Ludmilla studies me for a long moment before she answers softly, “Everyone has a heart, even someone like Slava Danilovich who tries to pretend that he doesn’t.”
The silence stretches between us. Then Ludmilla’s gaze lowers, a small—almost imperceptible—gasp tumbles from her mouth, and I realize that she’s staring at my necklace.
Recognition and shock appear on her face, but she buries them quickly.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“No.” Her brows are still furrowed as she looks at me. “Nothing.”
But I know it’s not nothing.
If the penthouseis a space that simply exists, then Slava’s office is the exact opposite.
There are personal touches all over the place here. A crystal decanter of amber liquid on a side table. A chess set frozen mid-game. Books with creased spines instead of pristine leather bindings.
This is where he actuallylives.
Whatever Nico wants me to find, it’s probably in there.
I try the drawers of the desk, one after another. But there’s nothing in them other than papers, a few checkbooks, and errant office supplies. Whatever it is that Slava is hiding, these aren’t it.
I haunch down on my knees and look under the desk, and that’s when I see the safe tucked under a corner.
My heart kicks against my ribs.Now we’re talking.Thishasto be what I’m looking for.
I crawl forward towards the safe, and my necklace falls out from my unbuttoned blouse. Ludmilla’s words start echoing again.
When Gia died, a part of Slava’s heart died with her.
Either Nico lied to me about Slava and Gia, or Ludmilla did.
And call me naïve, but I’m much more inclined to trust the woman who still grieves her son and who speaks about Slava with reverence, than a Mafia prince who sent his goons to kidnap me after I dared to slap him.
I don’t know what’s in that safe. I don’t know what I’m supposed to find. I don’t know if I can even stand to uncover another layer to the man who refuses to fit into the neat little box I’ve built for him.
But I’m here, and I can’t back down.
Not now.
As I reach out and press my palm against the cold metal of the safe, I wonder—for the first time—if some secrets are better left buried.
Because the thing about digging is that you never know when you’re digging your own grave.
16
SLAVA
I’ve been standingunder this fucking shower for fifteen minutes with the temperature cranked so low that my skin should be turning blue, and my cock is still hard as a fucking pipe.
Because ofher.
I slam my palm against the marble tile and try to stop obsessing over the image of Bella walking into my penthouse this morning. She’s wearing her usual modest little outfit—blouse buttoned all the way to her throat, knee-length black skirt, and sensible flats.
Nothing special. Nothing designed to provoke.
Even her familiar glare is the same—equal parts hatred and fascination, like she can’t decide whether to claw my eyes out or climb me like a tree. And when I invaded her space, she refused to back down.
And like a brainless idiot, I kept staring back.
