Protocol Four immediately."
The swift response was a reminder of the dangerous reality that existed alongside your developing personal connection—threats that hadn't gone away during your time in Geneva.
"Your sister's quite resourceful," Lewis noted as he ended the call, handing your phone back with appreciation in his gaze. "That information wouldn't have reached us through official channels for hours yet, if at all."
"Sophia has always had a talent for getting information she's not supposed to have," you acknowledged with a small smile. "Drives my father crazy but has saved us more than once."
Lewis nodded, his expression thoughtful as he sent a follow-up text. "Family talents often get overlooked when people don't look past traditional roles."
The observation carried layers of meaning beyond its surface application to your sister—acknowledgment of your own capabilities being more fully integrated into operations since your marriage, recognition that Lewis's approach differed from your father's more traditional structures.
"Will this change our plans for tonight?" you asked, practical considerations taking precedence over the more personal conversation that had been developing before Sophia's message interrupted.
"Not visibly," Lewis replied, his hand reaching across the table to cover yours. "Changing established patterns would signal awareness of his approach. Better to maintain expected movements while enhancing security protocols behind the scenes."
The strategic assessment aligned with your own thinking—letting Suarez believe his movements remained undetected would provide tactical advantage if confrontation became necessary. "So dinner proceeds as scheduled."
"With additional countermeasures in place," Lewis confirmed, his phone buzzing with incoming responses from his security team. "Jensen will brief us on the adjusted protocols before we leave."
The conversation had shifted entirely to operational matters, the intimate moment from earlier morning temporarily set aside as more immediate concerns took priority.
"I should still speak with Claire," you said, rising from the table to retrieve your laptop from the bedroom. "Her team can incorporate this new information into the Singapore framework while tracking Suarez's associate's movements."
Lewis nodded approval, already reviewing security feeds Jensen had forwarded to his phone. "Your insight on digital tracking would be extremely valuable given the circumstances."
As you moved toward the bedroom, Lewis's voice stopped you at the terrace threshold. "This changes nothing about us," he said, the intensity in his voice making you turn back to him. "Suarez's movements just accelerate certain security timelines, not personal ones."
The deliberate distinction between operational adjustments and evolving personal connection felt significant—Lewis separating threat response from the intimate connections that had been developing between you. Not using danger as an excuse to either advance or retreat from the gradually shifting nature of your relationship.
"I know," you replied simply, the response acknowledging layers of understanding that didn't require elaborate articulation between you.
His expression softened into that rare genuine smile that transformed his features, making him look younger, more open. The duality no longer seemed contradictory but complementary—different aspects of the increasingly complex man you were coming to know beyond his carefully constructed public persona.
As you retrieved your laptop and prepared for the video call with Claire, your thoughts circled back to the morning's realization about your own changing behavior. The physical closeness, the emotional openness, the integrated personal and professional dimensions developing between you and Lewis—the woman who'd arrived in Geneva with careful emotional barriers and literal pillow division between herself and her strategic husband had been replaced by someone who sought physical connection even in sleep, who found herself reaching for Lewis's hand without conscious decision, whose body recognized his presence across rooms without needing visual confirmation.
Whether that change represented vulnerability or strength remained to be seen. But as you joined the video call with Claire, Lewis's voice providing security updates in the background, you found yourself surprisingly comfortable with uncertainty that would have been intolerable just weeks ago.
Geneva was changing you, as Lewis had observed. The question that would eventually require answer was whether those changes would remain when you returned to London and the more structured reality of your arranged marriage.
For now, the immediate concerns of Suarez's approach and tonight's banking dinner provided convenient distraction from deeper examination of exactly what was developing between you and Lewis beyond the parameters that had initially defined your relationship.
The fact that you'd gone from divided bed to morning cuddles in less than a week, however, suggested that whatever was evolving would likely continue its progression with or without your constant worry about its implications.
Domaine de Châteauvieux gleamed against the darkening sky, its stone walls and pristine gardens illuminated by tasteful lighting that enhanced rather than overwhelmed the property's natural beauty. Perched on a hillside overlooking Lake Geneva, the Michelin-starred restaurant represented exactly the kind of discreet luxury that Mueller's circle preferred.
Jensen leaned in as he opened the car door, just enough to murmur, "Mueller's associate is already here. Arrived twenty minutes ago with two security personnel. Private dining room secured as requested."
"Standard approach then," Lewis nodded, his expression revealing nothing of the heightened tension you could feel in his body next to yours. "Keep eyes on everything but stay back unless I signal."
The exchange felt routine, but something in Lewis's tone caught your attention. He wasn't just professionally alert but personally wary in a way you hadn't seen during previous business engagements.
You kept your voice low as you moved toward the entrance, Lewis's hand resting protectively at the small of your back. "Is there something about this associate I should know?"
Lewis's eyes met yours briefly, warm despite the tension, and you could see him deciding how much to share before he answered.
"Aleksei Petrov," he said quietly, his thumb stroking a gentle circle at the small of your back as he spoke. "Former Russian mob enforcer who reinvented himself as a financial consultant after some... disagreements with his previous employers. Our paths crossed in Kiev about five years ago." A pause. "It wasn't pleasant."
"Russian mafia," you said, immediately understanding the implications. Your father had always maintained special contempt for the Bratva, calling them "animals without code" after witnessing their disregard for the unwritten rules that governed interactions between traditional families.
