I’m too damn old to be reacting to her like this. I’ve survived war zones with steadier focus, but one look from her, and I’mnineteen again—reckless, hard, and ruled by instinct instead of sense.
God, those fuck-me eyes of hers. Deep emerald-green with flecks of gold near the pupils. Her blonde hair is the natural kind that darkens at the roots and catches every shade from honey to platinum depending on how the light hits it.
I’ve watched her the past couple of weeks. Most days, she wears it in a low ponytail or twists it up. It was pinned up tonight, and by the time we hit that alley, half of it had fallen loose around her face.
I couldn’t stop staring.
She’s about five-six. Slim, but not breakable. There’s muscle in her arms and shoulders that says regular training, and after tonight, I know someone taught her how to move in a fight.
She’s got her brothers’ bone structure, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, but where Dmitri and Alexei move like predators, Sasha moves like a dancer.
Her lips are full and naturally pink. And there’s a small scar at the corner of her mouth that I only noticed because I couldn’t stop staring at her at the wedding two weeks ago.
I clocked all of this at Alexei’s reception. Dmitri pulled her aside and, judging by his face, told her to stay the hell away from me. She still looked back once while he was talking, her eyes locking on mine across the room. Thirty feet between us, and her look hit me like a shot.
I drain the vodka and toss the glass on the end table.
This job was supposed to be simple. Adrian Belmont hired me four weeks ago to investigate the Kozlov organization and builda case against them. The money was excellent, the target was clear, and I didn’t ask questions about why a London art dealer wanted detailed intelligence on a Moscow Bratva family.
Adrian contacted me through a referral from another client. His message was straightforward: He needed someone with my skill set to gather intelligence on a Russian organized crime family. He wanted financial records, operational details, security intel, and anything else I could dig up on the Kozlov Bratva.
The pay was double my usual rate. Triple if I delivered actionable intelligence within eight weeks.
I should have asked more questions. Should have pushed harder about what he planned to do with the information. But I’d just finished a job in Berlin that went sideways, my bank account was thin, and Adrian’s offer came with a fifty percent deposit.
So, I took it, flew to Moscow, and began building my journalist cover. Contacted people adjacent to the Kozlov organization. Attended events where the family might appear. Gathered surface-level intelligence about their legitimate business interests while looking for cracks in their security.
Then, I met Sasha at Alexei’s wedding, and everything got messy.
She was standing near the bar, watching her brother dance with his new wife. The green dress she wore was modest by most standards but still managed to showcase a body that occupied entirely too much of my mental real estate.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked in perfect English with just a hint of British influence from her time in London.
“Very much,” I replied honestly.
“My brother would break your hands for looking at me like that.”
“Which brother?”
“Either of them.”
That should have been my cue to walk away. Instead, I bought her a drink and tried not to stare at her mouth the whole damn time.
Sasha isn’t just another target’s family member. She’s smart. Observant. She caught inconsistencies in my cover story within five minutes of talking to me. Asked pointed questions about my background. And tonight, she counted every move I made while taking down those idiot criminals.
It makes sense. She’s trained to spot fakes, and I’m not the journalist I pretended to be.
I pull my weapon from the shoulder holster and set it on the desk next to my laptop. The Glock 19 is well-worn, its grip molded to my hand from years of use. I should clean it, but my focus keeps going back to the gallery.
Sasha’s body pressed against mine. The way she moved into a defensive crouch without panic. How she’d demanded answers in the alley instead of thanking me for saving her life.
Most people freeze when bullets fly. Not Sasha. She stayed calm the whole damn time.
Dmitri and Alexei’s sister isn’t another Bratva princess. Anyone with eyes can see that. What I can’t figure out is why Adrian wants intel on this family.
I strip off my shirt and head for the bathroom. The shower kicks on with a hiss. Moscow hotels are hit or miss. This one’s a miss, but the water gets hot, and that’s all that matters right now.
Steam fills the small bathroom as I step in. The heat hits my shoulders, where the muscles are still tight from the gallery. I brace one hand against the tile and let the water beat down on my shoulders.
