Her blonde hair is twisted into a sleek bun, nothing that screams Evelina from Velour.
She’s been quiet since we left the penthouse, staring out the window with that faraway look she gets when she’s caught up in her head.
“What are you thinking about,” I say, sliding my hand onto her thigh.
“Tell me about Abram,” she says, turning toward me.
“These days he manages one of Ruslan’s legitimate import businesses. Keeps his hands clean, or at least cleaner than they used to be.”
I release a tight breath. “Back in the day he ran logistics for the Kupola Network. When a woman arrived, he’d inspect her, decide if she was worth keeping or moving, then handle the paperwork and transport.”
Dinara grimaces, and I pause, deciding if I should tell her the rest. “He’s the one who strangled Tasha.”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Jesus Christ, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
I tip my head back against the seat. “She wasn’t the first or the last woman he hurt, but after tonight that won’t be an issue.”
Her fingers curl into fists against her thighs. “You think he knows about my mother?”
“The paper trail was destroyed when the Feds started sniffing around, but Abram has a good memory. And with the right motivation, he’ll tell us everything he knows.”
“And you’re not worried about blow-back from your father?”
I shake my head. “I’ve spent too much time letting Ruslan dictate my actions. This is revenge I’ve been waiting years to take.”
I meet her eyes. “And it’s the perfect opportunity. We get answers about your mother, I settle an old debt, and given where we are, it’s easy enough to stage it like a BDSM scene that went too far.”
It’s damn helpful that the Irish own this club. Marcus owes me a favor and his men will handle clean-up.
The SUV slows, pulling up to an industrial building that appears abandoned from the outside.
Only the line of luxury cars in the lot gives away what’s inside.
“We’re here,” I say, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.
Dinara straightens and adjusts the delicate silver filigree mask I gave her earlier.
I come around to open her door, offering my hand.
The heels she’s wearing put her closer to my height, but not close enough.
She has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“You look hot as fuck,” she says, her gaze dragging over my suit and the black mask covering half my face.
“Like temptation wrapped in Armani. I’m not sure I want to leave you alone.”
I pull her against me, hand splaying possessively across her lower back.
“I hate to tell you, solnyshko, but no other woman exists for me. Just you. My wife.”
She flushes with pleasure. “Good answer.”
We head toward the back entrance, where a man in a red devil mask sits at a laptop.
He glances up, recognition flickering across the visible half of his face.
“Baronov. Been a while.”
