Mine stand quieter behind me. Smarter. Waiting.
“You got twenty percent more protection than anyone else alive. Don’t confuse generosity with negotiation.”
He slams a hand against the table, sending a folder skidding. “I don’t need your protection, Aleksander. My people stand with me.”
I meet his glare. “Your people stand wherever the money is, Kirov. And you’re running out of it.”
He looks like he wants to lunge. I almost hope he does. But he doesn’t. He just gives me a funny little smile instead. “You’re going to regret this.”
We stare at each other until the clock strikes nine. By then, the merger is dead and my patience has joined it.
“Clean this up,” I tell Nikolai, on the way out. Nikolai just nods. He has been with me for almost a decade now, a loyal shadow. “And find out who promised him protection.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Something tells me Kirov messed up the deal on purpose,” I say.
“Why?” Nikolai asks, frowning.
“We’ll find out sooner or later.”
Outside, the night is thick with snow and exhaust. My charter is waiting for me to fly out of Sheremetyevo. Unfortunately, my good luck ends there because thanks to a storm rolling into Paris, the charter ends up cancelling all the private flights flying out of Paris. A pilot calls, apologizing, but I just hung up.
I hate delays. I hate being cornered. And now, because of Kirov’s tantrum and the weather’s bad timing, I am being forced to fly commercial.
A lesser man would call it irony.
I call it punishment.
I somehow manage to snag the last first-class ticket on a Paris connection. I should be grateful. Instead, I spend the next six hours moving through airports and people I don’t care to see, a walking storm of my own.
Paris is pure chaos. The terminal buzzes with grounded passengers and impatient announcements in three languages. My phone keeps vibrating with messages from Moscow—my informant updating me about Kirov’s sudden “disappearance.”
I feel restless. Something is wrong.
And then I run into her.
Literally.
A small body, soft and warm, colliding with my chest hard enough to knock the phone from my hand.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Her voice is quick, flustered—familiar in a way that makes my pulse stumble. I reach out automatically, steadying her by the waist.
“It’s alright,” I say quietly. My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She clutches a paper pharmacy bag to her chest, the top edge crumpling under her fingers. For a fraction of a second, she looks up—and though the light hits her at an angle, I catch a glimpse of familiar lashes, the curve of her cheek, a faint beauty mark near her temple.
Something inside me stills.
It can’t be.
But it is.
A harsh metallic shriek cuts through the air, startling the crowd. Red lights begin flashing above the departure gates, voices shouting in French, the kind of chaos airports do best.
She turns instinctively toward the noise, blonde hair brushing her cheek. When I blink, she’s gone—disappeared into the moving wall of people.
I stand there for a moment, hand still half-raised, the echo of her scent clinging to my sleeve.
