Shit.He’s right. Aleksander now knows my weakness. The thought irritates like grit under a contact lens.
“He wanted us to do the job for him,” I say. “That’s what confuses me. You hire the Angels of Death when you want certainty, not theatrics. Aleksander doesn’t usually outsource his vendettas.”
Dmitri taps the indicator, sliding into the center lane. “Maybe he wanted the poetry of it. You delivering his justice, forced to kill the woman to whom you’d given shelter. Old-world drama.”
“Drama and cruelty.” I exhale, watching the glass fog. “Either way, he’s not finished. We know he wants her dead, and he’s not going to stop just because I bought him off.”
A black SUV slides in two cars back—matte paint, no markings. Something in my gut tenses. Too many vehicles look alike at night, I remind myself, but instinct makes me note details. Roof rack, dent in the right fender, driver wearing a beanie low enough to hide his eyes. When Dmitri changes lanes, the SUV follows. On the next merge, it hangs tight again.
“Tail?” Dmitri asks, reading my silence.
“Possibly.”
My mind drifts to Teresa and the way she curled into me last night, warm and trusting.
I should be thinking logistics—extra cameras, backup escape routes—but instead my brain chooses the memory of her subtle jasmine scent. I wonder if she’s sleeping or pacing the living room of the flat, hating the silence. I imagine her in my bed instead, sheets tangled around her thighs, moonlight painting her soft skin. Hunger stirs—unhelpful, hot, immediate.
Focus.
“We tighten the perimeter tomorrow,” I tell Dmitri. “Double coverage on her building, restrict her transit to vetted drivers only.”
“Got it,” he answers. Then, “You planning to tell her?”
The SUV exits toward Queens Plaza. False alarm. I unclench fists I didn’t realize were balled. “Tell her what? That the only reason she’s still breathing is because I slapped a price tag on her name?” I shake my head. “She’s better off believing the debt was business.”
But maybe she needs to know the truth.
Dmitri offers a noncommittal grunt, snow flurries dancing in the headlights. The Queensboro Bridge looms ahead, steel girders slick with ice. The city keeps moving, oblivious to the two men recalibrating a private war beneath its lights.
I lean back and close my eyes, letting the hum of the engine settle my nerves. Teresa’s face lingers behind my eyelids. I promised her safety, but the world is full of men like Aleksander, men who find whatever loopholes they need to get the blood they want.
I think about calling her, just to hear her voice, convince myself she’s safe for another hour.
I don’t.
Instead, I try to relax, wondering which will hit first—Volkov’s next move or my need to feel her skin beneath my hands again.
Dmitri eases onto the West Side Highway, city lights stretching like a string of lanterns along the Hudson. I crack open the minibar tucked beneath the armrest—Japanese whiskey, something peaty enough to burn through my torrid thoughts—and take a slow pull. The warmth rolls down my throat, cutting off the winter chill. My mind slides straight into a scene that has haunted me since last night.
Teresa. In my bed. I remember how her breath hitched when my palm dragged to the hem of her panties, the soft gasp as I skimmed lace, the way her hips rose—unashamed, inviting—when I laid my body over hers.
In my mind she looks up at me, hair a dark halo on white sheets, lips parted, begging without words.
I kiss down her sternum, tongue tasting salt and something sweet, hands coaxing her thighs apart as she trembles in anticipation. When I finally press inside, her nails rake my shoulders as she moans my name in raw want.
The rhythm builds, every thrust feeling like I’m staking a claim, making her mine. She shatters around me, her walls gripping my thickness, her pulse fluttering under my lips where I kiss the hollow of her throat, claiming that too.
I take another swallow of whiskey, pulling myself back to the feel of the leather seat and the low purr of the engine. Ghost heat still sparks under my skin.Damn it. Desire I can manage, but what’s twisting under it—something dangerously close to tenderness—is harder to file away.
Dmitri’s voice jolts me out of my reverie. “You really left money on the table, boss. I’m doing the mental math in my head. Don’t want to rub it in, but?—”
“I have enough money.”
“I get it, and not to press the point, but we’ve hardly gotten Volkov off our back. He’s lost an heir and now face. He won’t stop.”
“I know.”
The whiskey sharpens my thoughts. Tens of millions, maybe more, I could have squeezed, used to strengthen offshore stockpiles, hire twice as many guards for her building. Instead, I sold peace at a discount. Why? Because the idea of turning her life into a cash negotiation felt obscene. I wanted her off that damn list.
