Kill Order Kiss Novel Chapter 05

Kill Order Kiss Novel Chapter 05

London was gray, damp, and utterly indifferent to my existence-and I had never loved a city more.

Sofia’s voice crackled through the burner phone as I stood outside King’s College, rain misting my face. “He

came to my apartment.”

I stopped walking. “When?”

“Last night. Dante himself, not Marco. He looked-” She hesitated. “Wrecked. Like he hadn’t slept. He asked

where you were. I told him I didn’t know.”

“Did he believe you?”

“No. But he didn’t push. He just stood in my doorway and said, ‘Tell her I need to explain.’ Then he left.”

I need to explain. As if there were words in any language that could explain a kill order with my name on it.

“Sofia, if he comes back-”

“I’m a lawyer, Val. He can stand in my hallway until he grows roots. I’m not telling him a damn thing.”

I exhaled. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me and go be brilliant.”

King’s College became my sanctuary. Professor Ashworth was a wiry, sharp-eyed man in his sixties who communicated almost entirely through raised eyebrows and dry remarks. He took one look at me on my first

day and said, “You look like you’ve been through a war.”

“Something like that.”

“Good. The best researchers are forged in chaos. Your desk is by the window. Don’t waste the light.”

I threw myself into work with a ferocity that surprised even me. Forensic accounting-tracing money through layers of shell companies, offshore accounts, phantom transactions-had always fascinated me. Now it felt

personal. I understood, in a way I never had before, how money moved through the underworld. I’d seen it, lived beside it, slept next to the man who controlled it.

I never used the Moretti name in my research. But every case study I analyzed, every financial trail I untangled, I thought of Dante’s empire and how easily it could be dismantled by someone who knew where to

look.

Within weeks, I found my rhythm. Morning runs along the Thames. Long hours in the lab. Evening walks through Bloomsbury, where the bookshops glowed warm against the fog. I made friends cautiously-Yuki, a

Japanese forensic linguist with a wicked sense of humor, and Oliver, a British data analyst who brought

homemade scones to every meeting and argued passionately about spreadsheet formatting.

They didn’t know about my past. To them, I was just Val, the quiet American with the sharp mind and the

habit of checking exits whenever she entered a room.

Rome texted sparingly, always from different numbers, always brief.

Merger went through. Dante and Bianca are engaged. Official announcement next week.

I read it, set the phone down, and went back to my research. The sting was there-a phantom ache, like

pressing a bruise just to confirm it still hurt-but it was duller now. Expected.

He’d chosen the throne. I’d chosen myself.

The next message from Rome came two weeks later:

He’s been drinking. A lot. Keeps asking about you. Told the family you left because of “personal reasons.” No

one knows about the order.

Does he know I have it? I replied.

I think he suspects. That’s probably why he hasn’t sent anyone after you.

So the kill order was my shield. The evidence of his betrayal was the only thing keeping me alive. There was a

dark poetry in that.

Rome, why are you helping me?

His answer took an hour.

Because my cousin is becoming his father. And I watched what his father did to people who loved him. I won’t be part of that cycle.

I saved the message and deleted the thread.