And then he leans in and presses a kiss to my other cheek, soft and brief. Somehow more intimate than any of the heated kisses we’ve shared previously.
When he pulls back, his hand lingers on my face a moment longer before dropping away.
“Sleep well,” he says in English this time.
And all I can do is nod, not trusting my own voice.
He turns and begins to walk away, and I turn to push the door open, eager to get into the only sanctuary I have here. But as I push the door open, I realize something.
The hallway is empty. Raffaello isn’t at his usual post outside my door.
“Basili?” I call out quietly.
He stops, turning back to glance at me over his shoulder.
“Where’s Raffaello?”
A smile curves his lips, slow and knowing. “I gave him the night off.”
“Why?”
“Because a little bit of trust can go a long way sometimes. Goodnight, Chloe.” This time, he doesn’t look back as he walks away.
Chapter Nine
Basili
“Boss,” Omero knocks on the wall just inside my office doorway, drawing my attention. “He’s here.”
A feral grin takes over my face as I rise from my chair, the paperwork I’d been working on suddenly forgotten. I move through the house with determination, heading outside, Omero close on my heels.
“Make sure Raffaello keeps Chloe and Emmanuel away from this part of the property. I don’t want them anywhere near the shed.”
“Already done. Raffaello’s got them in the garden.”
Good. That’s good.
I can compartmentalize this. Keep the violence separate from the life I’m trying to build with my son. From whatever the hell is developing between Chloe and me.
She doesn’t need to know about this side of me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The shed sits at the far edge of the property, hidden behind a grove of trees that provide both privacy and sound dampening. Most people don’t even know it exists. Those who do know better than to come anywhere near it unless summoned.
It’s a simple structure from the outside — weathered wood, a pitched roof, nothing that would draw more attention than necessary. But inside, it’s been designed for one purpose alone: extracting information from people who don’t want to give it.
Soundproof walls, a drain in the center of the floor, hooks embedded in the ceiling beams, and a workbench along one wall with various tools laid out in neat rows.
And in the center of the room, tied to a chair with his hand bound to the arms, is Dimitri Volkov.
He’s exactly what the intel described: tall, lean but muscular with tattoos and scars littering every inch of him. Bald head gleaming under the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Thick beard that can’t quite hide the cruel set of his mouth. He sneers at me as I enter, and I see teeth that are crooked and yellowed from too many fists to the face.
“Dimitri,” I say pleasantly, pulling off my suit jacket and draping it over the back of a folding chair. “Thank you for joining us. I hope my men weren’t too rough with you on the ride over.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, his accent thick, harsh Russian. “You have no right to drag me here.”
“No right?” I roll up my sleeves methodically, taking my time. “You drove the car that was used to kidnap my son. I’d say that gives me every right.”
His eyes flicker with fear for the briefest of moments, but he covers it with bravado. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
