The bass thudded through my ribs as I wiped down another table, but my mind wasn’t on the sticky rings of beer or the Crows huddled in their corner booth.
October’s chill had crept into Berlin, but inside my head, it was still morning.
I was thinking about pale green eyes. I was thinking about the way Élodie’s fingers had traced patterns on my thighs yesterday, mapping constellations on skin that didn’t technically belong to me.
Focus, I told myself.
But the familiar weight of observation: the skill Karl had drilled into me, the instinct Seline had sharpened, felt dull. Secondary. The anticipation humming beneath my skin wasn’t for danger. It was for her.
“Martini,” a voice said. “Two olives.”
I jumped.
I hadn’t seen him approach. I hadn’t heard him sit down.
Karl Muir sat at the bar like he’d been part of the original building plans all along. His gray suit was wrinkled, his blue shirt slightly untucked.
“Slipping,” he noted, his eyes flicking to my startled hands. “A month ago, you would have clocked me at the door. Now? I’ve been sitting here for two minutes.”
I set down my towel, trying to recover my composure. “Maybe you’re just getting better at hiding.”
“Or maybe you’re getting distracted.” He let the word hang there. “I hear the art scene is… captivating this time of year.”
My fingers tightened on the gin bottle. He knew about Élodie. Of course he did.
“A martini, really?”
“Two olives. I like to think of it as professional development.” He gestured around the smoke-thick room. “And a warning.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping beneath the bass line. “Seline’s research isn’t as exclusive as she thinks. Our friends in the East have been busy.”
“The Russians?”
Karl nodded. “Stolen technology. Except they didn’t bother with the psychological safeguards. They just brute forced it.” He picked up the martini glass, studying the olives. “Word is, an asset has successfully completed a transformation. Almost perfect, Lana. But unstable.”
The glass in my hand felt suddenly slippery. Someone else like me. Another body rewritten. But without the safeguards? Without the symbiosis?
“Where?” I asked, my voice hollow.
“Close,” Karl said. “Too close.”
He took a sip of the martini and grimaced immediately. “God. How do people drink this?”
He set the glass down with a heavy clink. “You need to vanish for a few days. Let the heat die down before this new player makes his move.”
“Vanish where?”
Karl stood, dropping a few crisp bills on the counter. “Find a nice beach somewhere. Or I hear Florence is nice this time of year. The light is… forgiving.”
He looked at me, and for a second, the spy mask slipped. He looked tired. “Take the girl. Go look at some paintings. Pretend you’re normal people for a weekend.”
“And the Russian?”
“I’ll handle the Russian.” He adjusted his coat. “Just get out of Berlin.”
Then he was gone, slipping through the smoke and shadows as if he’d never been there at all. Only the abandoned, terrible martini proved he’d existed.
I stared at the crumpled bills.
Florence.
It sounded like a fantasy. It sounded like a trap.
But looking at the door where he’d vanished, I realized it was neither.
It was an evacuation order.
~oO🐺Oo~
The taxi’s door slammed behind us, cutting through the symphony of Vespa engines and shouted Italian. Firenze pressed against us immediately: the scent of roasting chestnuts mixing with exhaust fumes, the October sun warming ancient stone until it radiated heat like a living thing.
Our hotel rose before us, honey-colored walls that had witnessed centuries of Medici secrets. The porter’s smile carried that particular Tuscan warmth as he wrestled our bags from the trunk, gesturing toward carved doors that belonged in a museum.
“Beautiful,” Élodie murmured, her French accent softening the word.
Inside, frescoed ceilings soared above marble floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Through tall windows, the Arno glittered like hammered gold, and beyond it, the familiar crowded silhouette of Ponte Vecchio stretched between medieval towers.
The city buzzed with pre-holiday energy. Ognissanti was coming, and Firenze had dressed itself in autumn colors for the celebration. Street vendors called out in rapid-fire Italian, their voices blending with church bells and the distant sound of construction.
We abandoned our suitcases without ceremony, drawn instead to the narrow cobblestone lane that spilled us onto the bridge’s northern approach. The afternoon sun painted everything amber, and for the first time in weeks, Berlin felt like someone else’s memory.
Élodie’s fingers laced through mine, pulling us toward the nearest storefront before I could protest. The glass case at Gelateria del Ponte stretched before us like a painter’s palette: mounds of pistachio green and burnt orange persimmon, deep purple fig swirled beside golden saffron. Each flavor sat pristine in its steel basin, softly sculptured peaks catching the light.
