“Met with him last night. He’s going to see Ivan tonight, paying attention to who sits close when Ivan wants to be seen.”
“Blood is stubborn,” she says. “If it all catches fire, will Alex carry water or gas?”
“He won’t let the house burn.”
Mina leaves it alone—for now. “You’ve upgraded the girl’s security?”
“Already implemented driver whitelist, alternate routes. Quietly. I don’t want tails unless she drops off the map.”
“Good.” Mina closes the folder and slides it back. Her loyalty is a weight that can keep a boat steady or sink it if you lie to her. “Be careful. Anyone who matters to you becomes a route to you.”
“I know. But she has protection.”
“Protection is also a flag.” Mina crosses to the door, then turns. “If she isn’t a toy, say it sooner rather than later. I will change what I defend and how.”
“Noted.”
With that, she smiles over her shoulder as if she knows something I don’t and leaves.
I pick up the pencil. The memory of last night burns again, vivid and relentless.
A message pings on my phone, tearing me away from my reverie.
Thierry leave confirmed. Security sweep complete.
Copy.
Then another message from a local number I don’t recognize shows up on the work line.
Nice place. Quite the upgrade from Crown Heights.
I forward the number to my head of security with a note.
Trace it quietly. Cross-reference with Ivan’s peripherals.
I take the invoice folder and put it in the out tray before collecting my suit coat and keys.
I turn the page on Ivan and write a date beside his name. If he wants to write a story, I’ll decide the ending.
CHAPTER 11
CASSANDRA
The lingerie in front of me is decadent, and nothing I would have ever been able to afford.I’ve never worn anything like it before, nor would I have chosen such pieces for myself.
There’s a champagne-colored silk slip with eyelash lace that looks like it would melt if you breathed on it, an emerald satin corset with tiny gold hooks, a white mesh set dotted with seed pearls—sweet from afar, sinful up close, a red velvet bralette with barely there straps, a jet-black teddy without bra cups, and a strappy cage bra that’s more geometry than fabric.
The prices on the tags are obscene, the sizes exact.
They’re beautiful, impractical, and precisely what they’re meant to be.
The instructions written on a card in Damien’s unmistakable sharp, precise handwriting were clear:Choose and be ready for me.
The set I decide on is black lace. I quickly put it on. Balconette bra, a tiny scrap of a thong, garters, and sheer thigh highs thatmake my legs look like I’ve never seen them before. The red ribbon at my wrist.
At the mirror, I breathe in fours, the rules a mantra in my head. Privacy. Precision. Truth. I tip my chin up, then lower it, soften my mouth, and practice the word yes without sounding like I’m begging.
Though I already did beg.