Your hand instinctively checked the slim clutch where your gun rested beneath an innocuous layer of lip gloss and feminine necessities.
"Mueller conveniently left that detail out," you added.
Lewis's expression softened as he looked at you, his hand moving to squeeze yours gently. "He's testing us. Seeing whether the financial advantages outweigh personal histories."
The moment you entered the private dining room confirmed your suspicions. Mueller wasn't present—just a single man seated at the head of the elegantly appointed table, crystal glinting in candlelight as he swirled amber liquid in a heavy tumbler. Two large men in black suits stood against the far wall, their posture communicating security personnel rather than dining companions.
Aleksei Petrov didn't rise as you entered—the deliberate discourtesy establishing a dominance play before conversation even began. Early fifties with silver threading through dark hair cropped military-short, his face bore the distinctive scarring of someone who'd faced violence repeatedly without bothering to seek cosmetic repair. The effect wasn't unattractive so much as deliberately intimidating—a man who wore his history of brutality as a credential rather than concealing it.
Lewis's hand pressed more firmly against your back, a subtle signal of both protection and caution, his body angling slightly to place himself between you and Petrov.
The temperature between the two men seemed to drop several degrees through nothing more than locked gazes—history and hostility requiring no verbal acknowledgment to fill the space between them.
"Hamilton," Petrov finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a thick Russian accent that he made no attempt to soften. "Is surprise to see you still breathing after Kiev."
"Disappointed, Aleksei?" Lewis replied, his tone carrying perfect control despite the obvious provocation. "Your colleagues certainly tried hard enough."
Petrov laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "Was business, not personal. You understand difference?" His eyes shifted to you, gaze traveling your body with deliberate insolence. "Although now, maybe I see reason for my men's failure. Distracted by pretty wife? Is recent acquisition, da?"
One of Petrov's security men stepped forward. "Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, security protocols require inspection before joining Mr. Petrov."
"My wife's purse stays with her," Lewis stated without room for negotiation, his voice calm but with an edge that hadn't been there moments ago. His hand moved to rest at the small of your back again, thumb stroking a small, reassuring circle.
The security man paused, looking to Petrov for instruction. The Russian waved his hand dismissively.
"Is fine. She's woman. Probably just have lipstick in purse," he said with sneering condescension before blowing an exaggerated kiss in your direction. "Maybe later you show me what else you keep in there, beautiful American."
You smiled with practiced social grace that revealed nothing of your thoughts, years of navigating your father's business associates having perfected your ability to mask reaction behind a pleasant facade. The weight of the Glock in your purse provided reassurance that transcended mere symbolic comfort.
Lewis underwent the security man's pat-down with an impassive expression, maintaining eye contact with Petrov throughout as if the procedure were beneath his notice.
"Please, sit," Petrov gestured toward the chairs on either side of the table. "Mueller sends apologies for absence. Unavoidable business emergency requiring personal attention."
"How convenient," Lewis remarked as he pulled out your chair, his fingers briefly brushing against your shoulder in a subtle gesture of support.
Petrov's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Swiss, always so... efficient with time management. One dinner, multiple purposes."
Servers entered with practiced timing, presenting first courses with choreographed precision. Lewis positioned himself between you and Petrov with subtle positioning that established a protective barrier without being overtly obvious.
"Mueller says you seeking expanded banking relationships," Petrov continued once the servers had departed. "Very ambitious, very modern approach to financial arrangements. Not typical for British operators."
"The traditional boundaries are becoming irrelevant in digital markets," Lewis replied. "Strategic positioning matters more than historical territories."
Petrov's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is true. Though some territories still require... traditional methods of negotiation when disputes arise."
"Different markets, different approaches," Lewis said with a casual shrug that seemed to suggest Petrov's methods might be quaintly outdated. "Effectiveness depends on context."
Irritation flashed across Petrov's face before he masked it with false warmth.
"Your wife is very quiet," the Russian observed, turning his attention to you. "In my country, beautiful women speak when men finish business discussions. Very proper arrangement."
You took a deliberate sip of wine before responding, the pause establishing control over timing rather than reaction.
"In my experience," you replied with a pleasant smile that held absolutely no warmth, "the most dangerous people in any room rarely feel compelled to fill silence with unnecessary conversation."
Petrov's eyebrows rose slightly, genuine surprise registering before calculating reassessment replaced it.
"She has teeth, your American wife," he said to Lewis without looking away from you. "Sharp ones. Is interesting choice for man who prefers control in all matters."
"My wife's perspectives on financial systems have proven invaluable to our operations," Lewis replied smoothly, his hand finding yours under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Particularly regarding blockchain integration with traditional banking frameworks."
"Ah yes, the famous American education," Petrov nodded with exaggerated seriousness. "Very expensive, very comprehensive. Though real education happens in streets, not classrooms, da?" His eyes moved deliberately to the scar visible on his cheekbone. "Some lessons leave more permanent reminders than others."
The conversation continued with verbal feints disguised as business discussion but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of threat and counter-threat.
"Mueller believes our banking interests might align despite certain historical... complications," Petrov said as the main course arrived. "Financial systems care nothing for personal histories, only profit potential."
"Banking relationships require trust," Lewis countered, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand beneath the table. "Past actions establish patterns that inform risk calculations."