“Una coppetta di Nutellata, grazie. Bella giornata, eh?” Elodie said, slipping into Italian with the affectionate ease of a seasoned traveler.
The vendor smiled widely, delighted. His scoop carved through chocolate streaked with hazelnut cream, rich and dark as espresso grounds. The aroma hit me first: toasted nuts warming in the afternoon heat, that unmistakable sweetness of melted chocolate that belonged to childhood memories I’d never had.
“E per lei?”
“Uh… stratcha… stratch—” Lana began.
The vendor’s eyes softened with amusement.
Élodie squeezed my hand. “Stracciatella,” she murmured, leaning closer, her voice brushing my ear. “Stratch-cha-tel-la.”
Lana repeated it. Badly.
“Perfetto!” the vendor lied kindly, scooping my gelato anyway.
Pure vanilla dotted with a thousand chocolate shards. The first taste dissolved across my tongue. Cool cream punctuated by fragments that vanished the moment they touched warmth, leaving only whispers of cocoa behind.
We drifted toward the bridge’s center, where tourists pressed four rows deep around a quartet of street musicians. Élodie leaned against the bridge’s edge, her gelato melting in slow rivulets down the cone while she watched with the same focused attention she gave her paintings.
My gaze swept across the bridge, drinking in the chaos of color and movement. Vendors hawked leather goods from wooden stalls, their voices weaving between the violin’s trembling notes. Tourists clustered around jewelry displays, silver catching fire in the slanted light. Children darted between adult legs, their laughter bright as wind chimes.
But it was Élodie who stole every breath.
The October sun had found the angles of her face, illuminating the sharp line of her jaw, the soft curve where her lips met. Her hair caught amber highlights I’d never noticed in Berlin’s gray light. She stood there, gelato forgotten in her hand, watching the musicians with an expression of pure wonder that made something deep in my chest tighten.
The golden hour transformed her into something painted… a Renaissance portrait stepped free from its gilded frame. Light pooled in the hollow of her throat, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbones. When she turned toward me, eyes bright with delight, the entire bridge seemed to hold its breath.
For one impossible moment, I forgot everything. The phone calls. The transformation. The endless questions that followed me like shadows. There was only this: warmth on ancient stone, music spilling over water, and a woman who looked at the world like it still held magic.
~oO🐺Oo~
The hotel room’s marble bathroom still held traces of steam when Lana emerged, water droplets catching the lamplight on her shoulders. Her bare feet left dark prints on the cool tiles as she padded toward the tall windows overlooking the Arno.
The latch gave with a soft click, and I pushed the shutters wide. October air swept across Lana’s heated skin, raising goosebumps that bloomed and faded in waves. The narrow Giulietta balcony barely accommodated her as she stepped forward, wrapping her fingers around the wrought iron railing.
Below, the river moved like black silk, reflecting scattered lights from the opposite bank. Amber windows dotted the medieval facades in random patterns: apartments where Florentines were settling in for the night, restaurants still serving late dinners, wine bars where conversations spilled onto cobblestone terraces.
Laughter drifted across the water, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the soft scrape of chairs on stone. A couple argued in rapid Italian three stories down, their voices rising and falling like music.
The contrast hit me all at once: the coolness raising every nerve while warmth still radiated from within, the ancient city breathing around us while my own breath caught in my throat. Lana tilted her face toward the stars, completely unguarded.
This is what peace feels like.
Warm hands slipped around Lana’s waist from behind.
A gasp escaped… sharp, involuntary. Neither of us had heard the bathroom door, the soft pad of feet across marble. I’d been so lost in the river’s rhythm, in the coolness against heated skin, that the world had narrowed to just breath and starlight.
Élodie’s hands. Impossibly warm against the October chill. Her palms settled against Lana’s ribs, fingers splaying wide, holding without grasping.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, her accent honey thick in the darkness.
Her lips found the curve of Lana’s ear first: a whisper of pressure that sent tremors down my spine. Then her mouth moved lower, tracing the line of her neck with deliberate slowness. Each kiss landed like a spark, soft and electric, while her hands roamed with practiced tenderness across Lana’s shoulders.
This wasn’t Klaus’s rough possession or the clinical detachment of Seline’s lab. This was something I’d never experienced: a seduction built on worship rather than taking, on patience rather than hunger.
