The entrance to the old canal tunnels was hidden beneath a rotted wooden floorboard in the basement of the apartment building. It was a narrow, vertical drop into a world that smelled of damp stone and a hundred years of secrets.
"Ladies first," Kyle murmured, his voice echoing with that familiar, dry arrogance. Even covered in dust and dried blood, he stood as if he were waiting for a valet to park his car.
"Watch your leg, 'Highness'," I shot back, swinging my legs over the edge. "It's a four-foot drop. Try not to break anything else I have to fix."
I dropped down, my boots hitting the wet stone with a dull thud. A moment later, Kyle followed. He landed heavily, a muffled groan escaping his lips as his injured thigh took the impact. I was there in a second, my shoulder catching his chest to steady him.
The space was tiny—a vaulted stone tunnel barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. I clicked on a small, high-powered tactical light, the beam cutting through the oppressive darkness.
"Stay close," I whispered, the gravity of the situation finally settling over us. "These tunnels are wild. If you lose sight of my light, you'll be wandering until the next century."
"I have no intention of letting you out of my sight, Valentina," Kyle rasped. He reached out, his hand finding the small of my back. It wasn't a stabilizing grip; it was that same possessive, heavy touch from the gala, but here, in the dark, it felt electric.
We moved in silence for twenty minutes, the only sound the rhythmic drip-drop of water and the splashing of our boots. The air was cool and thick. Every time we reached a junction, I checked the markings I'd carved into the walls years ago—survival code.
"You've been here before," Kyle observed. His hand moved from my back to my shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly as we navigated a slick patch of moss. "This wasn't just a backup plan. This was your life."
"I didn't have a penthouse with a view of the Duomo, Kyle. I had the guts of the city. I knew which tunnels led to the jewelry district and which ones led to the police precinct." I paused, shining the light on a rusted iron gate. "Moretti used to use these tunnels to move cargo. That's how I knew he'd have snipers on the roofs—he thinks like a man who looks down on people. He forgets to look under his feet."
Kyle stopped, pulling me back toward him. The sudden movement caught me off balance, and I tumbled against his chest. He pinned me against the cold, damp stone wall, his body acting as a cage of heat and silk.
"What are you—"
"Shh," he breathed, his face inches from mine.
I heard it then. The muffled, rhythmic thumping of boots on the street far above us. Then, the metallic clack of a manhole cover being lifted somewhere in the distance.
"They're inside the tunnels," I whispered, my heart jumping into my throat.
Kyle didn't panic. His arrogance shifted into a cold, lethal focus. He didn't have his gun—it had been lost in the square—but he looked at the shadows as if he could bend them to his will. He reached out and clicked off my flashlight.
Total darkness.
The silence was deafening. I could feel Kyle's heart beating through his shirt, a frantic, powerful rhythm that matched my own. In the pitch black, every sense was heightened. I could smell the expensive tobacco still clinging to his jacket and the sharp, metallic tang of the brandy on his bandage.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "How far to the exit?"
"Ten minutes. But there's a crawlspace. We have to go one by one."
"No," Kyle growled softly, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw. His thumb traced the line of my lower lip, a touch so intimate it made my breath hitch. "We stay together. If they find us in the dark, I want them to find us as one target."
"You're so stubborn," I breathed, my loud mouth barely a murmur.
"And you're still talking," he countered.
He didn't kiss me. He did something worse—he leaned his forehead against mine, his hands locking around my waist, pulling me so close I could feel the hard line of his belt buckle against my stomach. In the dark, without the armor of his wealth or my pride, we were just two animals caught in a trap.
"When we get out," Kyle whispered, his voice vibrating through my skull, "I'm going to burn Moretti's world to the ground. And then, I'm going to deal with you. No more safes. No more secrets. You're going to tell me exactly why you're so afraid of being cared for."
"I'm not afraid," I lied, my voice trembling.
"You're terrified, Val. That's why you steal. You take things so you don't have to ask for them."
The sound of voices echoed down the tunnel—Italian, harsh and low. They were close.
I reached out, my fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and pulled him toward the narrow crawlspace I knew was hidden behind a loose stone. "Talk later. Survive now."
I scrambled into the hole, and Kyle followed, his large frame barely fitting through the gap. We crawled through the dirt and the dark, the space so tight our bodies were constantly brushing, a friction of heat and desperation.
Finally, I felt the cool air of a basement. We scrambled out into the sub-level of the Vanguard Headquarters. The lights were dim, the air-conditioning humming—a return to his world.
Kyle stood up, his height filling the room again. He looked at me, covered in soot and grime, and for the first time, he didn't look down on me. He reached out and grabbed my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine.
"Welcome home, Thief," he said, the arrogance returning to his voice, but his grip was tighter than it had ever been. "Now, let's go show them what happens when you touch what belongs to a Vanguard."