Petrov laughed, this time with genuine amusement. "Says man who put bullet in my brother's shoulder in Kiev warehouse. Is this establishing pattern, Hamilton?"
Lewis's expression remained controlled, but you felt his hand tighten briefly around yours. "Your brother was holding a Kalashnikov at the time, as I recall. Context matters in pattern analysis."
"Context, yes," Petrov agreed with a dangerous smile. "Like context of beautiful wife alone in foreign city while husband conducts business. Very vulnerable context, especially with Suarez having such specific interest lately."
The direct reference to Suarez—knowledge Petrov shouldn't reasonably possess about current threats unless actively involved—shifted the conversation from abstract sparring to immediate concern.
"You seem remarkably well-informed about matters outside your usual circles," Lewis observed, his tone carrying a dangerous edge though his thumb continued its soothing movement against your hand.
Petrov spread his hands in theatrical innocence. "Information is valuable commodity. I collect many types of valuable things." His gaze shifted to you again. "Beautiful things especially."
Your hand moved closer to your purse with deliberate casualness.
"Little Ricci daughter has claws beneath pretty gloves," Petrov observed with disturbing satisfaction. "Is exciting combination—American-Italian fire with British husband's famous control. Mueller was right to find such arrangement... intriguing."
Lewis's grip on your hand tightened slightly, a silent message that manipulation was taking place.
"Perhaps we should clarify exactly what banking arrangements Mueller had in mind," Lewis suggested.
"Is simple proposition," Petrov replied, cutting into his fish. "My clients require certain specialized services for assets acquired through... non-traditional channels. Mueller believes your digital infrastructure provides unique solution to particular challenges these assets present."
"And what does Mueller gain from this introduction?" you asked. "Beyond the usual commission."
Petrov's attention shifted to you again, his assessment carrying a new dimension.
"Smart question from beautiful mouth," he said. "Mueller gains insurance policy—relationship with multiple strong clients creates protection when regulatory environments shift. No one client becomes too important or too dangerous to his operation."
"Diversification as security strategy," you translated.
"Exactly this," Petrov nodded, genuine approval registering in his expression. "Perhaps pretty wife understands business better than expected, Hamilton. Very modern approach for family with such traditional structures. Your father would not approve, I think."
"My father's approaches served their purposes in their time," you replied diplomatically. "Evolution is necessary for survival in the changing environments."
"Evolution, yes," Petrov agreed, leaning forward. "But not all creatures survive such changes. Some become... extinct when environments shift too quickly."
The thinly veiled threat hung between you as servers appeared to clear the main course.
"Mueller's proposition has certain advantages," Lewis acknowledged once the staff had departed, his voice casual though his eyes remained alert. "Though implementation would require careful consideration of security protocols."
"Of course, of course," Petrov waved dismissively. "Security is always concern in our world. But such matters can be addressed once agreement is established." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Unless there are more specific concerns?"
"Standard protocols for new banking relationships," Lewis replied. "Due diligence applies to all potential partners regardless of individual circumstances."
Petrov's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Is wise approach. Though sometimes circumstances require more... immediate decisions. Opportunities emerge quickly in volatile markets."
"We've never found rushed decisions profitable in the long term," you observed.
"Long term," Petrov repeated, something dangerous flickering in his expression. "Admirable perspective for those with luxury of time. Not all operate with such... comfortable timelines."
"We'll consider Mueller's proposition and provide a response through the appropriate channels," Lewis stated diplomatically, his hand now resting warmly on your thigh beneath the table. "Please send our appreciation for his introduction."
"Perhaps direct conversation continues after dinner?" Petrov suggested. "Private discussion between men about certain matters better addressed without feminine presence?"
Before Lewis could respond, you smiled with perfect social grace.
"My husband and I maintain a unified approach to all operational decisions," you stated with calm certainty.
Lewis's hand squeezed your thigh gently in silent approval.
"Is unusual structure in our world," Petrov noted. "Traditional arrangements maintain certain... separations between business and family."
"We find traditional limitations increasingly irrelevant," Lewis replied, his voice warm as his eyes briefly met yours. "Compartmentalization creates vulnerabilities rather than strengths."
"Fascinating perspective," Petrov acknowledged with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Though perhaps risky when threats require certain specialized responses not suitable for shared decision making."
"We've found our combined approach quite effective," Lewis countered, his thumb now tracing small circles on your thigh.
Dessert arrived with impeccable timing—soufflés presented with performative flourish.
"Is shame Mueller could not join this evening," Petrov observed once the servers had departed. "Though perhaps more... productive conversation emerges without his diplomatic presence, da? Direct exchange between potential partners without Swiss neutrality filtering true intentions."
"Transparency has its advantages," Lewis acknowledged.
"Indeed," Petrov agreed, his smile sharpening. "For example, I can say directly that Suarez has offered substantial compensation for certain information regarding your movements in Geneva. Very transparent business proposition with significant profit potential."
Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the provocation, though you felt his body tense beside you. "Transparency works both ways. For example, I can say directly that anyone providing such information would find the consequences significantly outweighing any compensation Suarez might offer."
Petrov laughed with genuine amusement. "Is good to have clear understanding between men of business, yes?"
