I wrapped my hands around her throat, my tattooed fingers brutish against that smooth, tan skin. “Are you scarednow?”I asked.
I felt her throat bulge under my hands as she panic-swallowed and her blue eyes widened in fear.
The door flew open. Valentin stood in the doorway, his long coat flapping around him. His eyes went from me to her and back to me.
I let go of her throat and stepped back. “Get out of my casino,” I told her. “And don’t come back.”
She stood, white-faced and shaky, and felt her way around the desk to the door, her eyes never leaving me for a second. In the doorway, she stopped. “The theater was almost out of money,” shetold me. “Another six months and they would have had to sell. You didn’t have to burn it.”
“It’s my city,” I told her. “I’ll burn what I fucking like, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
She stared at me…then stood tall, lifted her chin, and glared at me. I silently cursed:Chyort!No onestood up to me like that.
Then she turned and walked away.
Valentin looked at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. He was already turning to follow her, his hand on one of his knives.
I considered. She certainly infuriated me enough to consider it. True, killing an FBI agent would bring a world of pain down on us, but only if they found out it was us. Valentin could follow her home and make it look like a mugging gone wrong: he was good at that. We could wipe the security cameras that showed her coming here, and no witnesses would be stupid enough to go to the cops. One quick slash of a knife and Agent Brooks would be taken care of.
But…I inhaled, catching the last, lingering trace of her scent. “Let her go,” I told Valentin. “She’s not worth the trouble.”
I had no idea, then. Not of how valuable she’d become to me or how much trouble she’d bring.
3
ALISON
I pushedthrough the glass doors and out onto the safety of the street, then stood looking back at the casino, making sure no one was following me. Even the muggy night air couldn’t chase away the chill between my shoulder blades. His threat was still echoing in my mind, each syllable made silvery by his Russian accent.
I’d lied. Iwasscared of him. Especially when I’d felt those powerful fingers wrap around my neck. What had I been thinking,walking in there alone and yelling at him? My heart crashed against my ribs. He reallycouldhave killed me and dumped my body in Lake Michigan.
But for some reason, he hadn’t. He probably didn’t view me as enough of a threat. God, he was so arrogant: he’d actually called Chicago his city.Until tonight, Gennadiy Aristov had only been vaguely on my radar. Now I hated him, despite the fear. Maybebecauseof the fear. I resent anything that makes me feel weak.
And there was something else. When he’d loomed over me, trapping me in the chair with those thickly-muscled arms, his shirt drawn tight across his pecs… When he’d glowered down at me with those brutally hard, gray eyes…
He had no business looking so good. Orsoundingso good: thataccent, each syllable painted gleaming silver as his deep growl carried them right to the core of me…
I shook my head and stalked back down the street to where I’d parked my bike. The fire was still raging at the Community Theater, the glow of the flames painting long orange tongues of light all the way along the polished walls of Gennadiy’s casino. My steps got smaller and smaller as I drew close, the loss of the place throbbing through my chest.
It’s my city. I’ll burn what I fucking like and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I stood there staring into the flames. They were blurring behind tears, and I didn’t dare blink, or they’d spill over, and people would see.
Inside the burning building, something creaked and then crashed to the floor with a tinkle of glass. The pain spread through me, reverberating…
And then it hit some tiny, stubborn part of me, and that part hardened into granite.
I sniffed and felt my jaw tighten. If I’d been back in New York, my old FBI partner Sam Calahan would have saidUh-oh. You’ve got that look.
Gennadiy Aristov was wrong. Yes, this washis city. Yes, he couldburn anything he liked.
But therewassomething I could do about it.
I climbed onto my bike, put on my helmet, and roared away into the night.
The next morning, my boss, FBI Assistant Director Halifax, walked into his office, turned to close the door...and jumped back, spilling his coffee, when he saw me standing in the corner. “Jesus Christ, Brooks!”
“I want to go after Gennadiy Aristov,” I told him.
