The drive back to Manhattan felt endless. I sat in the back of the SUV, staring at nothing, running scenarios in my head.
I could walk away. Stop the surveillance, stay away from her street, let her fade back into the anonymity she deserved. Maybe Pankratov would lose interest if I showed no further connection to her.
But I knew that was a fantasy. The Armenians had already invested resources in watching her. They had photographs, documentation. Walking away now wouldn't erase her fromtheir files—it would just leave her unprotected when they decided to make their move.
I could warn her. Approach her directly, explain the danger, give her money to disappear. But where would she go? She had no training, no understanding of the world she'd stumbled into. Pankratov's people would find her within days, and then she'd be alone, terrified, with no one to protect her.
No. There was only one option that guaranteed her safety.
I pulled out my phone and called Kirill. "The island. I need it ready within seventy-two hours. Full staff, full security protocols."
A pause. "The Greek property?"
"Yes."
"May I ask who will be staying there?"
I looked out the window at the city sliding past—millions of people living their small, ordinary lives, unaware of the violence that simmered beneath the surface. Gabrielle was one of them. Had been one of them, until I'd noticed her, wanted her, marked her with my attention.
Now she was mine to protect. Whether she knew it or not.
"Just have it ready," I said, and ended the call.
***
The penthouse was dark when I returned, but I didn't bother with the lights. I poured myself a vodka and stood at the windows, watching the sun sink behind the skyline, painting the clouds in shades of blood and gold.
I told myself this was necessary. That taking her was the only way to keep her safe from Pankratov's brutality. That I wasbeing noble, even heroic, in my willingness to upend her life for her own protection.
But I'd built an empire on being honest with myself, even when the truth was ugly. Especially when it was ugly.
The truth was that I'd been waiting for this. For an excuse, a justification, a reason to cross the line I'd been toeing for weeks. The threat from Pankratov was real, but it wasn't the only factor driving my decision. It wasn't even the primary one.
I wanted her. Had wanted her since that first glimpse through a restaurant window. And now I was going to take her—wrap it in the language of protection and necessity, but take her nonetheless.
She would be terrified. She would hate me, at least at first. She would fight and scream and demand to be released.
The thought should have given me pause. Instead, it sent a dark thrill through my chest.
I drained the vodka and reached for my phone again. There were arrangements to make—the extraction itself, the cover story, the preparations at the island. I'd need to brief Kirill and select a team. I'd need to time it carefully, choose a moment when she was vulnerable and alone.
Seventy-two hours. Maybe less.
I thought of her face in the coffee shop—the startled recognition, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. Soon I'd see that face every day. Soon she'd be under my roof, under my protection, under my control.
Soon she'd be mine.
The city glittered below me, indifferent to the storm I was about to unleash on one innocent woman's life. I turned away from the window and began making calls.
Chapter 5 - Gaby
Two days passed without incident.
No black SUVs lurking on my street. No strangers with cameras outside my office. No green-eyed men materializing in coffee shops and vanishing like smoke. By Thursday evening, I'd almost convinced myself that Lisa was right—that my paranoid fears had been nothing more than anxiety given form, my overworked mind conjuring threats from shadows.
I'd thrown myself into work with renewed determination, arriving before Mr. Brown each morning and leaving long after he'd gone home. The revised presentation sat on his desk, every font consistent, every color aligned with brand guidelines, every detail polished to perfection. He hadn't acknowledged it, but he hadn't criticized it either. In Mr. Brown's world, silence was the closest thing to approval I could expect.
The extra hours helped in another way, too. Exhaustion left no room for paranoia. By the time I stumbled home each night, I was too tired to stand at the window watching for cars that weren't there.