"Absolutely," you interjected with a pleasant smile. "For instance, I can say directly that my father would consider any action against his daughter—regardless of her current name—as personal rather than business matter. His response to personal matters tends toward the theatrical rather than the surgical."
Calculation flickered across Petrov's face before he masked it with nonchalance.
"Family connections create such complex considerations," he acknowledged.
"Indeed," Lewis agreed, his hand now resting protectively over yours. "Which brings us back to Mueller's proposition regarding banking arrangements."
"You will consider proposal?" Petrov asked.
"We'll evaluate based on risk assessment rather than isolated profit potential," Lewis replied diplomatically. "Our response will be known once the analysis is complete."
Petrov nodded slowly, something like genuine respect filtering through his otherwise calculating demeanor. "Is reasonable approach. Though time factors may influence available options as certain situations develop."
As you prepared to depart, Petrov rose from his seat.
"Was pleasure to meet Hamilton's American wife," he said, his gaze traveling your body with careful intent. "Beauty with intelligence is rare combination in our world. Most men prefer simpler arrangements."
"Most men prefer what they can control rather than what might challenge them," you replied with a pleasant smile.
Amusement flickered across Petrov's features. "She is definitely not simple arrangement, Hamilton. Perhaps more dangerous investment than anticipated?"
"The most valuable assets often come with complexities that make them worth the investment," Lewis responded, his hand sliding to rest at the small of your back, the gesture both protective and possessive.
"Until our paths cross again," Petrov said. "Geneva offers many opportunities for unexpected meetings."
"We look forward to Mueller's insights regarding next steps," Lewis replied.
As you moved toward the exit, Petrov called after you. "Beautiful city, Geneva. Though sometimes dangerous for tourists who misunderstand local customs. Visitors should have.....awareness of surroundings, especially after receiving certain attention from very interested parties."
Only once you were in the car did Lewis's carefully maintained composure shift, his hand reaching for yours and holding it tightly.
"Petrov confirmed his direct connection to Suarez," he stated, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
"He's playing both sides," you said, understanding flowing from years of observing similar power plays in your father's world. "Telling us about Suarez's approach to establish leverage for his own proposition while having plausible deniability."
"Classic Bratva methodology," Lewis nodded, his expression softening as he looked at you. "Create opportunities regardless of the primary conflict's outcome."
"The mention of my father was deliberate as well," you added. "Testing whether Ricci protection still applies despite our marriage."
Lewis's phone buzzed with an incoming message that shifted his expression toward darker focus. He read the text before meeting your questioning gaze, his hand still holding yours.
"Naomi intercepted communication between Petrov and Suarez's Miami operation," he explained, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Confirmation of your presence in Geneva with details regarding security protocols observed during tonight's meeting."
"He's definitely playing both sides," you said.
Lewis's expression carried a controlled intensity, but his eyes were warm with concern as they met yours. "We need to leave tomorrow," he stated, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious.
You nodded, the gravity of the situation settling over you. The usual undercurrent of tension between you and Lewis had deepened, the stakes now higher than ever. Petrov's game wasn't just dangerous—it was a calculated move to leverage both sides of the conflict, setting the board for his own advantage.
"You're certain about the extraction plan?" you asked, not because you doubted him, but because the weight of the plan demanded thoroughness.
Lewis's eyes softened as they met yours, his free hand coming up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. "We've got every detail covered. Jensen will make sure the route's clear. By the time we're out, they'll think we're still in the city."
Something passed between you, the quiet understanding that even when you didn't speak, the trust was evident. You were partners in this—and the path forward was always clearer when you were together.
The car hummed through the night, its tires eating up the road as you retraced your steps back to the hotel. Lewis kept his eyes alert, scanning for potential threats in the passing shadows of the city. You knew the routine; your instincts were sharp, always watching, always listening for the smallest change in atmosphere.
"Think Petrov will come after us directly?" you asked, breaking the silence.
Lewis exhaled slowly, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand. "Not yet. He's too busy positioning himself with Suarez." He paused, his lips twisting into a hint of a smile, dark and knowing. "But he'll be watching, making sure no one else can get a piece of the pie, and we’ll be there to take care of him."
You didn't need to ask how he planned to handle that. The answer was already clear. The same way he always did—swift, methodical, and unforgiving.
The hotel loomed ahead, its imposing architecture a silent testament to the hours of work ahead. You'd need rest for what was coming next. But even as your eyes drifted toward the lobby, a thought lingered.
"Do you think he was surprised?" you asked quietly. "By how we handled him tonight?"
Lewis's smile deepened, a touch of admiration in his expression as his eyes met yours. "He's used to running the show, making the rules. But we played our hand well." His fingers laced with yours more firmly. "We didn't let him dictate the terms."
You felt a shiver run through you, a rush of adrenaline mingling with the satisfaction of having not only survived but taken control in a world where survival was the bare minimum. As the car slowed to a stop, you both exchanged a glance.
"Tomorrow," you said, your voice steady. "We'll be ready."
Lewis gave a sharp nod, his hand gently squeezing yours as he exited the car. The touch was subtle, but it spoke volumes—there was no question of who was in charge here. Not Petrov, not Suarez, and not the impossible circumstances they'd thrown at you. It was you and him, and that was all that mattered in the end.
As you followed him inside, the distant bustle of the city seemed far away, swallowed up by the quiet urgency that now governed your every move. Tomorrow's extraction would test everything. But for now, you were closer to each other than ever—and that alone gave you an edge.
