Jasmine and amber.
I hold the bottle, the glass cool against my palm.
Dmitri's phone rings. He answers, speaking in Russian. I catch Ivan's name in the exchange before he hangs up.
"Shit. It's time." He straightens his suit. "My meeting with your boyfriend should be interesting."
He heads for the door.
I stand and follow him. My feet move before my brain catches up.
He's almost through the door when I spray the perfume directly in his face.
"FUCK!" He stumbles back, hands flying to his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The guard reaches for me, but Dmitri waves him off, still blinking and rubbing at his eyes.
I meet his gaze and hold the bottle up. "You need to smell good for the meeting, asshole."
For a second, I think he's going to hit me. His hand twitches, his fingers slowly curling into a fist.
Then he laughs. Not amused—interested.
"Well, look at that. A spark under all that sugar." His tone softens, and somehow that's worse. "Didn't think you had it in you."
He steps closer, voice dropping low enough to scrape. "My clients. They'll eat you alive."
A beat passes.
"With me, though…" His eyes go cold. "Watch where you step, little girl."
He walks out. The door slams, and the click of locks follows.
I'm alone again.
What the hell did I do?
I sink to the floor, back against the bed. The perfume bottle remains clutched in my hand.
Ivan said Dmitri was a roach. What do roaches fear?
Being found.
27
IVAN
10 p.m.
My watch catches the streetlight as I approach the warehouse. A cheap digital thing I bought at a convenience store an hour ago. Untraceable. My Patek is sitting in a safe because meetings like this require disposability.
Hand on my gun. Walking alone.
Except not really.
Misha's in the car two blocks away, engine running. Pyotr and ten snipers sit positioned in the building across the street—each with clear sightlines through broken windows. Intel says Dmitri has his own marksmen in the warehouse facing this one. Red dots waiting to find targets.
A fucking standoff before we even start talking.
