“Turn around slowly,” Kira’s voice cuts through the darkness, perfectly steady despite the late hour. “Hands where I can see them.”
I comply, finding her positioned behind her kitchen island, a Glock 19 trained on my center mass with professional precision. She’s traded her summit attire for black leggings and an oversized T-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Even holding me at gunpoint, she’s beautiful.
“Petrov, before you pull that trigger,” I say, keeping my voice calm, “you should know I’m here to work together. Just like we discussed.”
Her eyes narrow, weapon never wavering. “You could have called.”
“Could have. Didn’t want to risk the lines being monitored.” I gesture vaguely at her building’s high-tech features. “Also, your security is embarrassingly easy to breach. You might want to upgrade before word gets out that NyxBinary and the Bratva Princess can be reached through basic social engineering.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. “My security is?—”
“Adequate for civilians,” I interrupt. “Barely a speed bump for professionals. The doorman’s watchingStranger Thingsseason four, the cameras are on a predictable thirty-seven-second loop, and your elevator scanner accepts any valid thumbprint when preceded by the right frequency pulse.”
She lowers the gun slightly, more annoyed than threatened now. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m concerned about your safety,” I correct, and realize I mean it. “If I can get in this easily, so can whoever we’re dealing with.”
That sobers her immediately. She clicks the safety back on and sets the weapon on the counter, running a hand through her hair in frustration.
“Fine,” she says with a huff. “You’re here. We might as well work.”
She leads me toward the corner where her workstation dominates the space. Three curved monitors, a custom keyboard, and server towers humming softly behind smoked glass panels make the setup impressive even by my standards.
“Nice gear,” I comment, noting the specialized hardware.
“Nicolai has expensive taste.” She settles into her chair, immediately transforming into a digital predator like I would. “What did you find after the summit?”
I pull up a second chair, positioning myself to see her screens clearly. The proximity puts me in direct contact with her scent—that distinctive blend of blackberry and vanilla that seems to short-circuit my usual professional detachment.
“I expanded the shadow echo system,” I explain, forcing myself to focus on the data as she pulls up the financial tracking interface. “Traced the diversions back to their authorization points.”
She leans forward to examine the code, her shoulder brushing against my arm. The contact is electric, but she gives no indication that she notices. She maintains a professional distance, even while sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“These authentication signatures,” she murmurs, highlighting sections of the data stream. “They’re using administrative override protocols.”
“Someone with high-level access,” I agree, trying to ignore how her hair falls across her face as she concentrates. “Board level or family level.”
She sits back, creating deliberate space between us. “That narrows it down to maybe six people in the organization.”
“Including your father.”
“Including my father,” she confirms quietly.
I study her profile as she processes this. The careful control, the slight tension in her jaw, and the way she’s not looking at me deliberately. Everything about her body language screams indifference, but I’m learning to read the tells beneath her perfect composure. She isn’t as careful as she believes herself to be.
“You don’t think it’s him,” I observe.
“I think my father is many things—ruthless, calculating, paranoid. But stupid isn’t one of them.” She turns back to the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Stealing from a partnership this profitable? It’s not his style.”
“Unless he’s planning to eliminate the partnership entirely.”
She pauses, considering this. “Possible. But then, why arrange our marriage? Why go through the elaborate integration process?”
“Cover for the thefts?”
“Or cover for something else entirely.” She adds under her breath.
We work silently for the next hour, our chairs gradually migrating closer as we share screens and pass data back and forth. Every accidental touch—her hand brushing mine as she reaches for the mouse, her leg pressing against mine when she shifts position, sending electricity through my nervous system.