The weight of last night still hung heavy in the air, but it was the calm before the storm. You'd been through this many times before, but something about the way Lewis moved this morning—his deliberate precision—had you on edge in a way you hadn't expected.
Lewis came over to you, pulling a black bulletproof vest from a duffel bag. "Put this on," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment too long, the gentle touch at odds with the severity of the situation. Your hands slid into the vest with practiced ease, though the cold weight of it reminded you that danger was always just one misstep away. You didn't need to look at him to know he was watching you closely, his gaze searching your face.
"Ready for today?" His voice was rough from sleep, but his eyes were alert and focused on you. There was concern there, something tender beneath the professional assessment.
You didn't answer right away, keeping your focus on adjusting the vest. You'd always managed to keep your distance from everyone, emotionally and sometimes physically, but with him, that distance was dissolving, and it made everything more complicated.
"You're thinking too loudly again," he said with a half-smile, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek briefly. The gesture was unexpected but comforting.
You met his eyes for a beat longer than you meant to. "I have to. I'm the one about to get shot at," you said dryly.
His expression softened, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone. "You don't have to wear that tough mask around me," he added quietly. "It's okay to be scared sometimes."
You felt a shift in your chest, something unfamiliar and warm, but before you could process it, Jensen's voice cut through the moment.
"Lewis, we're ready."
"One minute," he said, eyes still trained on you, his hand sliding down to rest briefly on your shoulder. "Do you have your gun?"
You nodded, your hand instinctively patting the side of your purse, where the gun rested. The simple gesture made you feel grounded, even if everything around you was in chaos. Lewis gave a small nod, his eyes warming with what looked like pride.
He turned to Jensen, but not before his fingers gently squeezed your arm. "All set." Lewis gave you a quick, appraising look, his gaze flicking to the door as Jensen headed out of the bedroom. "Keep your head down. And stay close," he added, his voice dropping to a gentle command.
You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag and heading out after him. Despite the steady calm in your movements, you knew what came next—the protocol. The operation. This wasn't just any morning. Not anymore.
The suite felt smaller now, the air thicker, as you followed them. Naomi burst in then, urgency in her every movement.
"We need to move. Now." Her words were clipped, sharp with tension.
You didn't need to ask why. You moved swiftly, no hesitation in your movements, the practiced routine taking over as Lewis led the way out of the suite, his hand finding the small of your back to guide you, Jensen close behind, the rest of the security detail following like a shadow.
The corridors of the hotel were eerily quiet as you made your way down. The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft thud, and it felt like everything inside you had tensed. Every sound, every movement felt like it could be the one that gave it away.
You eventually made your way to the waiting car outside and sank into the leather seat. The city continued to move as if nothing were wrong, but you knew better. You could feel the danger circling, waiting.
"Keep your head down," Lewis murmured, his voice low, his hand on your back steady as you obeyed without question, shifting to lie down on your side.
You could feel his gaze on you, constantly scanning for danger, every inch of him alert. Even with your eyes averted, you could sense the tension in his body, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Even his breath was measured, controlled, like he was holding onto something just below the surface.
"Motherfucker," Jensen muttered suddenly, his voice barely above a growl.
"Son of a bitch," Lewis responded, his voice sharp and low, but you didn't need to ask what had changed. You could feel it—like a storm on the horizon.
You heard the crackling of the radio, the voices sharp and fast. "Blocked the road. Specialist fire. They're coming in hot."
Your hand instinctively moved to your gun in your purse, the safety already off, fingers curling around the grip. It was a reflex now, something you didn't need to think about.
The radio crackled again, and then—gunshots.
The car jerked as the bullets slammed into the bulletproof windows, the impact reverberating through the frame. You felt it, the vibrations of the shots running through the car. Lewis's hand immediately moved to cover your head protectively.
"It's okay," he murmured, his voice steady despite the chaos. "The car can take it."
But the tension in the car thickened, the air growing heavier. The gunshots continued, the sound of them clear and sharp. Your heart was pounding in your chest, the steady rhythm of it a stark contrast to the chaos outside.
"Keep your head down," Lewis repeated, his voice low but reassuring. His arm was pressed against yours, his body moving closer as if to shield you from everything that was happening outside.
You obeyed, though every part of you wanted to look, wanted to see what was happening beyond the tinted windows. But you didn't. You trusted him, even when everything felt out of control.
Then, over the radio, you heard it: "Shots fired ahead. They're still blocking us."
The unmistakable sound of gunfire continued, escalating. The tension was almost unbearable, and you could hear it in the way Jensen's voice had changed, now filled with something close to panic.
"Stay low," Jensen muttered, his voice steely as he cocked his gun, the metallic click sharp in the silence. He opened the door of the armored SUV, a quick, practiced move, and before anyone could say another word, he slipped out of the vehicle, vanishing into the chaos outside.
You could hear the distant crackle of his gunfire—a sharp, measured rhythm as he laid down cover fire. You couldn't see it, but you could picture the way he moved, calculating and precise, taking out targets with cold efficiency.
Your eyes flicked up to Lewis, your heart racing in your chest. His breath was steady but loud in the quiet of the backseat, a slow inhale followed by a controlled exhale, like he was bracing himself for something. Something bigger than you could see from your seat.
