"Don't tempt me to make this decision for you."
"I'd like to see you try."
The challenge in her voice does things to me I shouldn't be feeling in a crime scene. I step even closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
"Don't test me, little ballerina."
Her breath catches at the phrase—Anton's phrase, but different when I say it. Not possession. Something else. Something that makes her pupils dilate and her breathing quicken.
Sergei clears his throat pointedly. "Brooklyn crew is ten minutes out."
The moment breaks.
I leave before I do something stupid. Before I kiss her again or admit that fifteen years of tracing a dead woman's name justended the moment this broken ballerina gave me the name I've been hunting for.
Outside the gallery, I pause, looking back at the shattered windows. In ten minutes, guards will be in position. She'll be as safe as I can make her in enemy territory.
But it's not enough.
It won't be enough until she's in Philadelphia, in my house, under my complete protection.
"She's not going to make this easy tomorrow."
"I know that." I look up at her windows. The lights are on. I can see her silhouette moving inside. "But she's coming to Philadelphia whether she likes it or not."
"And if she refuses?"
"Then I carry her out."
Sergei almost smiles. "This should be interesting."
We get in the SUV. As we pull away, I see the Brooklyn crew arriving—four men, all armed, all loyal. They take positions around the gallery entrance and the door to the upstairs apartment.
She's protected.
For tonight.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
Tomorrow, she comes to my territory.
And tomorrow, I’m the one hunting the man who killed my wife.
Anton Kozlov.
The name tastes like blood and vengeance.
Chapter five
Forced Proximity
Sonya
I don't sleep.
How could I? There are armed guards outside my apartment door. Anton knows where I live. Maksim Petrov kissed me against a wall in my destroyed gallery. And the man who ended my career five years ago also murdered Maksim's pregnant wife.
Everything is connected. Everything is wrong. And I'm alone in my small apartment above the gallery, trying to process the fact that my carefully constructed New York life just imploded.