Élodie’s mouth traveled down Lana’s back, following the ridges of her spine. Her hands mapped every curve, every hollow. The cool air made each touch burn brighter, each breath catch harder.
Then she was kneeling behind us, her palms settling on the swell of Lana’s ass with reverent gentleness. Her kisses continued their downward path: soft, exploratory, punctuated by the faintest flicker of tongue that made Lana’s knees tremble.
Lower. Still lower.
Oh no…
The protests formed in my mind but never reached my throat. Élodie’s tongue traced the natural cleft between Lana’s cheeks, each stroke deliberate and impossibly intimate. The sensation was dizzying: wrong and electric and completely overwhelming.
“Lean forward for me, chérie,” Élodie whispered, her voice playful, teasing. “Just a little.”
Don’t. We shouldn’t. This…
But Lana was already moving, palms bracing against the iron railing as she tilted forward. The position left her completely exposed, vulnerable in ways that made my analytical mind scream warnings even as my body sang with anticipation.
Élodie’s mouth returned, more focused now. Her tongue found that most forbidden place, circling with the lightest pressure before pressing forward. The sensation shot through Lana’s nerves like lightning, every inch of my body suddenly alive and screaming.
A soft moan escaped: breathy, helpless. Then another as Élodie’s tongue pushed deeper, probing past the tight ring of muscle with patient persistence.
This is wrong. We should stop.
But the protests dissolved into static as pleasure built in waves, each stroke of Élodie’s tongue sending shockwaves through Lana’s core. Her breath came in shallow gasps that fogged in the cool air, her fingers gripping the railing until her knuckles went white.
The city below continued its ancient rhythm, oblivious to the electricity crackling three stories above. Somewhere, someone was still laughing. A radio played softly from an open window. Life continued while I drowned in sensation I’d never imagined, caught between the cold metal against Lana’s palms and the impossible heat of Élodie’s mouth.
~oO🐺Oo~
Élodie’s hand slipped between Lana’s thighs without warning, fingers finding the slick heat that had been building since that first touch. The dual sensation: tongue working with maddening precision while fingers traced delicate circles, sent shockwaves through every nerve.
Too much. This is…
But my protests crumbled as Lana’s hips pushed back instinctively, seeking more contact. Her body moved with a rhythm I didn’t recognize, responding to Élodie’s touch with an eagerness that left me reeling.
“Oui, comme ça,” Élodie murmured against Lana’s skin, the vibration of her words adding another layer to the sensory overload.
Her fingers slipped inside… two, then three, while her mouth continued its relentless attention. The combination was devastating: the forbidden intimacy of her tongue paired with the familiar pressure of her fingers stretching, filling, claiming.
Lana’s breath came in sharp gasps now, fogging in the cool air. Her thighs trembled as the pleasure built toward something inevitable, something that would tear through every defense I had left.
Almost there. Right at the edge where sensation became overwhelming, where thought dissolved into pure feeling.
Élodie stopped.
“Pas encore?” she whispered, her voice honey-thick with amusement. “Non. Not yet.”
The sudden absence left Lana gasping, her body clenching around nothing while aftershocks rippled through her core. I wanted to scream with frustration, but before I could form the thought, Élodie’s mouth returned with renewed intensity.
Twice more she brought us to that precipice, twice more she pulled back with maddening precision. Each time, Lana’s need grew more desperate, more consuming. Her fingers left dents in the iron railing as she fought for control that no longer existed.
When the orgasm finally hit us, it shattered everything. Lana’s body convulsed as waves of pleasure crashed through her, each one stronger than the last. Her cry echoed off the medieval stones on the street below, raw and helpless. Far below, a passerby paused, looking up with a faint, puzzled smile before continuing on.
But Élodie didn’t stop.
Her tongue intensified its rhythm while her fingers curled inside with precision. The sensitivity was almost painful now, every nerve screaming as pleasure layered upon pleasure until I couldn’t tell where one wave ended and the next began.
Lana’s knees buckled, but Élodie’s free hand caught her hip, holding us steady as the sensations continued to build. Another climax hit before the first had fully faded, then another, until Lana— we were nothing but trembling nerves and desperate gasps.
Stop. Please. I can’t…
But Lana’s body sang a different song, arching into every touch as Élodie pushed her beyond every limit I thought we had.