He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. There was no pretense in his expression—no calm exterior to hide what was happening. Just the rawness of a man who had lived through this too many times to count and still, every time, faced it with determination.
"Babygirl," he said, his voice low but tender, the nickname slipping out naturally. "We have to move."
You didn't need to hear it again. His words hit you in the gut, grounding you in the present moment. Everything had shifted; it wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about making it out, together.
You glanced up fully at him now, really looking at him. The usual calm that he wore so effortlessly was gone, replaced by something more urgent, more human. You could see it now—the weight of the world, the fear buried deep beneath the surface, even if he was doing everything in his power to keep it under control.
"We have to move," he repeated, his hand coming up to briefly cup your cheek. "You understand?"
You nodded once, your throat tight as you fought to keep your composure. You had been through worse. You knew how to handle this. But seeing the shift in him, the way he was looking at you... It made you realize how much this meant, how much he wanted you safe.
"On my count," he said, his eyes narrowing, calculating. "Stay behind me. Shoot only if you need to."
"Okay," you whispered, your voice a little steadier than you felt, your hand curling tighter around the grip of your gun, feeling the cold metal against your palm. You were ready, even if you weren't sure you were ready for what was coming next.
He turned his attention to the door of the SUV, his hand brushing against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance, as though his touch could somehow shield you from everything outside. His jaw was set, a muscle twitching under the skin, but he was ready—focused.
"Three," Lewis whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Jensen's gunfire. You could feel the tension building, thick and suffocating.
"Two."
You shifted, your hand gripping the seat as you prepared to move, adrenaline surging through you like an electric current.
"One."
The SUV door flew open with a sharp click, and before you could take another breath, you were stepping into the chaos.
Jensen's gunfire rang out again, a flurry of shots keeping the enemy at bay as you followed Lewis, staying close behind him as he led the way. The Geneva street was a battlefield now—flashes of movement, shouting voices, the sharp crack of gunshots cutting through the air like knives.
You quickly moved with him, eyes scanning the area, trying to avoid anything that might put you in the line of fire. Lewis's pace was steady, a calculated march through the chaos as he kept you within his orbit. As you made your way down the street, another black SUV waiting for you came into view. Naomi was already inside, looking ready for whatever was coming next.
This one wasn't blocked. The path was clear, offering a chance for escape.
You slid into the SUV without hesitation, just as another round of shots rang out. Naomi gave you a quick, tense nod as you settled in, before returning some counter gunfire as Jensen slid into the front seat.
"Go," Lewis said, his voice a low command as he climbed in behind you, his arm immediately wrapping around your shoulders. The engine roared to life, the tires screeching as the car surged forward.
"Keep your head down," Lewis instructed, his voice gentle despite the urgency as he guided you lower, his body positioned to shield yours. You didn't hesitate—ducking, pressing your body back into the seat as you felt the car jerk forward, the sound of gunfire still cutting through the air.
You felt Lewis's arm move protectively across your body as the SUV swerved sharply, his body instinctively shielding yours as a bullet cracked the bulletproof glass of the rear window.
"Suarez's men," Jensen reported from the front, his voice clinical despite the chaos. "At least twelve. Heavily armed."
"They were waiting for us," Naomi added, her voice tight as she continued to return fire through her open window. "Someone leaked the extraction route."
Lewis's expression darkened but remained focused. "Secondary protocol," he said to Jensen, who nodded once and took a hard left, the tires squealing against the cobblestone streets of Geneva.
The city blurred around you as the SUV accelerated through narrow streets, each turn more jarring than the last. In the distance, police sirens wailed – complications none of you needed right now in a country famous for its neutrality but notoriously strict with foreigners bringing violence to its soil.
"Stay with me," Lewis murmured, his voice close to your ear, steadying despite the violence surrounding you. His hand squeezed yours briefly – a moment of humanity in the middle of tactical precision that had surprised you from the beginning of your arranged marriage.
Three weeks ago, you would never have imagined yourself in the back of an SUV with Lewis, gunfire raining down as you escaped a coordinated hit in Geneva. Three weeks ago, the careful distance between you had seemed insurmountable. Now, his arm around you felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"Behind us," Naomi warned, her words punctuated by the sharp crack of her returning fire. "Black sedan, two motorcycles."
Lewis's phone buzzed. He checked it one-handed, never releasing his protective hold on you.
"The second team is ready," he said, sliding the phone back into his pocket. "Six minutes to extraction point."
"We don't have six minutes," Jensen replied grimly, taking another hard turn that threw you against Lewis's solid frame.
His arm tightened around you, his other hand coming up to cradle your head against his chest. "Then make it four."
Jensen's mouth set in a grim line as he pressed the accelerator, the engine's roar drowning out everything but the gunfire still pursuing you.
"I need to know you're ready for what comes next," Lewis said to you, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with the tactical situation. "This changes everything."
You knew exactly what he meant. Until now, your marriage had been evolving in private—the growing connection between you something personal despite its strategic beginnings. But the moment you reached that extraction point, your relationship would become irrevocably entwined with the criminal war unfolding around you.
"I've been ready," you told him, surprised by the steadiness in your voice. "Since the night in our suite."
