My jaw tightens. “What did you tell him?”
“That she belongs to Roman Volkov, and anyone who forgets that ends up in pieces at the Khimki site.” Luka grins, all teeth. “But he’s still going to push. It’s what he does.”
“Then we remind him,” I say. “As many times as it takes.”
Luka heads for the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. “You want free advice?”
“No.”
“You’re getting it.” He looks back at me. “Whatever game you think you’re playing with that girl? You’re already in deeper than you planned. Try not to drown.”
He leaves before I can answer.
I look at the door Anya just walked through, and I know Luka’s not completely wrong.
The radio crackles on my desk.
“Boss,” one of the gate men says. “Chechen convoy’s ten minutes out.”
I pick up my jacket, slide my arms into the sleeves.
“Copy,” I say. “Tell the kitchen to pour vodka. I’m going to get my wife.”
ANYA — Volkovskaya Bedroom, 19:23
The dress Roman picked is the exact color of arterial blood.
I know that because I’ve seen it before. Same deep red, same glossy shine. University, first autopsy observation, the pathologist’s scalpel slipped, and the aorta said “fuck you” and painted the tiles in a perfect spray. I remember standing there with my notebook and my cheap sneakers. Now that color is painted on my body.
The silk clings everywhere. It’s technically modest—high neck, long sleeves, hem brushing my ankles—but there is no room for underwear under this thing. I tried. Every single line showed.
So here I am. No bra. No panties. Just my bare skin under a stupidly expensive dress, nipples tight against the lining, the cool silk sliding over my ass when I move.
Roman’s taste is expensive. His mother, according to Galina, loved Russian designers, old houses with names. For me, he went Italian. Imported. Custom. Something expensive to wrap around what he bought.
“You look perfect.” His voice comes from behind me, and I still jump a little, because my body is a traitor and responds to him before my brain catches up. I don’t turn because I can feel him without looking—heat against my back, that cedar-smoke cologne threading through my lungs. “Exactly how I need you to look tonight.”
“Like bait?” I watch my own mouth in the mirror as I say it. The red lipstick was Galina’s idea. “Or like a warning label?”
“Like mine.” He comes up behind me, and for a second we’re just… there. Me in blood-red silk, him in charcoal that eats the light. His jacket fits his shoulders too well. The open white collar shows the dark ink against pale skin, and the old Patek on his wrist glints when he moves his hand. He looks like money. And violence. In a Brioni suit.
His hands settle on my waist. His fingers dig in just enough to feel like a test—how much give there is under the silk, where my hip bones sit, how the dress rides over the curve of my ass. It’s possessive in that quiet way he does everything.
“The Chechens are predators,” he says, eyes on my reflection rather than my face. He smooths a non-existent wrinkle at my hip. “Dmitri especially. He’ll be charming. He’ll listen. He’ll make you feel like you’re the only person at the table whose words matter.”
“That sounds familiar,” I mutter. His eyes meet mine in the glass for a second. Flat. Dangerous. Then his hands move up tomy shoulders and turn me to face him. He’s too close. He always is. He doesn’t have a respectful distance setting.
“Every compliment is reconnaissance,” he says quietly. “Every question is a probe. Every smile has teeth. He’ll look like the better option. He’ll make it sound like he’s offering rescue.” His hand slides from my shoulder to my throat, fingers curling there with terrifying gentleness. “He’s not.” My pulse kicks under his palm. I know he feels it. It might as well be Morse code:fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
“I’m not stupid,” I say.
“No.” His thumb strokes once along the side of my neck. “You’re not stupid. You’re furious, grieving, and so goddamn stubborn you’d rather burn down the house than admit the structure is keeping the wolves out.” His gaze holds mine, steady. “Which is why I need you to listen even if you want to do the opposite of everything I say.”
He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
“You stay close to me,” he continues. “You don’t drink without me. You don’t leave the table without me. You don’t talk without me. You don’t try to impress anyone. If you feel unsafe for even a second, you come to me.”
“And then what?” My voice is sharper than I intend. “You kill someone in the dessert course?”