~oO🐺Oo~
The morning light spilled through the hotel windows like liquid gold, turning Florence into something from a Bernardo Bellotto painting. Lana stretched beside Élodie, whose dark hair caught the amber glow streaming across the rumpled sheets.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” Élodie whispered, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Lana’s bare shoulder.
The tenderness in her voice sent warmth flooding through my chest… our chest. Even I couldn’t deny the pull of waking up next to someone who looked at Lana like she was the center of the universe.
An hour later, we walked hand-in-hand through the narrow streets toward the Duomo, Firenze unfolding around us like pages from an art history textbook. The cobblestones caught our footsteps in an irregular rhythm while tourists and locals wove past in the morning bustle.
“Look,” Élodie pointed to a small goldsmith shop tucked between a leather goods store and the original Panerai boutique. “The bottega tradition. Some of these families have been crafting here for centuries.”
Lana squeezed her fingers, enchanted by the romance of it all. Through the window, an elderly craftsman bent over his workbench, tools moving with practiced precision.
Five hundred years of tradition, I thought, watching him work. And half these shops will be designer outlets within the decade.
But Lana only saw the poetry in it. The continuation of something beautiful and timeless.
We emerged into Piazza della Repubblica, where the carousel spun lazily while couples shared espresso at outdoor cafés. Élodie pulled Lana toward the center, where she gestured at the triumphal arch.
“Built on the ruins of the old market,” she explained, her accent making the words sound like music. “They destroyed medieval Firenze to create this… what do you think of that?”
Urban planning as cultural vandalism, I quipped silently. Typical 19th-century arrogance.
But what came out of Lana’s mouth was softer: “Sometimes beautiful things rise from ruins.”
Élodie’s smile could have powered the entire piazza.
Near the Duomo, we paused before Ghiberti’s bronze doors: the Gates of Paradise. Élodie studied the relief panels with professional intensity, explaining the casting techniques while Lana listened with rapt attention.
“The Medici commissioned so much beauty,” Lana mused, tilting her head at the intricate details.
The Medici were ruthless oligarchs who used art as political propaganda, I wanted to correct. Every commission was a power play.
Instead, I stayed quiet, letting Lana bask in the romance of it all.
By noon, hunger led us to a small trattoria tucked into a medieval alley. Élodie ordered for both of us, her Italian fluid and musical. When the waiter brought the plates, I felt my stomach lurch.
Trippa alla fiorentina… Tripe stew.
Absolutely not! I’m not eating a cow’s stomach.
But Lana was already lifting the fork, guided by trust in Élodie’s choices and a curiosity that overrode my revulsion.
The first bite should have been horrifying. Instead, the tender meat melted on her tongue: rich, savory, surprisingly delicate. Tomatoes and herbs created layers of flavor that built with each chew.
“C’est bon?” Élodie asked, watching with amusement as Lana’s expression shifted from hesitation to surprise.
“It’s incredible,” Lana admitted, taking another bite.
I cannot believe we’re enjoying this.
But Lana was laughing now, feeding Élodie a forkful while the Florentine sun painted everything golden around us. Love made even the impossible taste like revelation.
My phone’s vibration cut through the warm afternoon like ice water down my spine.
Lana pulled it from her pocket, still laughing at something Élodie had said about the leather craftsman’s technique. The screen lit up with a familiar dread:
+39 370 92… — I’ll be there.
Italian prefix, I noted with grim satisfaction. They’ve followed us.
The bustling market around us suddenly felt different. Tourists clustered around leather stalls, their voices mixing Italian with English, German, and French. Families stretched their holiday weekend, just as Élodie had predicted. Children weaved between adults while vendors called out prices in musical cadences.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Élodie’s voice carried concern as she noticed Lana’s stillness. “Everything alright?”
“Of course,” Lana replied, slipping the phone away with practiced ease. A tremor runs through her fingers. “Just work checking in.”
She began scanning the crowd more carefully now… casual glances while pretending to admire the hand-stitched bags and wallets. A man in a navy jacket lingered by the fountain. Two women shared gelato near the cathedral steps. A tour guide gestured animatedly at her assembled group with her royal blue flag.
Natural tourist behavior, I observed cynically. Of course, we’re seeing the same faces around different attractions. This is Florence, not Manhattan.
But the phone’s message hummed beneath my rational analysis like a discordant note in an otherwise perfect symphony.