Something shifted in his expression—the careful control giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen from him. For just a moment, the dangerous crime lord disappeared, leaving just the man beneath—the one who'd held you while you slept, the one whose careful touches had become increasingly less about performance and more about genuine connection.
"Petrov told Suarez himself about our location," he told you, his voice low enough that only you could hear, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "This isn't just about business anymore."
The implication was clear. Suarez had made this personal by orchestrating an attack in neutral Switzerland rather than waiting for a more strategic opportunity. The Cuban's obsession with you had escalated beyond strategic interest to something more dangerous.
"We can't go back to the hotel," you realized. "Or anywhere they'd expect."
Lewis nodded, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "We're going dark. Completely off-grid."
The SUV swerved again as a motorcycle drew alongside, the rider raising a weapon. Without hesitation, Naomi fired through her window, sending the bike skidding across wet cobblestones in a shower of sparks.
"We've got a helicopter," Jensen reported, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "ETA two minutes to extraction point."
Lewis's hand moved to his own weapon—a sleek black Sig Sauer you'd seen him clean methodically each night. The routine had become oddly comforting, like watching him check the locks or his quiet conversations with Mueller's banking team.
"What about our banking arrangement?" you asked, practical concerns surfacing despite the immediate danger.
"Already secured," Lewis replied, his expression softening slightly at your strategic thinking even now. "Claire moved the final protocols into place the moment the first shots were fired. Mueller's accounts are operational regardless of our physical presence."
The efficiency was impressive but not surprising. Lewis Hamilton's operations ran with precision that extended to contingency plans for every possible scenario.
"Three blocks," Jensen called from the front as the SUV careened down a narrow alley, scraping against stone walls on both sides.
Through the windshield, you could see it—an abandoned warehouse by Lake Geneva that must be your extraction point. Dark and seemingly empty, it looked nothing like safety, yet Lewis's posture shifted subtly toward relief.
The SUV skidded to a halt inside the warehouse's loading bay, the massive doors rolling shut behind you almost immediately. Armed figures emerged from the shadows—not enemies but Lewis's own people, moving with practiced efficiency.
"Clear for now," a voice reported—the tall woman with shoulder length hair you recognized from Lewis's secondary security team. "Helicopter's on the roof. We've got perhaps three minutes before they track us here."
Lewis's hand found yours, warm and steady as you slid from the SUV. "Stay close," he said, his fingers intertwining with yours as you moved.
The group moved quickly through the darkened warehouse, ascending metal stairs that echoed with each footfall. Your body buzzed with adrenaline, senses hyperaware of every shadow, every sound. Lewis kept his body slightly in front of yours, protective even as you climbed.
"Your father called," Naomi said as you climbed, her voice professional but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Three times in the last hour."
You paused mid-step. "He knows?"
"Not specifics," Lewis replied, his hand pressing gently against the small of your back to urge you forward. "But he has sources in Switzerland. He knows something's happening."
The implication hung between you—the complication of your father's potential involvement in what had become an increasingly complex situation. Salvatore Ricci was not a man who remained passive when his family was threatened, regardless of marriage alliances or territorial agreements.
"He'll send people," you said. "Whether we want him to or not."
"I know," Lewis replied, his jaw tight but his eyes soft as they met yours. "We'll deal with that when we're safe."
The rooftop door burst open to reveal a sleek black helicopter, rotors already spinning, creating a wind that whipped your hair around your face. Lewis's arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side as he guided you toward it with urgent purpose.
"Movement on the south perimeter," someone called through the radio clipped to Jensen's vest. "Multiple vehicles."
"Time's up," Jensen reported grimly, gesturing toward the helicopter. "Now or never."
You'd never been in a helicopter before—another first to add to the growing list of experiences since becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife. The interior was utilitarian but well-equipped, headsets hanging ready for communication over the rotor noise.
Lewis helped you strap in before securing himself beside you, his movements gentle despite the urgency. The helicopter lifted with a stomach-dropping lurch just as gunfire erupted from below—too late to stop your escape, but a potent reminder of how close it had been.
Through the window, you watched Geneva fall away beneath you—the city lights reflecting on the lake's dark surface, Mont Blanc visible in the distance, snow-capped and indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath it. The Swiss city that had been the backdrop for your evolving relationship with Lewis now receded, its elegant neutrality shattered by violence neither of you had invited but both were prepared to navigate.
Lewis handed you a headset, his own already in place, his fingers lingering against yours as he helped you adjust it. "Change of plans," his voice came through clearly despite the rotor noise. "We're not going to London."
"Where then?" you asked, adjusting the microphone.
"Scotland," he replied, his eyes meeting yours with that intensity that still made your stomach flutter despite the dire circumstances. "My mother's family has a property in the Highlands. Off all records, completely secure."
The significance wasn't lost on you. Lewis was taking you to a place connected to his family—a personal refuge rather than just another safe house in his operational network. The distinction mattered, especially now.
"No one knows about it?" you asked.
"Only Claire, for emergency protocols," he confirmed, his hand finding yours in the darkness of the helicopter cabin. "Not even Jensen or Naomi know the exact location."
As if to emphasize the point, both Jensen and Naomi removed their headsets, giving you privacy for this conversation despite the close quarters. Another small gesture that highlighted the evolving trust between you and Lewis.
"How long will we stay there?" Your mind was already calculating implications, necessary adjustments, what this meant for everything from your father's inevitable reaction to the banking arrangements so recently established.
