Outside, the storm has settled into a steady drizzle, turning the city into watercolor impressions. I pull out my phone, scrollingthrough market reports while walking toward the parking garage.
Time to get closer to Fiona Quinn.
Anton Baev has a weakness. A weakness I intend to exploit to get him killed. But not before letting him know that Fiona will disappear with me.
Chapter 8
Love & Liabilities
Fee:
The most dangerous mysteries aren't found in encrypted files or hidden bank accounts—they're found in the spaces between a man's words, in the contradiction between his careful distance and the way he kisses like he's drowning.
Anton Baev is my most compelling puzzle yet.
For six months, I've catalogued every detail about him like evidence in a case file. But tonight, watching him emerge from the shadows like some lethal guardian angel, I realize I've been studying the wrong data points entirely.
The quiet, grumpy exterior that everyone else sees? That's just the surface. Underneath lies something far more complex, an introvert who admitted he used to be fun, a man who canshift from professional distance to devastating tenderness in a heartbeat.
He kissed me with enough heat to melt steel. Then pulled away to ask me to get dressed because we were leaving.
The contradiction makes my head spin worse than the adrenaline crash from the boutique shooting. He draws me in with gentle touches and protective instincts, then pushes me away the moment I get too close. I should run from this pattern, but I can't seem to stay away.
After our kiss, Anton spent two hours in closed-door negotiations while I sat upstairs, listening to raised voices filter through expensive soundproofing.
When the shouting finally stopped, Anton emerged looking exactly the same as when he went in. Not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, Lorenzo looked like he'd aged five years, and my father's face held the grim acceptance of a man who'd just been outmaneuvered by someone he couldn't intimidate.
How does one man walk into a fortress, knock out guards without killing them or getting killed, patch every security hole in a system worth millions, then convince two of the most stubborn men to let me go with him?
No sleep again. My phone says it's 4:15 AM, so I guess it's officially morning now.
Anton's penthouse wraps around me like expensive armor. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides catch the early dawn light. Knowing the little I know about Anton, the glass is probably bulletproof. Everything here whispers of careful planning, the kind that keeps dangerous men alive.
I clunk with my crutches across his living room. Smoked-oak floors stretch endlessly beneath my feet, interrupted only by a massive charcoal leather sectional that could seat eight people comfortably. A linear gas fireplace cuts through veined graphite stone, cold now but imposing even while dormant.
The place is defined by clean lines and muted colors that manage to feel warm despite their restraint. This home could belong to anyone wealthy enough to afford it, except for two details that make my chest tighten.
A small framed photograph sits on a side table by the windows. Even from across the room, I can see it's a woman with dark hair and a brilliant smile. His wife.
Beside it, a chess set frozen mid-game. The white king is threatened but not yet in checkmate. The board looks like someone had walked away, expecting to return any moment. Was that the last game they played together?
Anton insisted on carrying me again at Lorenzo's, swooping me up despite my protests about being perfectly capable of walking on crutches.
What was I supposed to do? Fight a man who could bench-press a motorcycle? I've learned that like most men in this business, Anton is stubborn. Or determined. Or both.
I grabbed what clothes and shoes I had at Lorenzo's. Now he's downstairs retrieving those items from his car, wanting me settled in his penthouse as soon as possible. The urgency in his movements suggested this wasn't just about convenience.
Then it occurs to me that Anton hasn't slept either. His eyes held that hyperaware glint I recognize from my guards after all-night operations. These men are used to functioning on adrenaline and caffeine, pulling security details after sleepless nights of business.
Some life this is. I just want to actually live it before someone puts a bullet in me.
I shift my weight against the crutches, studying the winter garden visible through the glass walls on the north corner. Even at dawn, tiny uplights illuminate carefully arranged plantings, Japanese maple, clipped boxwood, herbs growing in steel planters. Someone tends this space with genuine care.
The contradiction strikes me again. A killer who grows rosemary and thyme.
Who is Anton Baev?
I've seen him working with Maks, ordering Yuri, working with my father and my uncle, and moving through the Quinn andBasov world with the confidence of someone who's not just a simple soldier.
