"What happened seven years ago?" I ask, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Anton is holding me close to his body, still. His thumb traces my back now with devastating gentleness that contradicts the rage I can feel building beneath his tense muscles.
"Someone is hunting me," he says, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through my body. "And they're using you to do it."
"The attack at the boutique?"
His free hand cups my face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "They were after you specifically. To get to me."
"Why?" I keep my voice steady despite the tremor threatening to break through. "What happened seven years ago, Anton?" He watches me for a long, quiet moment. His expression gives nothing away.
Anton releases a long, slow exhale.
"My first job with the Basovs. Not just any job, but the one that earned me their complete trust and respect."
I shift slightly against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath my palms. The penthouse is utterly silent except for our breathing and the distant hum of Manhattan outside.
"The Basovs had a problem," Anton continues. "A brotherhood of gangs kept raiding their shipments, sabotaging operations. They were taking advantage of weakness."
"Weakness?" I press.
"The Pakhan was ill." His eyes meet mine, storm-gray and lost in the darkness of his job.
"Roman was sick?" I ask, trying to picture that strong man being that sick.
Anton shakes his head. "No. His grandfather had cancer. He lived for two more years after that. I think the strong man needed that time to ensure Roman was ready to take over the entire operation. Back then, Roman was only handling the New York division."
I process this, filing it away with all the other fragments of Basov history I've collected. "So what happened?"
Anton's jaw tightens. "I eliminated an entire operation that night."
"How is what's happening now connected to that night?"
"One of the men I killed had a sword tattoo. Not just any sword, a specific one, from The Motherland Calls in Volgograd, Russia. The Armenian men I interrogated this morning had the same tattoo. That type of symbol can only denote some sort of brotherhood, especially since the men are not Russian." Anton sighs. "Plus, there are no coincidences in this business. Someone connected to that night is looking for revenge."
Anton's grip on my waist is still firm, possessive even. I gently push off his chest.
"Can I..." I start, and he immediately understands, stepping back just enough to give me room without breaking contact.
In one motion, Anton lifts me by the waist and places me on the kitchen island, positioning me so we're closer to eye level, though he still towers over me.
I place both hands flat against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath my palms.
My mind races, trying to piece together this shadow from Anton's past. "Seven years is a long time to hold a grudge. If they've been after you that long, they must have followed you everywhere, waiting for the right moment."
The thought sends a chill through me: someone watching Anton, and by extension, me, calculating their revenge for years. They must be one hell of an assassin to want to go after Anton, but perhaps this is why they've taken their time to prepare for this moment.
"Where were you before we met?" I ask.
"My team and I were in Europe for several months before I returned here. We moved through Prague, Vienna, Amsterdam...wherever the work required."
"So we could assume they followed you across continents."
"Yes. This isn't about money or territory or power. This is about revenge."
I exhale slowly, my eyes searching his. "Someone who's waited seven years, who's studied you well enough to know I'm your weakness...they're not just looking for a quick kill. They want to make you suffer first." My hands slide up to frame his face. "Whoever this is, they're willing to go through extraordinary lengths to hurt you. And I can't—" My voice finally cracks slightly. "I can't be the reason they succeed."
I drop my hands to his shoulders, a sudden realization washing over me. "My guards were hit first," I continue. "Shane almost died. Now you're at risk. And here you were, so worried about me."