"As long as it takes," Lewis replied, his thumb stroking gentle circles on the back of your hand. "Until we identify the source of the leak and neutralize Suarez."
The clinical phrasing couldn't disguise the reality—people would die before this was resolved. Men like Suarez didn't back down, and Lewis didn't leave threats unaddressed. Blood would flow; the only question was whose.
"And us?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could consider its implications. "What happens with us?"
Something softened in Lewis's expression—that rare vulnerability that had been appearing more frequently since the night you'd crossed the pillow barrier. "That depends on what you want, babygirl."
The endearment sent a familiar warmth through you— especially here, now, with adrenaline still coursing through your system and the world falling away beneath you in more ways than one.
"I want..." you began, then paused, suddenly uncertain how to articulate the complex evolution of feelings that had developed since your arranged marriage. How did you explain that somewhere between strategic alliance and gunfire in Geneva streets, you were slowly starting to see Lewis as more than just a calculated arrangement?
"I want us to figure it out together," you finally said, the honesty feeling both terrifying and right. "Whatever comes next."
His hand tightened around yours, and for just a moment, his carefully controlled expression gave way to something raw and real—a glimpse of the man beneath the dangerous exterior that had drawn you in despite every logical reason to maintain professional distance.
"Together," he agreed, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity. A promise, an acknowledgment, a path forward neither of you had anticipated when signatures formalized your union.
The helicopter banked again, heading north toward Scotland and whatever awaited you there. Behind you, Geneva and its dangers receded—Petrov, Suarez, the traitor in Lewis's organization, the complicated web of alliances and enemies that had defined your existence since childhood.
Ahead lay uncertainty, but also possibility. The strategic marriage that had begun as arrangement had evolved into partnership, and now perhaps something neither of you had names for yet, but both seemed increasingly willing to explore.
Lewis's arm settled around your shoulders, drawing you closer against his solid warmth as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You leaned into him without hesitation, another small indicator of how far you'd come since those early days of careful distance and performative touches.
"Get some rest," he murmured, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "It's a long flight to Scotland."
You nodded, letting your head rest against his shoulder as your eyes grew heavy. For the first time since bullets had started flying, you allowed yourself to acknowledge how close you'd come to losing everything—not just your life, but this unexpected connection that had become increasingly vital.
Lewis's breath was steady against your hair, his arm secure around you as the helicopter carried you away from danger toward an uncertain future. But whatever awaited in Scotland and beyond, you would face it together.
The last thing you registered before sleep claimed you was Lewis pressing another gentle kiss to your temple, not for any watching eyes or strategic purpose, but simply because he wanted to. In your world of calculated movements and strategic considerations, that simple genuineness felt like the most precious thing of all.
So happy for Ali 🥹 hunny’s living her life, and found someone who she feels comfortable with after the shit storm this year. She deserves the love, the happiness, and the support 🥹
So Ashlyn basically confirmed what I've been saying for more than an year: she's a selfish narcissist who needs to be the center of attention all the time. When that didn't happen for all the reasons we already know, Ashlyn ran off to someone else.
Ali is not an affectionate person.
She knows it. Ashlyn knows it. We all know it.
Ali is super focused on her career.
She knows it. Ashlyn knows it. We all know it.
So what happened? Kids and retirement.
All the affection that Ali previously gave to Ashlyn has been poured onto the kids (as any mother of two infants would do). Plus Ashlyn found herself outside of a world she had been a part of for 20 years.
A world she shared with her wife.
A world Ali was still a part of.
A mature person would have tried to solve the problem, to step forward and take responsibility.
Maybe asking questions. Maybe putting aside the ego for 5 minutes. Maybe having patience.
But not Ashlyn Harris ladies and gentlemen.
The solution that her brilliant and empathetic mind gave birth to was: open marriage. 😒
So put yourself in Ali's shoes for a second: you're wrapping up a stellar career, you have two young children, a dying father, and a wife who keeps telling you that she feels special, that she needs sleep, and that if you're not willing to give it to her, she'll suggest an open marriage.
Because the only thing she really cares about is herself. And she's doing it now!
She literally said that in Sophia's place there could have been anyone: she just wanted attention and intimacy, Sophia was there and so...
As I was reading this part I was like, "Do I have to feel sorry for Sophia Bush now?!" 😅😂
And this is the biggest reason, among many, why their relationship is extremely unhealthy.
I find it disgusting what she has done and said.
I find it disgusting that she never takes responsibility, that she always blames others.
And I find this belief that she is special truly pathetic.
Who the hell do you think you are Ashlyn Harris?!
You were so keen to prove that gay couples are equal to straight ones, that you behaved like the worst husband.
Ashlyn needs to put it to rest like go live your life and stop dropping information that is no ones business
I’m sorry but this is so fucked to publicly say - Ashlyn didn’t give a fuck about all the shit Ali was going through. Let alone the fact that Ali’s dad was literally dying! I’m appalled like truly truly disgusted
having that article published is sick work, idk how sophia is with someone who still goes on about their ex and let out this information that no one needed to know in the first place! and the fact that they all use to be friends is crazy to me
Like Ashlyn is actually so fucking stupid. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone so much. Ali’s finally fucking healing and now this is what Ali will get to wake up to?!
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