~oO🐺Oo~
The trattoria’s warm glow spilled onto cobblestones as we stepped into the cool Florentine night.
Dinner had been perfect… too perfect. Wine that made Élodie’s laugh sound like silver bells. Sunset painted the terracotta rooftops gold while she told stories about her grandmother’s village in Provence. Lana had been completely enchanted, hanging on every word.
Now, string lights draped between medieval buildings cast everything in amber softness. Lana swung our joined hands, still buzzing from the Chianti and Élodie’s attention.
Lana… you’re too relaxed.
But I was the one cataloging exit points as we wandered deeper into the labyrinth of narrow streets. Counting the figures moving in shadows between lamplight pools. Noting which alleys dead-ended and which curved back toward main thoroughfares.
“The night is so beautiful,” Lana sighed, leaning against Élodie’s shoulder.
Élodie squeezed her fingers. “Oui, magnifique.“
Too many blind corners, I thought, even as Lana basked in the romance of it all. The phone’s message still pulsed in my memory like a warning heartbeat.
~oO🐺Oo~
The narrow street buzzed with evening life: families strolling after dinner, tourists clutching gelato, vendors calling out in rapid Italian. The scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with garlic and wine from nearby trattorias.
Élodie stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Oh, regarde…” She pointed at a vendor’s cart piled high with lampredotto sandwiches. “We must try—”
She stepped backward, directly into the path of five men spilling out of a cramped bar. Wine-flushed faces, loud voices cutting through the street noise.
Too close. Surrounded. Move!
“Ehi! Attenta, bella!” The tallest one barked, steadying himself against the doorframe.
“Dove guardi?” Another laughed, but the irritation lasted only a heartbeat.
Then they saw us. Really saw us.
The energy shifted like a switch flipping. Five pairs of eyes raked over Élodie, then me. Grins spread across flushed faces.
“Madonna mia,” the tall one whistled low. “Che belle ragazze.“
Another stepped closer, gesturing grandly with his wine bottle. “American? English? We show you real Firenze nightlife, sì?”
My pulse was racing. Lana’s hands clenched.
The third man, broader than the rest, moved toward Élodie with predatory confidence. “You come with us, bella. We are… how you say… gentlemen.”
His arm rose toward her shoulder.
Lana exploded forward.
I barely felt our body move. Her hand shot out, clamping onto his wrist and twisting hard. The satisfying pop of overextended ligaments. His wine bottle shattered against cobblestones.
“Cazzo—!“
My other hand drove upward, heel of my palm to his jaw. His head snapped back. He dropped.
The tall one lunged. Lana pivoted, driving her knee into his groin. He buckled. Her elbow found his ribs with surgical precision.
That’s two.
Where did this come from?
The third man raised his hands, backing away as his friends groaned on ancient cobblestones. “Basta, basta!“
Lana— stop!
The remaining two helped their fallen friends to their feet, cursing but unwilling to test the girl in the sundress again. They retreated into the maze of side streets, leaving trails of wine and blood on the cobblestones.
A small crowd had gathered, but Florentines were used to street drama. They dispersed quickly, conversations resuming as if the violence had been a street performance.
My heart pounded against my ribs. Lana’s breathing came sharp and fast, adrenaline singing through every nerve. The protective fury still pulsed hot in her chest.
Pure instinct. No hesitation. No thought.
But underneath Lana’s fierce satisfaction, I felt something else: terror. Not at the men, but at how easily she’d moved. The knee strike, the joint lock, the palm heel. It wasn’t a scramble. It was choreography.
“Mon dieu,” Élodie gasped, stumbling against me. Her fingers clutched my arm, trembling. “Lana, how did you…”
Wide green eyes searched my face. Fear mingled with awe.
“I don’t know,” I started to say, but I caught the words before they spilled.
Don’t show the crack in the mask.
“Self-defense classes,” I lied, my voice breathless but steady. “Berlin is rough at night. You learn fast.”
It was a thin lie, but Élodie wanted to believe it. She nodded, her grip tightening. “We should go.”
As we hurried deeper into the narrow streets, I couldn’t shake the sensation of the impact. The way the man’s knee had given way. The way I knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum damage with minimum effort.
The warm Tuscan night suddenly felt much colder.
I had come here to pretend to be normal. Instead, I’d just proven that I was anything but.
